Thatnoble mansion had changed greatly. The beauty of its grounds was all run to waste. The snowy walls of the house were tinged with the damp of many winters, which no careful hand had swept away. Rose thickets had grown into jungles. The honeysuckles and clematis vines had leaped from the windows and clambered rudely up the forest trees. Long grass waved along the carriage walks and tufted the gravel. That delicate moss, which seems like the first green breath of decay, was creeping over the broad marble steps, and clothing the stone vases with gloomy richness.
It was very lonely and quiet, that dreary mansion, a mournful contrast to its appearance on the night we saw it last, in pristine freshness, blazing with lights, resonant with music, and all aglow with flowers.
Four persons, who stood in the wilderness which hadgrown around it, felt this desolation with infinite melancholy.
"Was this my mother's house?" whispered Rose Mason, sadly. "Oh! Paul, where is she now? Not one word from her in all these years."
"Hush, my child," said the minister; "it may have been that trouble has fallen upon her so heavily that, like a poor worried deer, she has crept away to hide her wounds."
"My poor, poor mother," whispered Rose; "but for that man, how happy we might all be now."
"Be patient, my child, be patient."
"How can I be patient, knowing that she lives—at least, feeling the mournful hope—and yet with no certainty? How can I be patient, when my father is away where I cannot see him, wandering from country to country, trying to forget his wrongs—trying, in vain, to forget her?"
The minister looked troubled. This rebellion in his spoiled pet, wounded him like a reproach. He felt how deep were her causes for regret, and left the anguish to exhaust itself.
"There must be some one at the house who will know where she is living. The mansion is evidently inhabited. Let us go forward and inquire. We are legally authorized to enter," said Paul.
"Yes," rejoined the minister, looking at a strange man who was walking down the carriage street with Jube, "here comes our authority; but let us use it with delicacy; soft words are better than warrants; by them our Rose may gain some knowledge of her mother."
The group moved forward; that is, Paul, the minister, and Rose, leaving the stranger and Jube in the grounds.
The broad steps had a disused look, as if foot-prints were seldom left upon them; the huge knocker was dim, and grated harshly as the minister lifted it. When it fell, the noise struck them with a shock, its reverberations sounded so startling. It was a long time before any one came to the door; but at last it opened, and an ill-dressed, unshaven man looked out with unwelcoming eyes.
"Do you want any thing?" he said, curtly; "nobody comes to this door. We never see company."
"But we wish to enter the house, and have business which cannot be put off," said Paul.
"Who is it you want to see?"
"Any one who has authority to admit us to an examination of one of the rooms."
"There is no such person here."
The answer was brusque enough, like that which the keeper of a prison gives to troublesome visitors.
"Let us see your master, if you please," said the minister, blandly.
"I have no master!"
"Nor mistress?"
"No, nor mistress. I amhermaster!"
Rose started, and looked mournfully at Paul.
"What is the lady's name?" she inquired.
"She has fifty names. To-day I believe she is the Empress of Russia."
"But she has a name?"
"Not for strangers. If you have any business here but to ask questions let me hear what it is; no one else will get a say in the matter, I can tell you."
Paul beckoned to the man who lingered in the shrubbery. He came up and held a few words of conversationwith the servant, who seemed greatly disturbed, and at once attempted to close the door forcibly. The officer opposed him, and, placing a paper in his hands, bade him make way.
He read the paper with a bewildered look, which changed to something like consternation in the end. He flung the door wide open, and, retreating down the entrance-hall, unlocked a door which led to the south wing.
"You will find the office in yonder," he said, pointing through the door. "I don't know what condition it is in, for no one has entered it, that I know of, for years."
The party passed in, all except Rose, who remained to question the man. But her distress was so great that it took away her voice.
"Well, what is it you want?" he asked, with a tone of kindness, for the agitation in her lovely face impressed even him.
"Tell me her name. The lady of the house, I mean."
"And what good if I do? She's nobody now—that is to any one but us. What on earth is her name to you?"
"I think—I fear—ah, sir, she may be my own mother."
"What is your name?"
"Mason."
"That is not her name, anyhow; but the other name—is it Rose?"
"Yes, yes—Rose!"
"Not Rose Nelson?"
"No, no!"
"It's of no use then: she's nothing to you."
"Oh, if you would but let me speak with her! only look on her face!" pleaded the poor girl, wild with the hopes his questions had raised.
"I could not do it. It is against the doctor's orders. Company is worse than any thing."
"Is she ill?"
He now looked on her with contemptuous astonishment.
"You call yourself her daughter, and don't know that?"
"Oh, sir, this is cruel! I have not had a letter or heard from her in nearly seven years! I never knew that this had been her home till within a week; and now you will not let me even look at her!"
The poor girl began to sob and wring her hands. The idea that she was so close by her mother, whom she was forbidden to look upon, overwhelmed her with anguish.
The man seemed touched. "Wait a moment," he said, "I will talk with Mrs. Brown about it. I command the house, but she has charge of the lady."
After this concession, the man went away, leaving Rose seated upon one of the hall chairs, breathless and anxious, for every moment convinced her more and more that she was in the house with her mother.
The man was absent some time. Suspense became intolerable to that young heart. She arose and walked the hall, but the noise of her own footsteps became irksome, as it prevented her listening to the first sound of his approach. She stood still and held her breath. Would he never return? What if he had seemed to relent only to escape her importunity? She started. Yes, yes—there was a sound—a footstep—lighter than his, though—a woman's footstep, accompanied with the rustle of silk and a perfume that penetrated pleasantly to her senses, a perfume that she recognized, and grew faint from the consciousness.
Trembling in all her limbs, she stood still, with her eyes penetrating the distance. There was a perpetual twilight in that house. The blinds were all closed, and in some places heavy shutters made the darkness complete. Thus the figure which advanced upon Rose, from what seemed a large drawing-room, moved vaguely through the dusk of the dwelling. It was a lady in full dress, sweeping through the rooms in quick haste, and huddling something to her bosom.
Rose Masoncaught her breath. It was her mother. She knew the face, and that proud, sweeping walk. Wild as the face was—rapid as the walk had become—she could not mistake them.
The woman saw her standing in the hall, and came eagerly forward.
"I have found them—I have found them," she cried, breathlessly. "What is an empress without her jewels? They don't understand these things—but you, my maid of honor, know better. They told me that you and all the court would keep away. That was to persuade me from wearing these; but I have got them safe—come, come, we must make haste, or force the people to wait, which should never be. My hair is to be braided yet—come this way—this way."
Rose followed her, pale as death, heart-stricken fromthat moment. The woman entered the little breakfast room, where we have seen her before. It was not much changed; the sumptuous appointments had faded somewhat by time, but they retained all their elegance. In spite of her agitation, Rose remarked that behind the rich window draperies were immovable blinds of iron, deceptive, but firm as prison bars. Through the lattices of these blinds, sufficient light came to fill the room, and now Rose saw her mother clearly. Alas! the change! That beautiful face was worn and troubled; the splendid eyes were full of eager fire; the mouth was always in motion; and the whole aspect vigilant, as if her fears were eternally upon the watch.
"Come," she said, throwing herself into an easy chair, and arranging the folds of a purple brocade dress, with an exaggeration of her old, queenly grace, after she had placed the heavy bronze box, which she had carried, on an ottoman by her side, "come, put them on quick, before they break up my toilet—go to work—go to work."
With eager wildness, she snatched the comb from her hair and shook its long tresses over her shoulders. Rose saw that there was scarcely a dark thread in the mass, and her eyes filled with tears.
"What are you crying for?" asked her mother, sharply. "It is only powdered pearls that my people dust over my hair morning and night! Cleopatra, she was queen of Egypt, you know, and beautiful as I am—she drank her pearls in vinegar; I grind mine! Now braid away! braid away!"
Rose took the heavy tresses which the woman tossed into her hands, and, for a moment, her trembling fingers wandered among them, in vague efforts at obedience, but all at once her strength gave way, and dropping into a chair, she burst into a passion of tears.
Her mother started up fiercely, coiled the hair around her head in a rude crown, and dashed the lid of the bronze box open. Rose knew the gleam of those jewels, and shuddered. The woman tore the diamonds from their satin cushions, and began to huddle them in masses upon her arms and bosom. She then proceeded to tangle them in her gray hair, looking at her daughter with fierce reproach all the time.
Rose made a motion to arise—her mother saw it, and shut the box suddenly.
"Don't touch them! don't dare to touch them! Do you know how much they cost?"
The young girl retreated, pale and trembling.
"I bought them," cried the mother, in a hoarse whisper, "with my soul and body—soul and body! Understand that! But the fiend cheated me, and kept back the price!—treasures! gold! gold! gold! He hid it! but I kept these! They were the first price! It was putting them here where my little Rose used to sleep! and here where they burn like hot coals—that brought Mason back with those eyes——"
The woman laid a hand upon her bosom, and swept it across her forehead as she spoke, while poor Rose began to weep bitterly, as she heard her own sweet name uttered, for the first time in years, by those insane lips.
"No wonder you cry," said the woman. "It's enough to break one's heart! Loads and loads of money hid away, and no finding it! I've searched, and searched, and searched; but it's of no use! They lock the door and chain the windows; but there is a place!"
She paused, drew close to Rose, and bending down, whispered in her ear:
"The south wing; he was always there; always brooding over something in that room with one doorand iron shutters. Once I saw a hole in the floor—an open half-moon—just under my feet. It closed up, and I forgot it till Mason came, and they began to lock the doors; then I thought and thought, such fiery hot thoughts, and up came that open half-moon from the marble floor! Oh, if I could but get there! Say, couldn't you draw the bolts? They hurt my hands! they hurt my hands!"
The poor creature shook her head, and wrung her hands, with tears and moans, piteous to hear.
Rose took the poor struggling hands in hers.
"Oh, mother! mother!" she cried out.
The woman stopped wringing her hands, and bent her wild eyes on the young girl's face.
"Rose had sweet eyes—my little Rose. She was so pretty—handsome almost as her mother. But what is the use of beauty if it cannot bring gold from its hiding-places? I like that face; there are emeralds and sapphires in the box. Besides, I have lovely pink coral that the queen of Naples gave me on my coronation. You shall wear them sometimes, for I love you for looking like little Rose. There, you may kiss my hand."
Rose took the hand, on which she pressed her quivering lips.
"Don't be afraid of me—imperial women are always gracious. You shall stay at the court. Only one thing I must tell you. That woman, Brown, shall be exiled to Siberia—that is where I get the ermine for my mantles, you know; but cold, oh, so cold! Good enough for her, though. Come close and I will tell you something. She ties my arms—she straps me down in bed—the false traitoress! But she shall go, and I will give you her place. Only don't speak loud, she might hear us. Hush—hush—hist!"
A slight noise broke the stillness of the house, and hushed the maniac's whispers. Putting a finger to her lips she moved into the hall on tiptoe. The door leading to the south wing was open. With a cry that brought an echo of affright from her child, she darted through and rushed toward the room where Thrasher had been confined that night—her garments fluttering wildly, and the jewels with their innumerable pendants tinkling against each other in her hair and on her bosom.
Rose followed, striving to cry out, but terror deprived her of the power.
The room was dark, for the bolts of those shutters had rusted in their sockets—dark, except a circle of red light that lay like a fiery wheel in the centre of the room. Ellen Mason rushed toward this opening, and swooping down upon her knees, like an evil-omened bird greedy for prey, looked down into the vault beneath. She saw the glitter of gold heaped on the stone floor, with a blaze of lamp light pouring over it. Heard the clink as it was drawn from the inner vault. She saw several persons busy with the gold piling it in heaps. The most prominent figure was a young man with jet black hair and eyes full of trouble, examining a block of gold which lay on the top of that glittering heap.
With a shriek from which the words, "It is mine—mine—all mine!" broke fiercely out, the woman half rose, flung out her arms, and made a plunge. Rose Mason came up that instant and grasped desperately at her dress. A fragment of the old brocade was left in her hand—a low, dull sound, a simultaneous shriek of dismay from the people in the vault, and all was still as death.
Rose had fallen with her face to the floor, white as the marble on which she lay, and almost as lifeless.
Paul, disturbed by the noise overhead, had retreated from the treasures, dropped the brick, and was looking up when that unhappy woman plunged downward upon the gold. Her hands were extended, and made one grasp into the heap. The old coins rattled down to the pavement—her temple struck a corner of the Gold Brick, and a cluster of diamonds which she had fastened there was driven through deep into the brain. She struggled a little, gasped once or twice, stretched her limbs out upon the treasure, and died there.
Ifthe doctor was an eccentric man, he could be, when the occasion demanded it, both kind and thoughtful. More than once during Katharine's confinement he had ridden far beyond his circuit, and visited her in that lonely prison. No one was ever made aware of the fact, and he alone, of all that neighborhood, with one exception, was informed that Nelson Thrasher was also an inmate of the same prison. From the good old people it had been kept with religious delicacy. They knew that Katharine had a right to her freedom, and could now return home at pleasure; but she had written to ask more time. Duties, she said, to her fellow-prisoners kept her among them yet a little longer. Shewas free to depart, but the hospital needed her, and with the warden's consent she remained in voluntary service, teaching those whom she would soon leave behind how to tend and comfort the sick as she had done. This was an appeal that the old people could understand, so the lone mother submitted quietly to a few more months of solitude, and the Thrashers said to each other:
"Who knows but Nelson may come back before then?"
But time creeps on, even in a prison, and at last Thrasher was set free. The doctor knew the time, and had the harness put on his old friend that morning at an early hour. The horse did not exactly like this proceeding. He objected to any long ride without the saddle-bags. Indeed, he did not feel exactly like a respectable doctor's horse without that appendage, and remonstrated against the indignity of reins, thills, and whiffle-trees, with vigorous shakes of the head, and even a vicious kick or two. But the doctor came out and expostulated with him after his own quaint fashion, and directly the two went off in harmony, one at each end of the reins.
For two whole days the sick of that neighborhood for fifteen miles around took care of themselves, and grumbled accordingly.
On the evening of the second day, there was a terrible rumbling of loose wheels along the Derby turnpike, for the brown horse had caught sight of his home, and instantly went off in a rickety series of leaps that almost tossed the doctor from his seat in front of the wagon.
"Don't be afraid," he said, turning to the back seat, where a man and woman were seated, with the light ofa crescent moon lying tenderly on their faces. "It's his way when things go to suit him. The sight of home always sets him off."
"Oh, I am not afraid," said a sweet female voice "It's a long time since either of us have known what fear was. Isn't it, Nelson?"
The man thus addressed clasped the little hand which stole into his with tender force, but said nothing. His heart was too full. The trial that lay before him at the end of that ride might have taxed the courage of any man.
They rode on to the doctor's house. He got out of the wagon, removed the temporary seat which had accommodated him from Simsbury, and held a silent counsel with his horse, patting the old fellow on the neck, and using all the conciliatory blandishments for deluding horseflesh into obedience, which have since been dignified into a science.
"There now, get along," he said, moving toward the gate. "He'll go ahead without balking. No need of a whip. The old chap wont stand that from anybody but me. Drive on, and God be with you."
The strange man leaned heavily on his crutches, and gently lifted his hat as he uttered these words. The soft moonlight fell upon his head, and a grander one seldom bared itself in reverence to a noble sentiment.
As the doctor wheeled around he saw the members of his family coming out to welcome him home. His manner changed at once. Inwardly delighted with their prompt affection he put the children aside with good-natured rebukes of their clamorous joy, and stalking into the room, which served as an office, sunk quietly into a leathern easy chair, and desired the eldest boy to hand down his fiddle.
The boy took an old violin from its place on the wall and gave it into his father's hand. The doctor drew a lump of rosin from his pocket, rasped the bow with it for a full minute, then lifting the instrument to his shoulder began to play; directly the children came rushing in from the hall and kitchen, astonished, for some of the wildest and most invigorating music heard for many a day, rang out from the dark old violin, filling the whole house with cheerfulness.
The doctor's wife—a fine woman, of the Connecticut stamp—came softly into the room with word that his supper was on the table; but he only answered with a dash at Yankee Doodle, and revelled in it with a zest ten thousand suppers could not have excited. The good housewife never urged her husband to any thing; she knew the folly of that too well; so she sat down pleasantly and listened to his music. It was well worth the trouble, for the doctor threw off a world of generous thankfulness in those erratic notes, and when music comes from the soul it is always good. She asked no questions, but knew very well that something satisfactory had happened to her husband, for he always expressed these feelings through his violin.
Meantime the two travellers kept on up the turnpike. They passed the rock spring, which sparkled out from the shadows cast over it from the dogwood thickets; all cut up root and branch in these days, and moved slowly over the old bridge. They could see the white spire of the Episcopal church, rising into the moonlight from the high bank opposite, and, with the sight, Katharine's heart melted within her. She lifted her eyes to Thrasher; the moonlight lay full upon his face. It was pale and troubled. In that church he had been baptized.
Katharine took his hand with touching gentleness, and pressed it to her lips. Her face was so heavenly that he bent down and kissed it, leaving a heavy tear on her cheek, which she would not have wiped away for the world.
"Ah, Nelson!" she said, clasping her hands and lifting her eyes from the church spire to the heavens, which it seemed to penetrate—"how plainly I see the great goodness of God in all that has happened. At first it was very dark, and I struggled against the cruelty of that arrest, and the unjust sentence which branded me before the world. I forgot that the Son of God was thus assailed, thus branded! and worse still, put to death, that Christianity might be our inheritance. I did not know what great happiness might spring out of this degradation; how holy a work lay waiting for me in that prison!"
"My poor girl, it was a terrible life for you. Can God forgive me for bringing you there?"
"Nelson, this is wrong—it is unkind! It was to be; God knew what was best, and sent me in the path of a great duty against my will, or I never should have found it. He had compassion on those poor creatures so barbarously cut off from every thing sweet and good in life. They were perishing or turning to demons for the want of a little care, a few kind words, a smile of pity now and then. I was poor as poor could be, helpless as a child, but these things I could give them; so he thought it best that I should go.
"I was rebellious at first, Nelson, and wondered how it could be that I, an innocent woman, should suffer among the guilty. I was so young, so weak, and miserably selfish. Besides, I hoped so fondly that youwould come back and save me. But they were dragging me away from all possibility of seeing you."
"My poor Katharine!"
"Oh, it was hard! it was hard!" she said, laying her forehead on his shoulder; "for I thought you loved me! I thought you loved me!"
He drew her head close to his bosom, but said nothing; self-reproach held his heart in silence.
"With this hope of seeing you again, rising above every thing, it was a cruel thought that you might come home and find me there, think perhaps that I had harmed your child."
"No, Katharine—no, I never could have believed that. In my most insane moments I knew and felt how good you were."
"But these thoughts would come to me in my prison, Nelson; I could not help that. So I struggled against that hard fate and wanted to die. The people were wrong and harsh with me, the law was wrong, the judges were wrong, but God was right."
"I—I was the most cruel of all," said Thrasher, in a low, pained voice.
"Still it was all needful. What else would have won me from home to live among those poor convicts, to help them and feel for them, till a beautiful happiness sprang up to me out of those dreary mines. Then, then," she added, with a gush of tender gratitude, "just as I had learned to live and endure for others, knowing that God's wisdom was higher than man's justice, you came, my husband, and I had the power to help you. I so weak, and you so strong! From that day I knew how great a blessing had been won for me, out of what seemed the deadly ruin of a life. In that black depth I found the heart of my husband."
"Oh, a worthless, wicked heart, Katharine!"
"But it was mine—all mine!"
He girded her closer with his arm, and that was answer enough.
"Then you began to trust me, and believe in me, Nelson; as a strong man lets some little child lead him, because of its very helplessness; you listened to me and loved me—for you do love me, Nelson!"
"The God you worship so beautifully, Katharine, only knows how much I love you!"
"Oh, we shall be very happy!" answered the young woman, bowing her head, while a soft rain of tears fell down her cheeks. "Every soul in the prison loved us. God has forgiven us!"
"Not us, Katharine! It is I that have need of His pardon; not you, my wife!"
But in her sweet humility she would not have it so, and protested against it. "No, no; I was untamed, impatient, disobedient to my mother. In a woman these are great sins. We are equal there as in the mercies which fall around us now."
Thrasher was a man of few words, but his wife understood this, and saw, by the emotion in his face, how deeply his spirit was touched.
They fell into silence after this, and rode on slowly, thinking of those they were about to meet. The wagon rolled heavily up Falls Hill, turned at the old willow tree, and passed up the Bungy road approaching the old homestead.
They came to Mrs. Allen's house first. It was dark and still as the grave. Why was this? The hour did not warrant such dreary darkness, such utter solitude.
Katharine, who was leaning eagerly forward, fellback with a heavy sigh. Was her mother dead? Had sorrow broken her heart at last? Was it a tomb to which she had come, after eight long years of imprisonment?
They left the wagon, and knocked at the door. There was no footstep within. No answering voice. Not even a gleam of fire light to speak of an existing household.
They returned to the wagon without speaking, and drove slowly over the hill; very slowly, for that empty house had filled them with painful forebodings.
From the butternut tree they got a first sight of the old homestead. From the sitting room window a steady light was burning, which fell upon a great snowball bush, turning the huge white blossoms that covered it into globes of gold. "They are alive; they are at home!" said Thrasher. "God be thanked!"
OldMr. Thrasher and his wife sat together that night in the very room in which they had been blessed by the first return of their son. He had been away weary, weary years now, and not a word of tidings had ever reached them. But the old hope was there. The faith which nothing but a certainty of his death could destroy. There they sat, as on that night, waiting for him, not with absolute hope, but from that tender unbelief which will not give up a loved one.
This evening they were not alone. An old woman, very thin and withered, but with a certain hard statelinesshanging around her, sat near the hearth. A hood and shawl, lying on the table near the door, proved that she had only come in for a brief visit. There was not much conversation among them. Mrs. Allen had just received a letter from her son, who had shipped in the India trade from Liverpool, and had not been home for years. Now he was on a return voyage, and having saved money enough, was resolved to leave the sea and take to farming with his mother.
It was a kind letter, and spoke most affectionately of the young sister who was, as he thought, pining to death in the prison mines at Simsbury.
The old man put on his spectacles and read the letter aloud. Mrs. Allen listened with interest, as if she had not already got the contents by heart. Old Mrs. Thrasher stopped short in her knitting, and sighed heavily. What a comfort it was to get a letter from one's son! Would she ever see another from Nelson? Just then the sound of wagon wheels coming over the hill reached them. He stopped reading and listened; why, no one could tell, for wagons passed that road every half hour in the twenty-four. As the wagon approached, these three old people looked at each other with vague bewilderment, and listened like persons in expectation. It stopped before the house. The gate opened. Mrs. Thrasher leaned forward, listening. "It is his step!"
That good woman had said exactly these same words years before, when some brown threads darkened her hair, which was white as snow now.
The old man now arose, so did Mrs. Allen, for she heard a step beyond that which sounded on the gravel walk—something so light that it could have reached no intelligence save the ever-watchful love of a mother.
They all stood and listened—no one of them hadstrength enough to move. The door was opened—those steps advanced up the entry way, and paused there. Then a hand, which shook the latch it touched, opened the door, and the old people saw their son, and behind him, the sweet, pale face of Katharine, his wife. The lamp light lay full upon them, but the old people were blinded by a sweet rush of love that made their hearts swell again, and could not see distinctly. The old man went forward.
"My son, my son!"
They were strong men, this father and son, but they fell into each other's arms and wept like children.
Then the old man gave way to his wife, and taking Katharine from her mother's bosom, laid both hands on her head and blessed her.
After the first outgush of welcome, Nelson Thrasher turned to his wife.
"Father," he said, "it is this woman, my wife, whom you must thank—she who suffered innocently, that I might be given back to my home. It was for your son she waited after they had set her free, for I have been her fellow-prisoner. Oh, father! I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no longer worthy to be called thy son."
Tears were raining down the old man's face—his arms were extended, and he cried out:
"Oh, my son, my son! what is thy innocence or guilt to us, when God has forgiven?" Again the old man fell upon his son's bosom and wept.
When Katharine's head was uncovered, and the old people had wiped away their tears, the change which had taken place in that young couple struck them with fresh thrills of tenderness. Thrasher's hair was threaded with silver, and the face it shadowed bore proofs ofsuffering which no after time could efface, but the serene strength which sprang out of his new life, gave something of grandeur to his features. There was no look of concealment in it now, but he met his father's eyes with the open frankness of boyhood.
The dear old lady could not be satisfied with one embrace, but hovered around her son in a birdlike flutter, smoothed his hair with her plump little palm, and laid her cheek lovingly against it, whispering, "My poor boy, my poor dear boy."
Katharine had been whispering to her mother; her face became anxious; she was evidently pleading for something. At last the stiff old woman arose, and going up to Thrasher laid one hand on his shoulder.
"Nelson Thrasher, I know the wrong you have done my daughter. My son told me all before he went his voyage to the Indies. He charged me to keep it secret, and I have. She begs me to pardon it, and I will. Nelson Thrasher, I forgive you, as I pray God to forgive my own sins."
Thrasher bowed his head; the solemnity of the old woman went to his soul. After a moment his face was slowly lifted, and his eyes looked into hers.
"I thank you," he said, gently. "Katharine, tell her that she can trust you with me now."
Katharine came to his side, smiling.
"Yes, mother; for he loves me; and I, oh, you know how it was always with me."
"And now you will live with us," said Mrs. Thrasher, hovering around her son, troubled in her heart that any one should claim a word or look.
"Yes, mother, we have come to the homestead to end our days. Here, among our old neighbors, we will redeem the good name which has been forfeited byyour son, and innocently lost by this dear girl. Where else can we turn? Let our neighbors know all; we will have nothing to do with concealments, but meet their kindness or condemnation fairly. In time they will learn to like us again—for her sake I hope it, and will toil for it."
"We will always stand by our children; wont we Mrs. Allen?"
It was the soft, cooing voice of Mrs. Thrasher which uttered these words. "The neighbors like us, and wont be harsh with them. If they should, you know we are company among ourselves." The dear old woman turned her mild brown eyes from Mrs. Allen to her husband, questioning them both.
The old man smiled.
"Our son is right; let him start life once more among his old neighbors."
And so it was settled among them, in the stillness of that night, after Nelson Thrasher had revealed every thing to his parents.
Thechurch bell was ringing cheerfully on Falls Hill. Indeed, on a day like that, every sound took a jubilant tone. The sunshine was so bright, the meadows and foliage so richly green, that one breathed deeply with a keen sense of enjoyment.
The birds in the pine woods made a perfect riot of music among the trees, and built their nests lovingly,in defiance of blue laws, and forgetful—as birds will be sometimes—that it was the Sabbath day. Even pretty little humming-birds came out in force that morning, and shook the trumpet honeysuckles like mad things, buzzing their wings, and setting the great bumble bees that haunted the clover fields a most indecorous example. Such quantities of fennel as was cut from the green stalks that morning and tied into dainty bunches, ready to be nibbled at in church. Such pretty bouquets of violets and wild roses were made—such lovely new bonnets and muslin dresses as appeared that day for the first time—I can neither describe or enumerate.
"What was it all about?"
Why a confirmation, a wedding, and a double baptism were to come off that day, performed by the bishop himself. No wonder all Chewstown came over from that side of the river. No wonder that Falls Hill, Bungy, and Shrub Oak—to say nothing of the factory flats—should be one scene of commotion! The wedding of itself would have been enough to set people wild. Why the bride was pretty Rose Mason, that little girl who used to live with her handsome mother down in the pine woods; the sweetest creature that the sun ever shone upon, and just as beautiful now; in fact, more so.
"Who was she going to marry?"
Did any one remember a remarkably handsome little fellow who came to board with Mrs. Allen, in Bungy, about the time that Katy Allen—well, they would not say any thing about that; poor thing, she had suffered enough—but he went to school at Shrub Oak, and was a perfect little gentleman. His name was Paul De Varney, and he had come out so rich that no one could count his gold.
There was but one thing that could be said againstthe match—young De Varney brought a black slave with him when he first came into the State, and kept him still, for the poor fellow had been about Bungy not two days ago, and no doubt was there yet. The bishop might have something to say about that before he would marry the young man; but it was to be hoped that it would not quite break up the match. Still, a slave in old Connecticut! that could not be thought of a moment by any Christian community. Certainly Nelson Thrasher and his wife would be confirmed—that was all settled with the bishop, who had been informed about the case thoroughly by Thrasher himself; as for his wife, people were beginning to think that after all she had been innocent about that affair. A woman that could kill her own child never yet made a wife like her. Why those old people fairly worshipped her. When old Mrs. Thrasher was sick, she never had her clothes off for weeks together. Then she was so good in sickness; always the first to offer herself, if watchers were wanted. Why Tom Hutchins might have lost his young wife if it had not been for her care. Night and day, night and day, that faithful woman was by her bedside, till the fever left her. The doctor had been heard to declare, over and over again, that he should not know how to get along with his patients if it were not for Mrs. Nelson Thrasher. Then Nelson had turned out such a sensible, steady man, for all his hard life. Yes, yes; the thing was certain; both he and his wife would be confirmed. No doubt of that.
Then about the baptism; of course that was for Tom Hutchins' twins—a girl and a boy that you could not tell apart to save your life. Tom and his wife were so proud of those young ones they never would be content till all the town had seen them in their long whitechristening dresses. That young fellow did make such a fool of himself. Just as if nobody had ever had twins to baptize before him.
All this gossip was pretty nearly true. The bishop had come, and was stopping at the square white house near the willow tree. Paul De Varney was staying at Mrs. Allen's with Jube. David Rice had built a large side building to the old house, since he settled on the farm, and it was plenty large enough to accommodate half a dozen guests if they could have been persuaded to stay. But when Mr. Prior the minister, and his little wife, came from Bays Hollow, bringing Rose Mason back to be married in her native village, they went directly up to old Mrs. Thrasher's and made the homestead cheerful with company.
Since the arrival of all these people in the village, Tom Hutchins, who lived in Mrs. Mason's cottage in the pine woods, had been wonderfully busy, and gave himself up to his friends more completely than could be expected of a young married man, not two months before made the father of healthy twins, good as gold and plump as partridges.
Notwithstanding this paternal drawback, Tom had made all arrangements with regard to the bishop; had seen the publishment properly laid on the pulpit cushion, ready for use, three legal Sundays, and had twice driven his steel colored colt into New Haven, to get a pair of satin slippers and a certain kind of ribbon for Rose, at which his wife pouted, and the twins, partaking of her ill humor, kept the poor fellow walking the chamber floor half the night, now with one, and then with the other, in his arms.
I am afraid Mrs. Hutchins did not, on that occasion, take quite her share of the nursing. When Tom askedher, in his distress, if she wouldn't get up and make a little fennel seed tea for the poor little things, she desired to know if it wouldn't be just as well to make that request of Rose Mason, with her curls and her gipsy hat on one side, at which Tom broke forth with energy:
"Talk about Rose Mason," he said; "the girl that was going to marry his earliest friend, one of the finest fellows on earth—a girl that was good as gold, and generous as—Oh it was too bad; he wouldn't have thought it of a wife of his—a woman that he had loved so."
"Hadloved!" Mrs. Hutchins murmured, faintly. "Hadloved!"
Tom's heart melted within him as he heard the low protest, but he contented himself by kissing each of the twins, while their little heads rested on his shoulders, and went on making an iron-hearted fellow of himself.
Yes, Tom meanthad. No love in the world could stand such venomous attacks on that nice girl, who had given him up so handsomely. Where would she have been but for that? Breaking her heart, and pining herself to death, instead of taking her place as a respectable married person and the head of a thriving family. There was the twins, too, precious dears. Par wasn't scolding them. Where in the world would they have been if Rose had kept him to his word, as any other girl would have done?
Here Mrs. Hutchins began to sob, and said, penitently, that she hadn't meant any thing of the kind—in fact, hadn't said a single thing against Miss Rose Mason, who was breaking her heart though; and—and—oh, dear, if she'd only stayed at home with her own dear par and mar, instead of marrying a man that didn'tlove her, and was keeping her poor babies out in the cold just to break her heart.
"There, there! just snuggle the little shavers up to you, that's a darling!" cried Tom, huddling the two babies into their mother's arms, and leaving a penitential kiss somewhere in the borders of her cap. "I'll kindle the fire and make some tea myself—I know you didn't mean it."
"Indeed I didn't, Tom. But you mustn't do it; I will."
"There now, keep quiet, or you'll set 'em a-going again."
"No, Tom, they're both sound asleep."
"You don't say so. Well, they've got me wide awake, anyhow; so I'll just light a candle and show you what I really was doing in New Haven, and what Rose Mason wanted me to buy for her."
Tom unlocked a closet that held his cravats andSundayclothes, from which he took a long, deep paper box, and carried it to the bed.
"See here!" he cried, lifting up a garment so white and soft that it seemed woven from snow-flakes. "Two of 'em, just alike; India muslin that her father sent from Calcutta, she told me to tell you. See how they are worked round the bottom, and cut up with lace. Then, here's the caps! One of 'em just fits my fist. It was to get the ribbon for these cockades she sent me to New Haven—white for the gal, and blue for the boy. Now what do you think about it?"
Mrs. Hutchins thought that she was the most silly, unreasonable, good-for-nothing creature that ever lived; but she hoped, for all, that Tom wouldn't sayhadagain. It was too cruel, even if she was to blame.
Tom admitted that he was a hard-hearted, cruel,tiger of a fellow, and not worth half the love she gave him; and so the young couple were reconciled.
Notwithstandingthis little domestic scene, Tom stood by his friends bravely; "he was bound to see this wedding put through in style, let what would come." Mrs. Hutchins was a wise little lady in her day, and kept quiet after this; but she insisted on having a new straw bonnet with white ribbons, and would have worn her own wedding dress only Tom objected, and said it would be like putting on airs, and she the head of a family; that dove-colored silk would do beautifully.
So the afternoon came, as I have said, and the bell rang out loud and cheerfully, sounding out an invitation to every lady from Rock Rimmond to Castle Rock. Then the people came pouring in from Bungy, Shrub Oak, Chewstown, and Pine Island in a perpetual storm. The old barn-like Presbyterian meeting-house in Chewstown was deserted by all except the most aged members, and the school-house where the little handful of Methodists worshipped, had to close its doors, for no one but the class leader presented himself for admission. So the church was crowded.
Those who could not gain access were scattered in groups on the green in front, and a crowd took shelter under the old willow at the crossroads, determined to get a good view of that young foreigner who was goingto marry pretty Rose Mason. People said he was handsome as a lord, and rich as a prince. Of course he should be all that to carry off the prettiest girl that ever lived in the town, to say nothing of her goodness. Of course everybody remembered Captain Mason and his handsome wife. She was dead, poor woman; but Captain Mason had given up his ship, and was going to France with his daughter and her young husband. Wasn't it strange that Captain Rice should have got into company like that? And Tom Hutchins. The young couple are going to take tea at Tom's house after the ceremony. Strange, wasn't it? But then Tom always was stumbling into some good fortune.
While these remarks were going on the people within the church were lost in admiration of the rare flowers—white roses and white lilies—that shed their fragrance over the altar. The same perfume which was to float around the bride would first consecrate the penitents who came forward for confirmation.
They came up the broad aisle slowly and with downcast eyes—a man and his wife, only those two. The bishop stood ready. Every eye was upon them; some turned away in hard contempt, some looked pitifully on the young woman who, innocent or guilty, had suffered so much. How beautiful she was. With what meek grace she knelt down and bowed her head where the shadow of her trouble had fallen so early. And the man, how quiet and self-centered he was, giving his soul up to its holy work, without a thought of those who looked on. Handsome; yes, he was more than handsome, with that glow upon his face; but it only came once, when her eyes were uplifted to his, after that a solemn sadness fell upon him.
That group of old people, and that open-faced seafaringman, standing near the altar. Certainly that was her mother, and the little woman standing close to the old man, was his mother, and the seafaring man was Captain Rice, her half brother. How completely they seemed absorbed by the kneeling couple. Well, after all there must be some excuse—crime did not seem natural to such people, or to the children of that honest couple. God must have touched their hearts.
Thus the prejudices of the congregation softened, and gave way under the spiritual influence of that holy rite which stamped those who had been condemned criminals as Christians before the Lord.
When Katharine arose from her consecration and moved back, some of her old schoolmates looked kindly upon her, and one opened the pew door, thus inviting her to a seat. At this a flush came over her pale face, and you could see quick tears swelling under her eyelids.
After these two people were lost sight of, another group appeared in the aisle. A noble young man, with those soft, velvety eyes, that are at once so languid and so bright, and a fair young creature, crowned with white jessamines, and floating in a cloud of gossamer lace, whose cheeks wore a flush of wild roses, and whose lips trembled between smiles and tears. No bridesmaids were in attendance, but a tall, grave man, whom everybody recognized as the bride's father, walked with them to the altar, and gave her away, with a look of tender sadness that seemed habitual to his noble face.
The bridal party stepped aside from the altar to make room for another couple, and then Tom Hutchins and his wife came up the broad aisle with blushes and smiles chasing each other across their faces as pride and strength shone in those young hearts. The mancarried an infant in his arms, whose soft face dimpled in response to its father's smiles, and which wore a blue rosette in the mass of soft lace that formed its cap. The woman looked fresh as a wild rose in her bonnet with white ribbons and a dove-colored silk adown which the long white christening dress of the girl baby floated mistily, while the rosette on its cap fluttered like a white poppy in the wind.
Paul and Rose, these names were duplicated at the altar with due sprinkling of water-drops from a fount wreathed with flowers. Then Tom Hutchins and his wife walked down the aisle again, looking grave and thoughtful, as if they had just begun to realize what it was to be the father and mother of human souls, whose pilgrimage is through all eternity.
In violation of the usual custom, a colored man was accommodated with a seat near the door, whose glowing face and genial smile made every one in his vicinity brighten with pleasant sympathy. He was so occupied with the ceremony that he had not regarded a little group of persons who stood just outside the church, conversing eagerly together. At last one of these men came and touched him on the shoulder.
Jube, used to obedience, arose and followed the man into the centre of the group that was evidently waiting for him, and looked around in some surprise, for they were all strangers.
"I say," said one of the men, making mysterious signals with his fingers, "now's your time, while everybody is looking on the christening. There's my horse and wagon; take you to New Haven in an hour; steamboat ready. We've made a little contribution. Here's two silver dollars, and you'll find some doughnuts in the wagon seat with a chunk of cheese. Liberty'sthe word. Leave the horse at Buck's tavern in Chapel street, till sent for."
Jube turned from one face to another, wondering what they wanted of him.
"Don't be skeered, and look so wild," said the first speaker, "we'll stand by you; it's our bounden duty as Christians. So jump in while you have a chance."
Of course Jube had learned a good deal of English in all the years that he had been in America; but he spoke brokenly, and had some difficulty in commanding words when taken by surprise.
"What you want ob Jube? Where shall he jump?"
"Out of slavery into liberty," was the answer. "Run away from the young man who owns you for his slave."
"Slave! slave!—what for Jube run away from young master? What for who says so—Jube happy very much."
"But you are a slave!"
Jube laughed till all his white teeth shone again:
"Jube like slave."
"He makes you work for nothing!"
Jube looked down at his brawny frame, and laughed again.
"Come, cuff, make haste!" cried the man whose wagon was waiting, "you've no time to lose. They'll be coming out soon, and then it's all day with your chance."
In his eager philanthropy, the man put his arm through Jube's, and attempted to drag him toward the willow tree, where his horse was fastened, but Jube shook him off.
"Jube ride behind young masser and Miss Rose. He happy there."
"Poor fellow," said the man, in a broken-heartedvoice. "He don't know what freedom is. Let him go. It's too late now; they're coming."
True enough, Paul De Varney and his bride were walking down the broad aisle of the church—he with a smile on his lips, and she with a warm flush of roses on her cheeks. Behind them came Hutchins and his family.
A carriage was drawn up at the door, ready to carry the bridal pair to Tom Hutchins' house, in the pine woods. Jube sprang forward to open the carriage door, and held his arm down to save that snowy bridal dress from a contact with the wheels.
Rose smiled upon him as she entered the carriage, and touched his shoulder, as if for support, which brought a blessing upon her in Jube's broken English.
When Paul took his seat, Jube seized his hand and kissed it, thus giving his congratulations before those who would have lured him away in the kindness of their ignorance. The faithful fellow felt as if his master had been slandered when these men called him a slave, and so he was.
Directly after the carriage drove off, a smart, little one-horse wagon, yellow as an orange, took its place, and over the wheel leaped our friend Tom Hutchins, who waited, with the reins in his hand, till a little woman, with an infant on each arm, came out of the crowd. Tom took the boy baby in one arm, and held his horse with the other, till the little woman clambered over the front wheel to her seat. Then, after smoothing down its complication of garments, he settled the little trooper, as he called it, by its twin in their young mother's lap, gave a leap to her side, and, with an old-fashioned crack of the whip, dashed after the wedding carriage.
Not till most of the congregation had left the churchdid Nelson Thrasher come forth with his wife, circled, as it were, by the old people, and supported by Captain Rice.
The bishop left his vestry and came with them, talking in a low, kind voice to Katharine for some moments on the steps of the church, when he left her with a fatherly shake of the hand. Several of the matrons and girls who had held aloof till then, came up and gave both Nelson and herself a cordial greeting. It was known that they had been invited to join the wedding party, and that young De Varney had left Thrasher in charge of his property during his proposed absence in Europe. This proof of confidence had a wonderful effect on the old neighbors, and quite a little group gathered around the husband and wife, giving them generous God speed.
Neither Katharine or her husband cared to join that bridal party down in the pine woods. The day had been too impressive and solemn for that. But with serene faces and hearts full of gratitude, they entered the one-horse wagon that waited for them and followed the old folks slowly over the Bungy hills.