thanksgiving! how many reminiscences of the olden time does that word call up, when sons and daughters, they who had wandered far and wide, whose locks, once brown and shining with the sunlight of youth, now give tokens that the autumnal frosts of life are falling slowly upon them, return once more to the old hearth-stone, and, for a brief space, grow young again amid the festive scenes of thanksgiving day. to you, who, like me, drew your first breath among the new england hills, and who have strayed away from your early home, in the busy world in which you are now mingling, comes there not occasionally pleasant memories of the olden time, when with eager haste you hied you back to the roof-tree which sheltered your infancy? and though, perchance, the snows of many a winter may have drifted across the graves of the gray-haired man you called your father, and the mild-eyed woman who bore the blessed name of mother, can you not recall them to mind, as when with tears of joy and words of love, they welcomed their children home, thanking god that as yet not one of their household treasures was missing? and if, after the lapse of years, there came a time when the youngest of you all was gone, when the childish prattle you loved so well to hear was hushed, when through the 23house was no more heard the patter of little, busy feet, when there was naught left of the lost one, save a curl of golden hair, or a tiny shoe, soiled and bent, but looking still so much like him who wore it once, that you preserve it as your choicest treasure: if, i say, there came to you a time like this, do you not remember how, amid all the social cheer, there was still an aching void, which nothing around you could fill?
but lest i make this chapter too sad, i shall not speak of our feelings as we missed our baby brother, for they who have lost from their fireside an active, playful child, understand far better than i can describe, the loneliness, the longing for something gone, which becomes almost a part of their being, although at times they may seem to forget. children’s grief is seldom as lasting as that of mature years; and hence it is not strange if i sometimes forgot my sorrow in the joyous anticipation of thanksgiving day, which was then to me but another name for plum puddings, chicken pies, meeting dresses, morocco shoes, city cousins, a fire in the parlor, and last, though not least, the privilege of sitting at the first table, and using grandma’s six tiny silver spoons, with the initials of her maiden name, “p. s.” marked upon them.
on such occasions my thoughts invariably took a leap backward, and looking at grandma’s wrinkled face and white, shining hair, i would wonder if she ever were young like me; and if, being young, she swung on gates or climbed trees, and walked the great beams, as i did. then, with another bound, my thoughts would penetrate the future, when i, a dignified grandmother, should recline in my arm-chair, stately and stiff, in my heavy satin and silver gray, while my oldest son, a man just my father’s size, should render me all the homage and respect due to one of my age. 24by myself, too, i had several times tried on grandma’s clothes, spectacles, cap and all; and then, seated in her chair, with the big bible in my lap, i had expounded scripture to the imaginary children around me, frequently reprimanding rosa for her inattention, asking her what “she thought would become of her, if she didn’t stop wriggling so in her chair, and learn ‘the chief end of man.’” once, in the midst of my performance, grandma herself appeared, and as a natural consequence, i was divested of my fixings in a much shorter space of time than it had taken me to don them. from that day up to the period of my illness, i verily believe grandma looked upon me as “given over to hardness of heart and blindness of mind.”
but i am wandering from my subject, which was, i believe, the thanksgiving succeeding jamie’s death and my own recovery from sickness. for this occasion great preparations were made, it being confidently expected that my father’s brother, who lived in boston, would be with us, together with his wife, a lady whose reputation for sociability and suavity of manners was, with us, rather below par. she was my uncle’s second wife, and rumor said that neither himself nor his home were as comfortable as they once had been. from the same reliable source, too, we learned that she breakfasted in her own room at ten, dined at three, made or received calls until six, went to parties, soirées, or the theatre in the evening, and seldom got to bed until two o’clock in the morning; a mode of living which was pronounced little better than heathenish by grandma, who had long been anxious for an opportunity of “giving charlotte ann a piece of her mind.”
mother, who was more discreet, very wisely advised her not to interfere with the arrangements of her daughter-in-law. “it would do no good,” she said, “and might possibly 25make matters worse.” unlike most old people, grandma was not very much set in her own way, and to mother’s suggestion, she replied that “mebby she shouldn’t say anything—’twould depend on how many airs charlotte put on.”
to me the expected visit was a sore trial; for, notwithstanding my cheeks and neck were rounder and fuller than they had ever been, my head, with its young crop of short, stiff hair, was a terrible annoyance, and more than once i had cried as i saw in fancy the derisive smile with which my dreaded aunt charlotte was sure to greet me. at last sister anna, who possessed a great deal of taste in such matters, and who ought to have been a milliner, contrived for the “picked chicken,” as she called me, a black lace cap, which fitted me so well, and was so vastly becoming that i lost all my fears, and child-like, began to count the days which must elapse before i could wear it.
meantime, in the kitchen there was a loud rattling of dishes, a beating of eggs, and calling for wood, with which to heat the great brick oven, grandma having pronounced the stove unfit for baking a thanksgiving dinner. from the cornfield, behind the barn, a golden pumpkin, four times larger than my head and about the same color, was gathered, and after being brought to the house, was pared, cut open, scraped, and sliced into a little tin kettle with a copper bottom, where for hours it stewed and sputtered, filling the atmosphere with a faint, sickly odor, which i think was the main cause of the severe headache i took to bed with me. mother, on the contrary, differed from me, she associating it in some way with the rapid disappearance of the raisins, cinnamon, sugar, and so forth, which, in sundry brown papers, lay open upon the table. she was generally right when she made up her mind, so i shall not dispute the point, for, let the cause have been what it 26would, it was a very sick little girl which, the night before thanksgiving, was put early to bed by sally, who remarked, as she undressed me, that “i was slimpsy as a rag, and she wouldn’t wonder if i had a collapse,” adding, as she tucked the clothes around me, that “if i did, it would be mighty apt to go hard with me.”
the next morning, just as the first grey streaks of daylight were appearing in the east, i awoke, finding, to my great joy, that my headache was gone. rising upon my elbow and leaning far out of bed, i pushed aside the striped curtain which shaded the window, and looking out upon the ground below, saw, to my utter dismay, that it was covered with snow. to me there is nothing pleasant in a snow storm, a snow bank, or a snow cloud; and when a child, i used to think that with the fall of the first flake, there came over my spirits a chill, which was not removed until the spring-time, when, with its cause, it melted away: and even now, when, with my rubber boots, i dare brave any drift, not more than five feet four inches high, i cannot say that i have any particular love for snow; and as from my window i watch the descent of the feathery flakes, i always feel an irresistible desire to make at them wry faces, my favorite method of showing my dislike. on the morning of which i have spoken, i vented my displeasure in the usual way, and then i fell into a deep sleep, from which i was at last awakened by the loud shouts of my brothers, who, in the meadow across the road, were pelting each other with balls, occasionally rolling over in the pure, white snow, which they hailed as an old and well loved friend.
not long after breakfast was over anna, commenced dressing lizzie and carrie, and as she had herself to beautify before the arrival of the train which was to bring my uncle and aunt, it is not surprising that she hurried rather 27faster then was wholly agreeable to the little girls, who could see no good cause for such haste, even if herbert langley, my aunt’s son and a youth of seventeen, was to accompany her. i, however, who was older, read things differently, and when anna pulled lizzie’s curly hair, and washed carrie’s nose up instead of down, until they both cried, and when she herself stood before the glass a whole half hour, arranging just in front of her ears two spit curls, sometimes called “beau catchers,” i shrugged my shoulders, wondering if she thought a city boy would care for her.
the morning train from boston was due about ten o’clock, and as meadow brook did not then boast a daily omnibus, it was necessary that some one should be at the dépôt in order to meet our expected guests. in new england it is almost an unheard-of thing for an entire family to remain away from church on thanksgiving day, but considering all the circumstances, it was, on this occasion, decided orthodox for us to do so, and accordingly at nine o’clock father and old sorrel started for the dépôt, which was distant about two and a half miles. long and wearisome to us children was that waiting for his return; for stiff and prim, as starched white aprons, best gowns, and hemstitched pantalets could make us, we sat in a row like so many automatons, scarcely daring to move, lest we should displace some article of dress. in the best chamber, the room which aunt charlotte was to occupy, a cheerful wood fire was burning, and at least a dozen times did grandma go up there to see if all were right, now smoothing the clean, linen pillow-case, now moving the large easy-chair a little more to the centre of the room, and again wiping from the mirror some imaginary specks of dust.
as she was coming down the twelfth time, the sound of sleigh-bells took us all to the window, where, instead of the 28costly furs and rich velvet wrappings of aunt charlotte, we saw the coarse plaid shawl and dark delaine hood of aunt betsey, while at her side was the shaggy overcoat and sealskin cap of her better half, uncle jason. this worthy couple, good enough in their way, lived in union, about nine miles from meadow brook, where, for the last ten years, they had been in the habit of spending thanksgiving, without ever seeming to think it possible for them to return the compliment. although we had never seen aunt charlotte, we knew full well that there was nothing in common between her and aunt betsey, and after a long consultation it had been decided not to invite the latter, who, as it proved, did not deem an invitation necessary.
uncle jason was my father’s half brother, and the stepson of grandma, who, the moment she saw them was actually guilty of the exclamation, “good lord! what sent them here?” before any of us could reply, the door burst open, and the loud, boisterous laugh of uncle jason greeted our ears, intermingled with the squeaky tones of aunt betsey, who, addressing my mother, said, “how d’ye dew, fanny. you pretty well? i s’pose you’re lookin’ for us, though you didn’t send us no invite? jason kinder held off about comin’, but i telled him ’twas enough sight easier to eat dinner here than to cook it to hum.”
with as good a grace as she could possibly assume, mother returned her greeting, and then, taking her into her own bedroom, asked her to remove her bonnet, at the same time telling her she was expecting uncle joseph and aunt charlotte from boston.
“now, you don’t say it,” exclaimed aunt betsey, stopping for a moment in the adjustment of her cap, the fashion of which was wonderful, having been devised by herself, as were all her articles of dress. “now, dew tell if that 29puckerin’ thing is a comin’! how nipped up we shall have to be! i’m so glad i wore this gown!” she continued, looking complacently at her blue and white plaid, the skirt of which was very short and scanty, besides being trimmed at the bottom with two narrow ruffles.
with her other peculiarities aunt betsey united that of jealousy, and after getting herself warm, and looking round, as was her custom, she commenced with, “now, if i won’t give up—a fire in the parlor chamber. i s’pose charlotte’s too good to pull off her things in the bedroom, as i do. wall, it’s the luck of some to be born with a silver spoon in their mouth.”
grandma, who was the only person present except myself, made no answer, and after a moment aunt betsey continued, “now i think on’t, miss lee (she never addressed her as “mother,” for, from the first, a mutual dislike had existed between them), now i think on’t, miss lee, mebby fanny meant to slight me.”
“fanny never slighted anybody,” was grandma’s reply, while her polished knitting-needles rattled with a vengeance.
“wall, i guess she thought jo’s wife and i wouldn’t hitch hosses exactly, but the land knows that i don’t care the snap of my finger for her. i’m as good as anybody, if i don’t keep a hired maid and have a carpet on every floor.”
here she was interrupted by the sound of horses’ feet, and rising up, grandma said, “i guess they’ve come. will you go and meet them?”
“not i; i’m the last one to creep, i can tell you,” was aunt betsey’s reply, while grandma and i quitted the room, leaving her sitting bolt upright, with her feet on the fender and her lips pursed up as they always were when she was indignant.
30uncle joseph, aunt charlotte, herbert langley, had all come, and as the latter leaped upon the ground and i caught a sight of his tall, slender figure, i involuntarily exclaimed, “long-legs,” a cognomen, which he ever after retained in our family. shaking down his pants, he went through with a kind of shuffle not wholly unlike the highland fling, ending his performance by kissing his hand to the group of noses pressed close against the window-pane.
“i shall like him,” was my mental comment, as i turned from him towards the bundle of clothes which uncle joseph lifted from the sleigh and deposited upon the steps, and which we supposed to be our dreaded aunt.
“this is perfectly horrible,” were the first words which issued from under the folds of her veil; but to what she referred i never knew.
we all knew and loved uncle joseph, and for his sake my mother conquered whatever of prejudice she felt towards his wife, who returned her cordial welcome with the extreme end of her forefinger, saying, when asked to sit down, “i’ll go to my room immediately, if you please.”
“speak to the children first,” suggested my uncle, and with a muttered, “it doesn’t matter,” the haughty lady bowed coldly to us, as one by one we were presented.
when it came my turn, her small, black eyes rested longer upon me, and the faintest derisive smile imaginable curled the corners of her mouth. i knew that either my cap or my face had provoked that smile, and with tears in my eyes i was turning away, when herbert langley caught me in his long arms, exclaiming, “and so, this is rosa, the poetess, i mean to call you little ‘crop-head,’ may i?”
he referred, i suppose, to a letter which i had once written in rhyme to my uncle joseph, but before, i could frame any reply, his mother said, scornfully, “don’t be flattered, 31child—herbert calls everything poetry that rhymes. he’ll learn to discriminate better as he grows older,” and with a stately sweep she left the room, saying, as she reached the rather steep and narrow stair-case, “dear me—how funny—it’s like mounting a ladder.”
while she was making her toilet we had an opportunity of learning something of herbert, who, whether he were so or not, seemed much pleased with everything around him. occasionally, however, i doubted his sincerity, for when aunt betsey was presented to him, he appeared quite as much delighted with her as with anything else, drawing his chair closely to her side, and asking her numberless questions about the best modes of making cheese and raising chickens, while all the time there was a peculiarly quizzical expression in his eyes, which were dark and very handsome, saving that the lids were too red to suit my ideas of beauty. to anna and her spit curls he took kindly, and ere his lady mother made her appearance a second time he had put his arm around her twice, telling her she should come to boston sometime and go to school. a rustle of silk upon the stairs announced the descent of aunt charlotte, and with her nose slightly elevated, ready for any emergency, she entered the parlor, where she was introduced to aunt betsey, who, courtesying straight down, “hoped to see her well,” adding, that she “s’posed she’d come to the country to see how poor folks lived.”
falling back into the rocking-chair which anna brought for her, aunt charlotte made no particular reply, save an occasional attack upon her hartshorn. aunt betsey, however, nothing daunted, endeavored to engage her in conversation by asking if “she knew liza ann willcott, a tailoress girl, that boarded with a miss johnson, who used to live in union, but who now lived in boston.”
32frowning majestically, aunt charlotte replied that she had not the honor of miss willcott’s acquaintance, whereupon aunt betsey advised her to make it by all means, assuring her that “liza ann was a first rate girl, and that miss johnson was the best kind of a neighbor, always willin’ to lend, or do a good turn”——
here, with a haughty toss of her head, aunt charlotte turned away and began talking in a low tone to herbert, he being the only one who, she seemed to think, was at all worth noticing. it is strange how much constraint one person can sometimes throw over a room full. on this occasion, had an ogress suddenly alighted in our midst, we could not have been more silent or less at ease than we were with that boston lady, sitting there so starched and stiff, her fat hands folded one over the other, and the tips of her satin gaiters just visible from beneath the ample folds of her rich silk dress. even uncle joseph, whose genial nature usually shed so much sunlight over our circle, was grave and reserved, rarely venturing a remark, or, if he did, glancing at his wife to see if she approved it. uncle jason, who painfully felt his own awkwardness, sat tipped back in his chair against the wall, with his feet on the rounds, while his fingers kept time to a tune, which he was evidently whistling to himself. glad were we all when finally called to dinner, the savory smell of which had long been whetting our appetites.
“what! dinner so soon?” said aunt charlotte, consulting her gold watch, which pointed to half-past two. “i don’t believe i can force down a mouthful.”
but, spite of her belief, she did manage to make way with the contents of her well-filled plate, which was passed back a second time to be replenished. so eager were we all to serve her that we partially forgot aunt betsey, who, after 33waiting awhile for a potato, at last arose, and reaching half-way across the table, secured one for herself; saying, by way of apology, that “she believed in looking out for number one, for if she didn’t nobody else would.”
so incensed was she with what she termed our neglect, that the moment dinner was over she insisted upon going home, saying, as she bade us good-bye, that “when she went again where she wasn’t wanted, she gussed she should know it;” and adding, while two big tears dropped from the end of her nose, that “she never s’posed she should be so misused by folks that she’d done so much for.”
the sight of her tears brought forth answering ones from me, for, with all her peculiarities, i loved aunt betsey, and i remembered that when sickness and death were among us, she had left her own home to stay with us, ministering as far as she was able to our comfort. many a night had she watched with me, and though she invariably placed the lamp so that its rays glared full in my face, though she slept three-fourths of the time, snoring so loudly as to keep me awake, and though at the slightest change for the worse in my symptoms she always routed the whole household, telling them, “rosa was dyin’ now, if she ever was,” thereby almost frightening me to death, i knew that she meant well, and in my heart i liked her far better than i did my boston aunt, who, after bidding her sister-in-law good-bye, went back to the parlor, saying to her husband in a tone loud enough for us to hear, “what a vulgar creature! did you notice her hands? why, they are as coarse and black as a servant girl’s.”
“and she’s none the worse for that,” interposed grandma, warming up in the defence of her son’s wife. “she has now and then an odd streak, but on the whole she’s better than they’ll average.”
34after this, aunt charlotte relapsed into silence, which she did not break until she overheard herbert proposing to anna a ride on the morrow. then she roused up, and while her little black eyes snapped, she said, “i am going home to-morrow afternoon, and so are you. consequently, there’ll be no time for a ride.”
in a twinkling, herbert’s thumb and finger went up to his nose, a gesture which i did not then understand, but it struck me disagreeably, and had also the effect of silencing aunt charlotte, who made no further remark on the subject until they chanced to be alone, when i, who was in the hall, heard her say, “what can induce you to talk so much with that raw country girl? your city friends would laugh well if they knew it.”
consigning his “city friends” to the care of the old gentleman supposed to preside over the lower regions, herbert walked off in quest of the “raw country girl,” by whose side he sat the remainder of the evening, talking to her so low that lizzie whispered to me her private opinion that “they were courting.”
the next morning aunt charlotte did not appear at breakfast, it being so much earlier than her usual hour of rising that she felt wholly unequal to the task. accordingly, though we did not wait, the table did until ten o’clock, when, pale and languid, she came down, seeming much disturbed to find that herbert had coaxed anna into going with him to call on aunt betsey, to whom he had taken quite a fancy, and who had asked him to visit her “if he didn’t feel too smart.”
darting an angry glance at her husband, she said, “how could you suffer it?” asking at the same time if there was a hotel on the road. being told that there was one at union and another half-way between that and meadow brook, she 35seemed more disturbed than ever, eating little or no breakfast, and announcing her intention of staying over that day, or, at all events, until herbert returned. seating herself at the window, she watched and waited, while the hours crept on and the clock in grandma’s room struck four ere the head of “old sorrel” was visible far down the road. then with an eagerness wholly incomprehensible to me, she started up, straining her eyes anxiously in the direction of the fast approaching cutter. as it came nearer we all observed something rather singular in the position of herbert, who seemed lying almost across anna’s lap, while she was driving!
“merciful heavens! it’s as i feared!” was aunt charlotte’s exclamation, as she sank upon the lounge, moaning bitterly, and covering her face with the cushion, that she might not see the disgrace of her only son—for herbert was drunk!
lifting him out, my father and uncle laid him upon the settee in the sitting-room, just where little jamie had been laid, and my mother, as she looked upon the senseless inebriate resting where once had lain the beautiful, inanimate form of her youngest born, thought how far less bitter was her cup of sorrow than was that of the half fainting woman, who would rather, far rather, her boy had died with the dew of babyhood upon his brow than to have seen him thus debased and fallen.
the story was soon told, my uncle supplying all points which anna could not. it seems that early in life herbert had acquired a love for the wine and porter which daily graced his mother’s dinner-table. as he grew older his taste increased for something stronger, until now nothing save brandy could satisfy the cravings of his appetite. more than once had he been brought home in a state of entire unconsciousness, for he was easily intoxicated, it usually 36taking but one glass to render him perfectly foolish, while a second was generally sure to finish the work. these drunken fits were always followed by resolutions of amendment, and it was now so long since he had drank that his mother began to have strong hopes of his reform, but these, alas! were now dashed to the ground. unfortunately, uncle jason had offered the young man a glass of cider, which immediately awoke in its full vigor his old love for ardent spirits. just across the road, creaking in the november wind, hung the sign of the “golden fleece,” and in that direction, soon after dinner, herbert bent his steps, taking down at one time a tumbler two thirds full of raw brandy. this made him very talkative and very affectionate, insomuch that he kissed aunt betsey, who, as soon as she could, started him for home. when the half-way house, called in opposition to its neighbor “silver skin,” was reached, herbert insisted upon stopping and taking another glass, which ere long rendered him so helpless that anna was obliged to take charge of sorrel herself, while her companion fell asleep, leaning his head upon her shoulder and gradually sinking lower and lower until he rested in her lap.
all that night he remained in the sitting-room, which in the morning presented so sorry and disgusting an appearance that when aunt charlotte for the hundredth time wished she had never come to meadow brook, our whole family mentally responded a fervent amen. herbert, when fully restored to consciousness, seemed heartily ashamed of himself, crying like a girl, and winding his arms around his mother’s neck so affectionately that i did not blame her when she forgave him and wiped away her tears.
she might not have had much faith in his sincerity could she have heard his conversation with anna, whom he managed to withdraw from the family to the recess of a distant 37window. alone with her, his manner changed, and with flashing eyes, he charged it to his mother, who, he said, first taught him to love it by allowing him, when a little boy, to drink the bottom of the wine glasses after dinner.
“and if i fill a drunkard’s grave,” said he, “she will be to blame; but,” he added, as he saw anna involuntarily shudder, “it shall not be. i can reform. i will reform, and you must help me do it.”
anna looked wonderingly at him, while he continued, taking her hand and removing from it a plain gold ring, which grandma had given her on her fifteenth birthday, “you must let me wear this as a talisman to protect me from evil. whenever i am tempted i shall look at it and be saved.”
anna hesitated awhile, but the soft, handsome eyes of herbert langley had woven around her a spell she could not break, and at last she consented, receiving from him in return a diamond ring, which he told her was worth two hundred dollars. when this became known to mother she very wisely insisted on anna’s returning it, and together with the note explaining the why and the wherefore it went back to its owner, who immediately replied by a letter, the contents of which were carefully kept from us all. the effect, however, was plainly visible; for, from the time of its receipt we lost our merry, light-hearted sister, and in her place there moved among us a sober, listless girl, whom grandma called foolish, and whom charlie pronounced “lovesick.”
herbert’s letter was soon answered, but when anna requested my father to put it in the p. o. he refused, telling her “she should not correspond with such a drunken dog.” possibly it was wrong in him thus to address her, for kind words and persuasive arguments might have won her to reason, but now a spirit of opposition was roused—“herbert was wronged—misunderstood”—so anna thought, and the 38letter which father refused to take, was conveyed by other hands, a postscript longer than the letter itself being first added.
after this there was no more trouble. anna wrote regularly to herbert, who promptly responded; his missives always being directed to one of anna’s schoolmates, who was just romantic enough to think her companion persecuted! gradually i was let into the secret, and was occasionally employed to carry anna’s notes to and from the house of her friend. i did not then consider the great wrong i was doing, but since i have shed many a bitter tear to think that i in any way helped to work my sister’s ruin.
39
chapter iii.
