Even in quiet country places, there are changes many and varied wrought
by the coming and going of seven years, and Merleville has had its share
of these since the time the minister's children looked upon the pleasant
place with the wondering eyes of strangers. Standing on the
church-steps, one looks down on the same still hamlet, and over the same
hills and valleys and nestling farm-houses. But the woods have receded
in some places, and up from the right comes the sound of clashing
machinery, telling that the Merle river is performing its mission at
last, setting in motion saws and hammers and spindles, but in so
unpretending a manner that no miniature city has sprung up on its banks
as yet; and long may that day be distant.
The trees in the grave-yard cast a deeper shadow, and the white
grave-stones seem to stand a little closer than of old. The tall, rank
grass has many times been trodden by the lingering feet of the
funeral-train, and fresh sods laid down above many a heart at rest
forever. Voices beloved, and voices little heeded, have grown silent
during these seven years. Some have died and have been forgotten; some
have left a blank behind them which twice seven years shall have no
power to fill.
The people have changed somewhat, some for the better, some for the
worse. Judge Merle has grown older. His hair could not be whiter than
it was seven years ago, but he is bent now, and never forgets his staff
as he takes his daily walk down the village street; but on his kindly
face rests a look of peace, deeper and more abiding than there used to
be. His kind and gentle wife is kind and gentle still. She, too, grows
old, with a brightening face, as though each passing day were bringing
her nearer to her hope's fulfilment.
Deacon Sterne is growing older; his outward man gives no token thereof.
His hair has been iron-grey, at least since anybody in Merleville can
remember, and it is iron-grey still. He looks as if seven times seven
years could have no power to make his tall form less erect, or to soften
the lines on his dark, grave face. And yet I am not sure. They say his
face is changing, and that sometimes in the old meeting-house on Sabbath
afternoons, there has come a look over it as though a bright light fell
on it from above. It comes at other times, too. His patient wife,
pretending to look another way as he bends over the cradle of his wilful
William's little son, yet turns stealthily to watch for the coming of
the tender smile she has so seldom seen on her husband's face since the
row of little graves was made in the church-yard long ago. By the
deacon's fireside sits a pale, gentle woman, Will's bride that was,
Will's sorrowing widow now. But though the grave has closed over him,
whom his stern father loved better than all the world beside, there was
hope in his death, and the mourner is not uncomforted; and for the
deacon there are happier days in store than time has brought him yet.
Deacon Slowcome has gone West, but, "yearning for the privileges he left
behind,"--or not successful in his gains-getting, is about to return.
Deacon Fish has gone West and has prospered. Content in his heart to
put the wonderful wheat crops in place of school and meeting, he yet
deplores aloud, and in doleful terms enough, the want of these, and
never ends a letter to a Merleville crony without an earnest adjuration
to "come over and help us." But on the whole, it is believed that, in
his heart, Deacon Fish will not repine while the grain grows and the
markets prosper.
Mr Page is growing rich, they say, which is a change indeed. His
nephew, Timothy, having invented a wonderful mowing or reaping-machine,
Mr Page has taken out a patent for the same, and is growing rich. Mrs
Page enjoys it well, and goes often to Rixford, where she has her gowns
and bonnets made now; and patronises young Mrs Merle, and young Mrs
Greenleaf, and does her duty generally very much to her own
satisfaction, never hearing the whispered doubts of her old friends--
which are audible enough, too--whether she is as consistent as she ought
to be, and whether, on the whole, her new prosperity is promoting her
growth in grace.
Becky Pettimore has got a home of her own, and feels as if she knows how
to enjoy it. And so she does, if to enjoy it means to pick her own
geese, and spin her own wool, and set her face like a flint against the
admission of a speck of dirt within her own four walls. But it is
whispered among some people, wise in these matters, that there is
something going to happen in Becky's home, which may, sometime or other,
mar its perfect neatness, without, however, marring Becky's enjoyment of
it. It may be so, for hidden away in the corner of one of her many
presses, is a little pillow of down, upon which no mortal head has ever
rested, and which no eyes but Becky's own have ever seen; and they fill
with wonder and tenderness whenever they fall upon it; and so there is a
chance that she may yet have more of home's enjoyments than geese or
wool or dustless rooms can give.
Behind the elms, where the old brown house stood, stands now a
snow-white cottage, with a vine-covered porch before it. It is neat
without and neat within, though often there are children's toys and
little shoes upon the floor. At this moment there is on the floor a row
of chairs overturned, to make, not horses and carriages as they used to
do in my young days, but a train of cars, and on one of them sits Arthur
Elliott Greenleaf, representing at once engine, whistle, conductor and
freight. And no bad representative either, as far as noise is
concerned, and a wonderful baby that must be who sleeps in the cradle
through it all. Beside the window, unruffled amid the uproar, sits
Celestia with her needle in her hand--a little paler, a little thinner
than she used to be, and a little care-worn withal. For Celestia is
"ambitious," in good housewife phrase, and thereto many in Merleville
and beyond it who like to visit at her well-ordered home.
The squire's newspaper nestles as peacefully amid the din as it used to
do in the solitude of his little office seven years ago. He is thinner,
too, and older, and more care-worn, and there is a look in his face
suggestive of "appeals" and knotty points of law; and by the wrinkles on
his brow and at the corners of his eyes, one might fancy he is looking
out for the Capitol and the White House in the distance still. "He is
growing old while he is young," as Mrs Nasmyth says, "Yankees have a
knack of doing--standing still at middle age and never changing more."
But despite the wrinkles, the squire's face is a pleasant one to see,
and he has a way of turning back a paragraph or two to read the choice
bits to Celestia, which proves that he is not altogether absorbed in law
or politics, but that he enjoys all he has, and all he hopes to be, the
more that he has Celestia to enjoy it with him.
As for her, seven years have failed to convince her that Mr Greenleaf
is not the gentlest, wisest, best in all the world. And as her opinion
has survived an attack of dyspepsia, which for months held the squire in
a giant's gripe, and the horrors of a contested election, in which the
squire was beaten, it is to be supposed it will last through life. At
this very moment her heart fills to the brim with love and wonder as he
draws his chair a little nearer and says:
"See, here, Celestia. Listen to what Daniel Webster says," and then
goes on to read.
"Now, what do you think of that?" he asks, with sparkling eyes. Hers
are sparkling too, and she thinks just as he does, you may be sure,
whatever that may be. Not that she has a very clear idea of what has
been read, as how could she amid rushing engines and railroad whistles,
and the energetic announcement of the conductor that "the cars have got
to Boston."
"See here, Elliott, my son. Ain't you tired riding?" asks papa, gently.
"Ain't you afraid you'll wake sister?" says mamma. "I wouldn't make
quite so much noise, dear."
"Why, mother, I'm the cars," says Elliott.
"But hadn't you better go out into the yard? Carlo! Where's Carlo? I
haven't seen Carlo for a long time. Where's Carlo?"
It is evident Solomon is not in the confidence of these good people.
Moral suasion is the order of the day. They often talk very wisely to
each other, about the training of their children, and gravely discuss
the prescriptions given long ago, for the curing of evils which come
into the world with us all. They would fain persuade themselves that
there is not so much need for them in the present enlightened age. They
do not quite succeed, however, and fully intend to commence the training
process soon. Celestia, especially, has some misgivings, as she looks
into the face of her bold, beautiful boy, but she shrinks from the
thought of severe measures, and hopes that it will all come out right
with him, without the wise king's medicine; and if mother's love and
unfailing patience will bring things out right, there need be no fear
for little Elliott.
It is a happy home, the Greenleaf's. There are ease and comfort without
luxury; there is necessity for exertion, without fear of want. There
are many good and pretty things in the house, for use and ornament.
There are pictures, books and magazines in plenty, and everything within
and without goes to prove the truth of Mr Snow's declaration, that "the
Greenleafs take their comfort as they go along."
But no change has come to anyone in Merleville, so great as the change
that has come to Mr Snow himself. Death has been in his dwelling
once--twice. His wife and his mother have both found rest, the one from
her weary waiting, the other from her cares. The house to which Sampson
returns with lagging footsteps, is more silent than ever now.
But a change greater than death can make, had come to Sampson first,
preparing him for all changes. It came to him as the sight of rushing
water comes to the traveller who has been long mocked with the sound of
it. It came, cleansing from his heart and from his life the dust and
dimness of the world's petty cares, and vain pursuits. It found him
weary of gains-getting, weary of toiling and moiling amid the dross of
earth for that which could not satisfy, and it gave him for his own, the
pearl which is above all price. Weary of tossing to and fro, it gave
him a sure resting-place, "a refuge whereunto he may continually
resort," a peace that is abiding. With its coming the darkness passed
away, and light to cheer and guide was his for evermore. Behind the
closed blinds of his deserted house, he was not alone. The promise,
made good to so many in all ages, was made good to him.
"He that loveth Me shall be loved of My Father, and We will come and
make our abode with him."
That wonderful change has come to him, which the world would fain deny--
the change which so many profess to have experienced, but which so few
manifest in their lives. He has learned of the "meek and lowly." He is
a Christian at last. He has "experienced religion," the neighbours say,
looking on with varied feelings to see what the end may be.
Sampson Snow never did anything like anybody else, it was said. He
"stood it" through "a season of interest," when Deacons Fish and
Slowcome had thought it best to call in the aid of the neighbouring
ministers, to hold "a series of meetings." Good, prudent men these
ministers were, and not much harm was done, and some good. Some were
gathered into the Church from the world; some falling back were
restored; some weak ones were strengthened; some sorrowing ones
comforted. And through all, the interested attention of Mr Snow never
flagged. He attended all the meetings, listened patiently to the
warnings of Deacon Fish, and the entreaties of Deacon Slowcome. He
heard himself told by Mr Page that he was on dangerous ground, "within
a few rods of the line of demarcation." He was formally given up as a
hopeless case, and "left to himself", by all the tender-hearted old
ladies in Merleville, and never left the stand of a spectator through it
all. Then when Deacons Fish and Slowcome, and all Merleville with them,
settled down into the old gloom again, his visits to the minister became
more frequent, and more satisfactory, it seemed, for in a little time,
to the surprise of all, it was announced in due form, that Sampson Snow
desired to be admitted into fellowship with the Church of Merleville.
After that time his foes watched for his halting in vain. Different
from other folks before, he was different from them still. He did not
seem to think his duty for the week was done, when he had gone twice to
meeting on the day time, and had spoken at conference on the Sunday
evening. Indeed, it must be confessed, that he was rather remiss with
regard to the latter duty. He did not seem to have the gift of speech
on those occasions. He did not seem to have the power of advising or
warning, or even of comforting, his neighbours. His gift lay in helping
them.
"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, My brethren, ye
have done it unto Me," were words that Sampson seemed to believe.
"He does folks a good turn, as though he would a little rather do it
than not," said the widow Lovejoy, and no one had a better right to
know.
As for the poor, weak, nervous Rachel, who could only show her love for
her husband, by casting all the burden of her troubles, real and
imaginary, upon him, she could hardly love and trust him more than she
had always done, but he had a greater power of comforting her now, and
soon the peace that reigned in his heart influenced hers a little, and
as the years went on, she grew content, at last, to bear the burdens God
had laid upon her, and being made content to live and suffer on, God
took her burden from her and laid her to rest, where never burden
presses more.
If his mother had ever really believed that no part of her son's
happiness was made by his peevish, sickly wife, she must have
acknowledged her mistake when poor Rachel was borne away forever. She
must have known it by the long hours spent in her silent room, by the
lingering step with which he left it, by the tenderness lavished on
every trifle she had ever cared for.
"Sampson seemed kind o' lost," she said; and her motherly heart, with
all its worldliness, had a spot in it which ached for her son in his
desolation. She did not even begrudge his turning to Emily with a
tender love. She found it in her heart to rejoice that the girl had
power to comfort him as she could not. And little Emily, growing every
day more like the pretty Rachel who had taken captive poor Sampson's
youthful fancy, did what earnest love could do to comfort him.
But no selfishness mingled with her stepfather's love for Emily. It
cost him much to decide to send her from him for a while, but he did
decide to do so. For he could not but see that Emily's happiness was
little cared for by his mother, even yet. She could not now, as in the
old time, take refuge in her mother's room. She was helpful about the
house too, and could not often be spared to her friends up the hill, or
in the village; for old Mrs Snow, much as she hated to own it, could no
longer do all things with her own hands, as she used to do. To be sure,
she could have had help any day, or every day in the year; but it was
one of the old lady's "notions" not to be able "to endure folks around
her." And, besides, "what was the use of Emily Arnold?" And so, what
with one thing and another, little Emily's cheek began to grow pale; and
the wilful gaze with which she used to watch her father's home-coming,
came back to her eyes again.
"There is no kind o' use for Emily's being kept at work," said her
father. "She ain't strong; and there's Hannah Lovejoy would be glad to
come and help, and I'd be glad to pay her for it. Emily may have a good
time as well as not."
But his mother was not to be moved.
"Girls used to have a good time and work too, when I was young. Emily
Arnold is strong enough, if folks would let her alone, and not put
notions in her head. And as for Hannah, I'll have none of her."
So Mr Snow saw that if Emily was to have a good time it must be
elsewhere; and he made up his mind to the very best thing he could have
done for her. He fitted her out, and sent her to Mount Holyoke
seminary; that school of schools for earnest, ambitions New England
girls. And a good time she had there, enjoying all that was pleasant,
and never heeding the rest. There were the first inevitable pangs of
home-sickness, making her father doubt whether he had done best for his
darling after all. But, in a little, her letters were merry and
healthful enough. One would never have found out from them anything of
the hardships of long stairs and the fourth storey, or of extra work on
recreation day. Pleasantly and profitably her days passed, and before
she returned home at the close of the year, Mrs Snow had gone, where
the household work is done without weariness. Her father would fain
have kept her at home then, but he made no objections to her return to
school as she wished, and he was left to the silent ministrations of
Hannah Lovejoy in the deserted home again.
By the unanimous voice of his brethren in the church, he was, on the
departure of Deacons Fish and Slowcome, elected to fill the place of one
of them, and in his own way he magnified the office. He was "lonesome,
awful lonesome," at home; but cheerfulness came back to him again, and
there is no one more gladly welcomed at the minister's house, and at
many another house, than he.
There have been changes in the minister's household, too. When his
course in college was over, Arthur came out to the rest. He lingered
one delightful summer in Merleville, and then betook himself to Canada,
to study his profession of the law. For Arthur, wise as the Merleville
people came to think him, was guilty of one great folly in their eye.
He could never, he said, be content to lose his nationality and become a
Yankee; so, for the sake of living in the Queen's dominions, he went to
Canada; a place, in their estimation, only one degree more desirable as
a place of residence than Greenland or Kamtschatka.
That was five years ago. Arthur has had something of a struggle since
then. By sometimes teaching dull boys Latin, sometimes acting as
sub-editor for a daily paper, and at all times living with great
economy, he has got through his studies without running much in debt;
and has entered his profession with a fair prospect of success. He has
visited Merleville once since he went away, and his weekly letter is one
of the greatest pleasures that his father and sisters have to enjoy.
Norman and Harry have both left home, too. Mr Snow did his best to
make a farmer first of the one and then of the other, but he failed. To
college they went in spite of poverty, and having passed through
honourably, they went out into the world to shift for themselves.
Norman writes hopefully from the far West. He is an engineer, and will
be a rich man one day he confidently asserts, and his friends believe
him with a difference.
"He will make money enough," Janet says, "but as to his keeping it,
that's another matter."
Harry went to Canada with the intention of following Arthur's example
and devoting himself to the law, but changed his mind, and is now in the
merchant's counting-room; and sends home presents of wonderful shawls
and gowns to Janet and his sisters, intending to impress them with the
idea that he is very rich indeed.
Those left at home, are content now to be without the absent ones;
knowing that they are doing well their share in the world's work, and
certain that whatever comes to them in their wanderings, whether
prosperity to elate, or adversity to depress them, their first and
fondest thought is, and ever will be, of the loving and beloved ones at
home.