SIX YEARS LATER.
Six years step softly, with invisible footsteps, over the plain of
life, bearing us on with an insensible progress. Six years of winter
snows and spring thaws, of early blue-birds and pink May-flower buds
under leafy banks, of anemone, crowfoot and violet in the fields, of
apple-blossoms in the orchards, and new green leaves in the forest;
six years of dark-green summers in the rustling woods, of fire-lilies
in the meadow-lots and scarlet lobelias by the water-brooks, of roses
and lilies and tall phloxes in the gardens; six years of autumnal
golden rod and aster, of dropping nuts and rainbow-tinted forests,
of ripened grain and gathered corn, of harvest home and thanksgiving
proclamation and gathering of families about the home table to
consider the loving-kindness of the Lord:--by such easy stages, such
comings and goings, is our mortal pilgrimage marked off. When the
golden rod and aster have bloomed for us sixty or seventy seasons,
then we are near the banks of the final river, we are coming to the
time of leaving the flowers of earth for the flowers of Paradise.
The six years in Poganuc had brought their changes, not in external
nature, for that remained quiet and beautiful as ever; the same
wooded hills, with their sylvan shades and hidden treasures of fruits
and flowers, the same brown, sparkling river, where pickerel and
perch darted to and fro, and trout lurked in cool, shadowy hollows:
but the old graveyard bore an added stone or two; mounds wet with
bitter tears had grown green and flowery, and peaceable fruits of
righteousness had sprung up from harvests sown there in weeping.
As to the Parsonage and its inmates, six years had added a little
sprinkle of silver to the Doctor's head, and a little new learning
of the loving-kindness of the Lord to his heart. The fruits of the
revival gathered into his church were as satisfactory as ordinary
human weakness allows. The Doctor was even more firmly seated in
the respect and affection of his parish than in old days, when the
ministry was encompassed by the dignities and protections of law.
Poganuc was a town where an almshouse was almost a superfluous
institution, and almsgiving made difficult by the fact that there
were no poor people; for since the shutting of Glazier's bar-room,
and the reformation of a few noted drunkards, there was scarce
anybody not in the way of earning a decent and comfortable living.
Such were our New England villages in the days when its people were
of our own blood and race, and the pauper population of Europe had
not as yet been landed upon our shores.
As to the characters of our little story, they, also, had moved on a
stage in the journey of life.
Hiel Jones had become a thriving man; had bought a share in the
stage-line that ran through the town, and owned the finest team
of horses in the region. He and our friend Nabby were an edifying
matrimonial firm, comfortably established at housekeeping in a trim,
well-kept dwelling not far from the Parsonage, with lilac bushes over
the front windows, and red peonies and yellow lilies in the door-yard.
A sturdy youngster of three years, who toddled about, upsetting
matters generally, formed a large part of the end and aim of Nabby's
existence. To say the truth, this young, bright-eyed, curly-pated
slip of humanity was enough to furnish work for a dozen women, for he
did mischief with a rapidity, ingenuity and energy that was perfectly
astonishing. What small efforts the parents made in the direction of
family government were utterly frustrated by the fond and idolatrous
devotion of old Zeph, who evidently considered it the special
privilege of a grandfather to spoil the rising generation.
Scarce a day passed that Zeph was not at the house, his pockets
stuffed with apples, cakes or nuts for the boy. The old man bowed his
grey head to the yoke of youth; he meekly did the infant's will; he
was the boy's horse and cantered for him, he was a cock and crowed
for him, he was a hen and cackled for him; he sacrificed dignity and
consistency at those baby feet as the wise men of old laid down their
gold, frankincense and myrrh.
Zeph had ripened like a winter apple. The hard, snarly astringency of
his character had grown sweet and mild. His was a nature capable of a
great and lasting change. When he surrendered his will to his God he
surrendered once for all, and so the peace of God fell upon him and
kept him. He was a consistent and most useful member of the church,
and began to be known in the neighborhood by the semi-affectionate
title of "Uncle Zeph," a sort of brevet rank which indicated a
certain general confidence in his disposition to neighborly good
offices.
The darling wish of his wife's heart had been accomplished in his
eldest son Abner. He had sent him through college, sparing no labor
and no hardship in himself to give the youth every advantage. And
Abner had proved an able scholar; his college career had been even
brilliant, and he had now returned to his native place to pursue his
theological studies under Dr. Cushing.
It will be well remembered that in the former days of New England
there were no specific theological institutions, but the young
candidate for the ministry took his studies under the care of some
pastor, who directed his preparatory course and initiated him into
his labors, and this course of things once established was often
continued from choice even after institutions of learning were
founded.
The Doctor had an almost paternal pride in this offshoot that had
grown up in his parish; he taught him with enthusiasm; he took him
in his old chaise to the associations and ministerial meetings about
the State, and gave him every opportunity to exercise his gifts in
speaking.
It was a proud Sunday for old Zeph when his boy preached his
first sermon in the Doctor's pulpit. The audience in the Poganuc
meeting-house, as we have indicated, was no mean one in point of
education, ability and culture, but every one saw and commended the
dignity and self-possession with which the young candidate filled the
situation, and there was a universal approval of his discourse from
even the most critical of his audience. But the face and figure of
old Zeph as he leaned forward in his seat, following with breathless
eagerness every word; his blue eyes kindling, the hard lines of his
face relaxing into an expression of absorbed and breathless interest,
would have made a study for a painter. Every point in the argument,
the flash of every illustration, the response to every emotion,
could have been read in his face as in an open book; and when after
service the young candidate received the commendations of Colonel
Davenport, Judge Belcher and Judge Gridley, Zeph's cup of happiness
was full. Abner was an exception to the saying that a prophet hath
no honor in his own country, for both classes in society vied with
each other to do him honor. The farming population liked him for
being one of themselves, the expression of what they felt themselves
capable of being and becoming under similar advantages; while the
more cultivated class really appreciated the talent and energy of the
young man, and were the better pleased with it as having arisen in
their own town.
So his course was all fair, until, as Fate would have it, he asked
one thing too much of her--and thereof came a heart-ache.
Our little friend Dolly had shot up into a blooming and beautiful
maiden--warm-hearted, enthusiastic, and whole-souled as we have seen
her in her childhood. She was in everything the sympathetic response
that parents love to find in a child. She entered with her whole soul
into all her father's feelings and plans, and had felt and expressed
such an honest, frank, and hearty friendliness to the young man, such
an interest in his success, that the poor youth was beguiled into
asking more than Dolly could give.
Modern young ladies, who count and catalogue their victims, would
doubtless be amused to have seen Dolly's dismay at her unexpected
and undesired conquest. The recoil was so positive and decided as to
be beyond question, but Dolly's conscience was sorely distressed.
She had meant nothing but the ordinary loving-kindness of a good
and generous heart. She had wanted to make him happy, and had ended
in making him apparently quite miserable; and Dolly was sincerely
afflicted about it. What had she done? Had she done wrong? She never
thought--never dreamed--of such a thing.
The fact was that Dolly had those large, earnest, persuasive eyes
that are very dangerous, and sometimes seem to say more than they
mean; and she had quick, sudden smiles, and twinkling dimples, and
artless, honest ways, and so much general good-will and kindliness,
that one might pardonably be deceived by her.
It is said that there are lakes whose waters are so perfectly
transparent that they deceive the eye as to their depth. Dolly was
like these crystal waters; with all her impulsive frankness there
was a deep world within--penetralia that had been yet uninvaded--and
there she kept her ideals. The man she _might_ love was one of the
immortals, not in the least like a blushing young theological student
in a black coat, with a hymn-book under his arm. Precisely what he
was she had never been near enough to see; but she knew in a minute
what he was _not_. Therefore she had said "No" with a resolute energy
that admitted of no hope, and yet with a distress and self-reproach
that was quite genuine.
This was Dolly's first real trouble.