MEADOW BROOK.
BY
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,
AUTHOR OF “THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILL SIDE,” “’LENA RIVERS,” “TEMPEST AND
SUNSHINE,” ETC.
NEW YORK:
C. M. SAXTON, 25 PARK ROW.
1858.
ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight
hundred and fifty-seven,
BY MILLER, ORTON & Co.,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.
W. H. TIMSON, STEREOTYPER. R. O. JENKINS, PRINTER.
TO
MY MOTHER,
Who, more than any one else, will be interested in a story which has in
it so much of my childhood and early home,
THIS WORK
is affectionately dedicated by her Daughter
MARY.
PREFACE.
In this story of MEADOW BROOK there is, I am aware, nothing very
startling or wonderful; but it has the merit, at least, of containing
more truth than books of the same character usually possess. From this,
however, the reader is not to infer that I have made myself the heroine;
for though the early home, the childhood, and childish experience of
“Rosa Lee” are mostly my own—while more than one whiskered young man
will recognize the little girl of thirteen, at whom he once made faces
from behind his desk as the “schoolma’am”—the similarity extends no
further.
The fickle Mr. Clayton and his haughty bride, the unfortunate Herbert,
the disappointed Ada, the proud Southern planter, and the gentle,
bright-haired Jessie, are intended to represent different varieties of
American character, and are such as many of us have met in our
intercourse with the world. For my portrayals of Georgia life, I am
indebted to a friend, who recently spent two years in that State, and
whose graphic descriptions of what she there saw have been to me of much
service.
Believing that the world loves better to read of the probable than of
the improbable, I have tried to be _natural_; and if, by this means, but
one friend is added to the number I now possess, I shall feel that my
labor has not been in vain.
M. J. H.
BOCKPORT, N. Y., 1857.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Childhood, 9
II. Thanksgiving, 22
III. Cousin Will, 39
IV. The Schoolmistress, 52
V. Pine Hill, 60
VI. Doctor Clayton’s Visit, 80
VII. Dell Thompson’s Party, 88
VIII. Close of School in Pine District, 100
IX. Pro and Con, 105
X. Mrs. Dr. Clayton, 111
XI. Boston, 116
XII. Ada Montrose, 135
XIII. The Flight, 149
XIV. Ten Thousand Dollars, 156
XV. The Old Homestead, 174
XVI. “Out West,” 179
XVII. The Dark Man, 192
XVIII. The Death of the Drunkard, 200
XIX. The Death of the Righteous, 214
XX. Going South, 218
XXI. Uncle Dick, 236
XXII. Ada, 255
XXIII. Dr. Clayton, 278
XXIV. The Crisis, 296
XXV. The Angel of the Pines, 307
XXVI. Return, 318
XXVII. Light, 325
XXVIII. The Chase, 335
XXIX. Human Nature, 350
XXX. “The Southern Planter’s Northern Bride,” 354
XXXI. Sunny Bank, 358
XXXII. November 25th, 378
MEADOW BROOK.
CHAPTER I.
CHILDHOOD.
Far away among the New England hills stands a large, old-fashioned
farmhouse, around whose hearth-stone not many years agone, a band of
merry, noisy children played, myself the merriest, noisiest of them all.
It stood upon an eminence overlooking a broad strip of rolling
meadow-land, at the extremity of which was the old grey rock, where the
golden rod and sassafras grew, where the green ivy crept over the
crumbling wall, and where, under the shadow of the thorn-apple tree, we
built our play-houses, drinking our tea from the acorn saucers, and
painting our dolls’ faces with the red juice of the poke berries, which
grew there in great abundance.
Just opposite our house, and across the green meadow, was a shady grove,
where, in the spring-time, the singing birds made their nests, and
where, when the breath of winter was on the snow-clad hills, Lizzie,
Carrie, and I, and our taller, stronger brothers dragged our sleds,
dashing swiftly down the steep hill, and away over the ice-covered
valley below. Truly, ours was a joyous childhood, and ours a happy home;
for never elsewhere fell the summer’s golden sunlight so softly, and
never was music sweeter than was the murmur of the dancing water-brook
which ran past our door, and down the long green lane, losing itself at
last in the dim old woods, which stretched away to the westward, seeming
to my childish imagination the boundary line between this world and the
next.
In the deep shadow of those woods I have sat alone for many an hour,
watching the white, feathery clouds as they glimmered through the dense
foliage which hung above my head, and musing, I scarcely knew of what.
Strange fancies filled my brain and oftentimes, as I sat there in the
hazy light of an autumnal afternoon, there came and talked with me
myriads of little people, unseen, it is true, but still real to me, who
knew and called them all by name. There, on a mossy bank, beneath a
wide-spreading grape-vine, with the running brook at my feet, I felt the
first longings for fame, though I did not thus designate it then. I only
knew that I wanted a name, which should live when I was gone—a name of
which my mother should be proud. It had been to me a day of peculiar
trial. At school everything had gone wrong. Accidentally I had
discovered that I possessed a talent for rhyming; and so, because I
preferred filling my slate with verses, instead of proving on it that
four times twenty were eighty, and that eighty, divided by twenty,
equalled four, my teacher must needs find fault with me, calling me
“lazy,” and compelling me to sit between two hateful boys, with warty
hands, who for the remainder of the afternoon amused themselves by
sitting inconveniently near to me, and by telling me how big my eyes and
feet were. I hardly think I should now mind that mode of punishment,
provided I could choose the boys, but I did then, and in the worst of
humors, I started for home, where other annoyances awaited me. Sally,
the housemaid, scolded me for upsetting a pan of milk on her clean
pantry shelf, calling me “the carelessest young one she ever saw,” and
predicting that “I’d one day come to the _gallus_ if I didn’t mend my
ways.”
Juliet, my oldest sister, scolded me for wearing without her consent her
shell side-comb, which, in climbing through a hole in the plastering of
the schoolhouse, I accidentally broke. Grandmother scolded me for
mounting to the top of her high chest of drawers to see what was in
them; and to crown all, when, towards sunset, I came in from a romp in
the barn, with my yellow hair flying all over my face, my dress burst
open, my pantalet split from the top downward, and my sun-bonnet hanging
down my back, my mother reproved me severely, telling me I was “a sight
to behold.” This was my usual style of dress, and I didn’t think any one
need interfere; so, when she wondered if there ever was another such
child, and bade me look at myself in the glass, asking if “I didn’t
think I was a beautiful object,” my heart came up in my throat, and with
the angry response that “I couldn’t help my looks—I didn’t make myself,”
I started through the door, and running down the long lane to the
grape-vine, my favorite resort, I threw myself upon the ground, and
burying my face in the tall grass, wept bitterly, wishing I had never
been born, or, being born, that the ban of ugliness were not upon me.
Mother doesn’t love me, I thought—nobody loves me; and then I wished
that I could die, for I had heard that the first dead of a family, no
matter how unprepossessing they had been in life, were sure to be the
best beloved in the memory of the living. To die, then, that I might be
loved was all I asked for, as I lay there weeping alone, and thinking in
my childish grief that never before was a girl, nine summers old, so
wretched as myself. And then, in my imagination, I went through with a
mental rehearsal of my own obsequies, fancying that I was dead, but
still possessing the faculty of knowing all that passed around me.
With an involuntary shudder, I crossed my hands upon my bosom, stretched
my feet upon the mossy bank, and closed my eyes to the fading sunlight,
which I was never to see again. I knew they would lay me in the parlor,
and on my forehead I felt the gentle breeze as it came through the open
window, lifting the folds of the muslin curtain which shaded it.
Throughout the house was a deep hush, and in my mother’s voice there was
a heartbroken tone, which I had never heard before, and which thrilled
me with joy, for it said that I was loved at last. Then I thought how
lonely they would be as day by day went and came, and I came no more
among them. “They will miss the little ugly face,” I said, and on my
cheek my own hot tears fell as I thought how Lizzie would mourn for me
in the dark night time, weeping that I was not by her side, but sleeping
in a narrow coffin, which I hoped would be a handsome one with satin
hangings, as I had seen at the funeral of a rich neighbor’s fair young
bride. I did not want them to strew my pillow with roses as they did
hers—for I knew they would not accord with my thin, plain face. In the
distance I heard the sound of the tolling bell, and I saw the subdued
expression on the faces of my school companions as they listened
breathlessly, counting at last the nine quick strokes, which would tell
to a stranger that ’twas only a child who was gone.
Then came the funeral, the roll of wheels, the tread of many feet, the
hum of voices, the prayer, the hymn, in which I longed to join, but
dared not for appearances’ sake, and then, one by one, they stole up for
a last farewell, lifting my baby brother and bidding him look upon the
sister he would never know save by the grassy mound where they would
tell him she was buried. I knew when Lizzie bent over me by the
convulsive sob and burning kiss which she pressed upon my lips, and
divining her inmost thoughts, I fancied she was wishing that no harsh
word had ever passed between us In my heart I longed to tell her how
freely I forgave her, but ere I had time to do so, she stepped aside,
while an older, a wrinkled hand was laid upon my forehead, and my aged
grandmother murmured, “Poor little Rosa, far better that I should die,
than that she, so young, should be laid in the lonesome grave.”
Instantly the dark grave loomed up before me, so dark and dreary that I
shrank from being put there. I could not die; I was afraid to sleep with
the silent dead. I would far rather live, even though I lived unloved
forever. And then, softly in my ear, a spirit friend whispered, “Be
_great_ and _good_—get to yourself a name of which they shall be
proud—make them love you for your deeds, rather than your looks, and
when, in the future, strangers shall ask concerning you, ‘Who is she?’
let it be their pride to answer, ‘My daughter,’ or ‘My sister.’” Older
and wiser heads than mine would have said it was Ambition, which thus
counselled with me, but I questioned her not of her name. I only knew
that her words were sweet and soothing, and I treasured them in my
heart, pondering upon them until I fell asleep, unconscious that the
daylight was fast declining, and that the heavy dew was falling upon my
uncovered head.
Meantime at home many inquiries were being made concerning my
whereabouts, and when, at last, night came on, and I was still away, my
oldest brother was sent in quest of me down the long lane where I was
last seen by Lizzie, who had attempted to follow me, but had desisted
through fear of being called a _tag_. I was just dreaming that the
trumpet of fame was sounding forth my name, when, alas! I awoke to find
it was only brother Charlie, making the woods resound with “Rosa Lee!
Where are you? Why don’t you answer?”
Of course I was disappointed,—who wouldn’t be?—and in a fit of obstinacy
I determined not to reply, but to make him think I was lost—then see how
he’d feel! But on this point I was not to be gratified, for failing of
finding me in the lane, he made straight for the grape-vine, where he
stumbled over me as I lay, this time feigning sleep, to see what he
would do. Seizing me by the shoulder, he exclaimed, “You are a pretty
bird, scaring us out of a year’s growth. Mother’ll scold you well for
this.”
But he was mistaken, for mother’s manner towards me was greatly changed.
The torn pantalet and the chewed bonnet-strings were all forgotten, and
in the kindest tone she asked, “If I were not cold, and why I went to
sleep on the grass.” There were tears in my eyes, but I winked hard and
forced them back, until Lizzie brought me a piece of custard pie (my
special favorite) which, she said, “she had saved for me, because she
knew how much I loved it.”
This was too much, and sitting down in Carrie’s little chair, I cried
aloud, saying in reply to the oft-repeated question as to what ailed me,
that “I didn’t know, only I was so glad.”
“Hystericky as a witch,” was Sally’s characteristic comment on my
strange behavior, at the same time she suggested that I be put to bed.
To this I made no objection, and pushing aside the pie, which, to
Lizzie’s disappointment, I could not eat, I went to my room, a happier,
and I believe, a better girl; so much influence has a kind word or deed
upon a desponding, sensitive child. That night I was tired and restless,
turning uneasily upon my pillow, pushing Lizzie’s arm from my neck,
because it kept me from breathing, and lying awake until I heard the
long clock in grandma’s room strike the hour of twelve. Then I slept,
but dreamed there was a heavy pain in my head, which made me moan in my
sleep, and that mother, attracted by the sound, came to my side, feeling
my pulse, and saying, “What ails you, Rosa?” “There was nothing ailed
me,” I said; but in the morning when I awoke, the pain was still there,
though I would not acknowledge it, for scarcely anything could tempt me
to stay away from school; so at the usual hour I started, but the road
was long and wearisome, and twice I sat down to rest, leaning my
forehead upon the handle of my dinner basket, and wondering why the
smell of its contents made me so sick. Arrived at school, everything
seemed strange, and when Maria, the girl who shared my desk, produced a
love-letter from Tom Jenkins, which she had found on _my_ side of the
desk, and in which he made a formal offer of himself, frecks and all, I
did not even smile. Taking my book, I attempted to study, but the words
ran together, the objects in the room chased each other in circles, the
little Abecedarian, shouting the alphabet at the top of his voice,
sounded like distant thunder, and when at last the teacher called for
our class in “Colburn,” she seemed to be a great way off, while between
her and me was a gathering darkness which soon shut out every object
from my view.
For a few moments all was confusion, and when at last my faculties
returned I was lying on the recitation bench, my head resting in the
teacher’s lap, while my hair and dress were so wet that I fancied I’d
been out in a drenching shower. Everybody was so kind and spoke so
softly to me that, with a vague impression that something had happened,
I began to cry. Just then, father, who had been sent for, appeared, and
taking me in his arms, started for home, while Lizzie followed with the
basket and my sun-bonnet, which looked sorry and drooping like its
owner. At the door father asked of mother, who met us, “Where shall I
put her?” but ere she could reply, I said, “On grandmother’s bed.”
And there, among the soft pillows and snowy linen on which I had often
looked with almost envious eyes, and which now seemed so much to rest
me, I was laid. Of the weary weeks which followed, I have only a
confused recollection. I know that the room was darkened as far as
possible, and that before the window at the foot of the bed, grandma’s
black shawl was hung, one corner being occasionally pinned back when
more light was needed. After a while it seemed to me that it was Lizzie,
instead of myself who was sick, and the physician said she had a fever,
which had been long coming on, but was undoubtedly hastened by her
sleeping on the wet grass in the night. And so we all trod softly about
the house, speaking in whispers, and lifting the door-latches carefully,
while Lizzie, with my cap and night dress on, lay all day long in bed,
never speaking, never moving, except when the long clock in the corner
struck off the hour; then she would moan as if in pain, and once when
somebody, who looked like Lizzie, but was still I, Rosa, stole on tiptoe
to her side, with a bouquet of flowers, which Maria had brought, she put
her arms around my neck, and pointing to the clock, whispered, “It keeps
saying ‘She’s dead’!—‘She’s dead’!—She’s dead!’ Won’t you tell it to be
still?”
Then we knew that it disturbed her, and so the old clock was stopped, a
thing which grandma said “had not been in fifty odd years,” except the
time when grandpa died, and then, with the going out of his life, the
clock itself ran down. All the night through the lamp burned upon the
table where stood the vials, the Dover powders, and the cups, while
Lizzie, with her great blue eyes so much like mine, wide open, lay
watching the flickering shadows on the wall, counting the flowers on the
paper bordering, wondering if there ever were _blue_ roses, and thinking
if there were that they must smell as the dinner did beneath the
chestnut tree.
At last, when the family were wearied out with watching, the neighbors
were called in, and among them our schoolteacher, who seemed to tread on
air, so light and noiseless were her footsteps; and Lizzie, when she saw
how kind she was, wondered she had not loved her better. Then came other
watchers equally kind with Miss Phillips, but possessing far less tact
for nursing; and even now I have a vivid remembrance of their annoying
attempts “to fix me so I’d be more comfortable.” Was I lying in a
position satisfactory to myself, I must be lifted up, my pillows shaken,
turned over, and my head placed so high that my chin almost touched my
chest. Did I fall into a little doze, I must rouse up to tell whether I
were asleep or not, and did I get into a sound slumber, I must surely
wake enough to say whether I wanted anything.
Again, I fancied that another beside Lizzie was sick, for in mother’s
room, contiguous to mine, there was a low hum of voices, agoing in and
out, a careful shutting of the door, and gradually I got the impression
that Jamie, my beautiful baby brother, was connected with all this, for
I heard them talk of scarlet fever, and it’s going hard with him. But I
had no desire or power to ask the why or wherefore; and so time wore on,
until there came a day when it seemed that the reverie beneath the
grape-vine was coming true. There was the same roll of wheels, the tread
of many feet, and through the closed doors I heard a mournful strain,
sung by trembling voices, while from afar, I caught the notes of a
tolling bell. I was much alone that day, and once, for more than an
hour, there was no one with me excepting grandma, who frequently removed
her spectacles to wipe the moisture which gathered upon them.
From that day I grew worse, and they sent to Spencer for Dr. Lamb, who,
together with Dr. Griffin, held a council over me, and said that I must
die. I saw mother when they told her. She was standing by the window,
from which the black shawl had been removed, for nothing disturbed the
little girl now, and the window was wide open, so that the summer air
might cool the burning head, from which the matted yellow hair had all
been shorn. She turned pale as death, and with a cry of anguish, pressed
her hand upon her side; but she did not weep. I wondered at it then, and
thought she cared less than Lizzie, who sat at the foot of the bed,
sobbing so loudly that the fever burned more fiercely in my veins, and
the physician said it must not be; she must leave the room, or keep
quiet.
It was Monday, and a few hours afterward, as Sally was passing the door,
grandma handed her my dirty, crumpled sun-bonnet, bidding her wash it
and put it away. Sally’s voice trembled as she replied, “No, no, leave
it as it is, for when she’s gone, nothing will look so much like her as
that jammed bonnet with its chewed up strings.”
A gush of tears was grandma’s only answer, and after I got well, I found
the bonnet carefully rolled up in a sheet of clean white paper and laid
away in Sally’s drawer. There were days and nights of entire
unconsciousness, and then with the vague, misty feeling of one awakening
from a long, disturbed sleep, I awoke again to life and reason. The
windows of my room were closed; but without, I heard the patter of the
September rain, and the sound of the autumnal wind as it swept past the
house. Gathered at my side were my father, mother, brothers, sisters,
grandmother; and all, as my eye rested upon their faces, I thought, were
paler and more careworn than when I last looked upon them. Something,
too, in their dress disturbed me; but, before I could speak, a voice
which I knew to be Dr. Griffin’s, said “She is better—she will live.”
From my mother’s lips there broke another cry—not like that which I had
heard when they told her I must die—but a cry of joy, and then she fell
fainting in my father’s arms. I never doubted her love for me again, but
in bitterness of spirit, I have many a time wept that I ever distrusted
her, my blessed mother.
The fourth day after the crisis I was alone with Lizzie, whom, for a
long time, I importuned to give me a mirror that I might see myself once
more. Yielding at length to my entreaties, she handed me a small looking
glass, a wedding gift to my grandmother, and with the consoling remark,
that “I wouldn’t always look so,” awaited the result. I am older than I
was then, but even now I cannot repress a smile as I bring before my
mind the shorn head, the wasted face with high cheek-bones, and the big
blue eyes, in which there was a look of “crazy Sal,” which met my view.
With the angry exclamation, “They’ll hate me worse than ever, I’m so
ugly,” I dashed the mirror upon the floor, breaking it in a thousand
pieces. Lizzie knew what I meant, and twining her arms about my neck,
she said, “Don’t talk so, Rosa; we love you dearly, and it almost killed
us when we thought you couldn’t live. You know big men never cry, and pa
the least of all. Why, he didn’t shed a tear when lit”——
Here she stopped suddenly, as if on a forbidden subject, but soon
resuming the conversation, she continued, “But the day Dr. Lamb was here
and told us you would die, he was out under the cherry tree by our
play-house, and when Carrie asked him if you’d never play there any
more, he didn’t answer, but turned his face towards the barn, and cried
so hard and so loud, that grandma came out and pitied him, smoothing his
hair just like he was a little boy. Brother Charlie, too, lay right down
in the grass, and said he’d give everything he’d got if he’d never
called you ‘bung-eyed,’ nor made fun of you, for he loved you best of
all. Then there was poor Jamie kept calling for ‘Yosa’”——
Here Lizzie broke down entirely, saying, “I can’t tell you any more,
don’t ask me.”
Suddenly it occurred to me that I had neither seen nor heard little
Jamie, the youngest of us all, the pet and darling of our household.
Rapidly my thoughts traversed the past, and in a moment I saw it all.
“Jamie was dead.” I did not need that Lizzie should tell me so. I knew
it was true, and when the first great shock was over, I questioned her
of his death, how and when it occurred. It seems that I was at first
taken with scarlet fever, which soon assumed another form, but not until
it had communicated itself to Jamie, who, after a few days’ suffering,
had died. I had ever been his favorite, and to the last he had called
for me to come; my grandmother, with the superstition natural to her
age, construing it into an omen that I was soon to follow him.
Desolate and dreary seemed the house; and when I was able to go from
room to room, oh! how my heart ached as I missed the prattle of our
baby-boy. Away to the garret, where no one could see it, they had
carried his empty cradle, but I sought it out; and as I thought of the
soft, brown curls I had so often seen resting there, and would never see
again, I sat down by its side and wept most bitterly. The withered,
yellow leaves of autumn were falling upon his grave ere I was able to
visit it, and at its head stood a simple stone, on which was inscribed,
“Our Jamie.” As I leaned against the cold marble, and in fancy saw by
its side—what had well-nigh been—another mound, and another stone,
bearing upon it the name of “Rosa,” I involuntarily shuddered; while
from my heart there went up a silent thanksgiving, that God, in his wise
Providence, had ordered it otherwise.
From that sickness I date a more healthful state of mind and feeling,
and though I still shrunk from any allusion to my personal appearance, I
never again doubted the love of those who had manifested so much
solicitude for me when ill, and who watched over me so tenderly during
the period of my convalescence, which was long and wearisome, for the
snows of an early winter lay upon the frozen ground, ere I was well
enough to take my accustomed place in the old brown schoolhouse at the
foot of the long hill.