The dinner table was nicely arranged in the "best room" of the
farm-house, and Jessie Graham, with a happy look on her bright face,
flitted in and out, arranging the dishes a little more to her taste,
smoothing the snowy cloth, pausing a moment before the fire blazing so
cheerfully upon the hearth, and then glancing from the window, across
the frozen fields to the hillside where a new grave had been made since
the last Thanksgiving Day.
"Dear Ellen!" she sighed, "there is no plate for her now,--no chair."
Then, as she remembered an absent one, dearer far than Ellen, she
thought, "I'll make believe _he's_ here," and seeking Mrs. Howland, who
was busy with her turkey, she said: "May I put a plate for Walter? It
will please him when he hears of it."
"Yes, child," was the ready answer, and Jessie was hastening off, when a
feeble voice from the kitchen corner where the deacon sat, called her
back:
"Jessie," the old man said. "Put Seth's arm-chair next to mine. It is
the last Thanksgiving I shall ever see, and I would fancy him with me
once more," and as Jessie turned toward the place where the leathern
chair stood, she heard the words:
"God send him back,--God send him back."
"It is the deacon's wish," she whispered to her father, who, with Mrs.
Bellenger, was also spending Thanksgiving at the farm-house, and who
looked up surprised, as Jessie dragged from its accustomed post, the
ponderous arm-chair, and wheeling it into the other room, placed it to
the deacon's right.
The dinner was ready at last, and Mrs. Howland was only waiting for the
oysters to boil, before she served them up, when Jessie gave a scream of
joy, and dropping the dish of cranberries she held, ran off into the
pantry, where, as Aunt Debby affirmed, she hid herself in the closet,
though from what she was hiding it were difficult to tell. There was
surely nothing appalling in the sight of _Walter_, who, alighting from
the village omnibus, now stood upon the threshold, with Captain Murdock.
They had stayed all night in the city, where Walter had learned that Mr.
Graham, Jessie and his grandmother, had gone to Deerwood to spend
Thanksgiving Day.
"We shall be there just in time," he said to his father, when at an
early hour they took their seat in the cars; but his father paid little
heed, so intent was he upon noting the changes which more than twenty
years had wrought in the localities with which he was once familiar.
As the day wore on, and he drew near to Deerwood, he leaned back in his
seat, faint and sick with the crowd of memories which came rushing over
him.
"Deerwood!" shouted the conductor, and looking from the window, he could
scarcely believe it possible that this flourishing village was the same
he had known among the hills. When he went away _one_ spire alone
pointed heavenward, now he counted _four_, while in the faces of some
who greeted Walter again he saw the looks of those who had been boys
with him, but who were fathers now to these grown-up young men.
"I am old," he sighed, and mechanically entering the omnibus, he folded
his arms in moody silence, as they rattled down the street. But when the
brow of the hill was reached, and Walter said: "See, father, there's our
orchard," he started, and looked, not at the orchard, nor at the gable
roof now fully in view, nor at the maple tree, but down the lane, along
the beaten path, to where a tall monument gleamed white and cold in the
gray November light.
"That's her's,--that's mother's," Walter said, following the direction
of his father's eyes; then fearing that his father, by his emotions,
should betray himself too soon, he arose and sat by him, taking his
hand, and saying tenderly:
"Don't give way. You have me left, and grandpa, and Aunt Mary, and
Jessie,--won't you try to be calm?"
"Yes, yes," whispered the agitated man, and with a tremendous effort he
was calm, as, standing in the well-remembered kitchen, he waited till
the noisy outburst had somewhat subsided, and Walter been welcomed home.
But not a single thing escaped the notice of his keen eyes, which
wandered round the room taking in each familiar object, and noticing
where there had been a change.
There was none in Aunt Debby, he said,--wrinkled, gray, slight and
straight as her high-backed chair,--just as he remembered her years
ago,--just so she was now--her kerchief crossed as she wore it
then,--her spectacles on her forehead,--her apron long, and meeting
almost behind, and on the chair-post her satin bag with the knitting
visible therefrom. She was the same, but the comely matron Walter called
Aunt Mary, was she the blooming maiden he had left so long ago, and the
elegant-looking stranger, with the unmistakable city polish, was that
his early friend? It took him but an instant to think all this, and then
his eyes fell upon the old man by the fire,--the man with the furrowed
cheek, the bowed form, the silvery hair and shaking limbs,--who, like
some giant oak which has yielded to the storms of many a winter, sat
there the battered wreck of a once noble man. That was his father, but
he would not call him so just then, and when Walter, turning at last,
said: "This is Captain Murdock, the kind friend who took care of me," he
went forward, taking first Aunt Debby's hand, then his sister Mary's,
then Mr. Graham's, and now there was a slight faltering of manner, while
his eyes sought the floor, for they could not meet the gaze fixed so
curiously upon him.
"Grandpa, this is Captain Murdock," said Walter, while Captain Murdock
advanced a step or so and took the shriveled hand, which had so often
rested fondly on his head.
Oh, how Seth longed to kiss that feeble hand; but he dared not, and he
was glad that Walter, by his loud, rapid talking, attracted the entire
attention, leaving him to sit down unobserved, when the meeting between
himself and Mrs. Bellenger was over. At her he had looked rather
inquisitively, for she was his Ellen's mother, and his heart yearned
toward her for the sake of his gentle wife.
Meanwhile Walter, without seeming to do so, had been watching for
somebody, who, behind the pantry door, was trying to gain courage to
come out.
"I'll look at him, anyway," she said, and Walter glanced that way just
in time to see a profusion of raven curls and a shining, round black
eye.
"Jessie," called Mr. Graham, who saw them too, "Jessie, hadn't you
better come out and gather up the cranberries you dropped so suddenly
when the omnibus drove up?"
"Father, how can you?" and the young lady immediately appeared, and
greeted Walter quite naturally.
He evidently was embarrassed, for he hastened to present her to Captain
Murdock, who, feeling, intuitively, that he beheld his future
daughter-in-law, took both her soft chubby hands in his and held them
there, while he said, a little mischievously:
"I have heard much of you, Miss Jessie, from my so--, my friend, I
mean," he added, quickly, correcting himself, but not so quickly that
Jessie did not detect what he meant to say.
One by one she scanned his features, then the deacon's, then Walter's,
and then, with a flash of intelligence in her bright eyes, turned to the
latter for a confirmation of her suspicions. Walter understood her
meaning, and with an answering nod, said softly:
"By and by."
"The dinner will be cold," suggested Mrs. Howland, and then the deacon
rose, and leaning on his cane, walked into the adjoining room, when he
took his seat at the head of the table.
"There's a chair for you," Jessie said to Walter who, following the
natural laws of attraction, kept close to her side. "There's one for
_you_ and him, too, my old playhouse," and she pointed to the leathern
chair.
"Sit here, Captain Murdock,--here," said Walter, hurrying on as he saw
Mrs. Howland giving the stranger another seat than that.
"Walter," and there was reproach in the deacon's voice, "not in your
father's chair."
"Yes, grandpa," said Walter, "Captain Murdock has been a father to
me,--let him sit there for once."
So Captain Murdock sat there, his heart throbbing so loudly that Jessie,
who was next to him, could hear it beat, and see his chin quiver, when
the voice nearly eighty years old, was asking God's blessing on their
Thanksgiving Dinner; thanking God for returning their boy to them, and
finishing the prayer with the touching petition: "Send the other back!
oh, send the other back!"
Owing to the presence of the captain, who was considered a stranger, not
a word was spoken of Seth, until they arose from the table, when Walter,
unable longer to keep still, said:
"And so my father is free from all blame?"
Involuntarily Jessie went up to him and put her arm in his, waiting
breathlessly for what would follow next.
"Yes, Walter," returned the deacon, "my Seth is innocent. Heaven bless
him wherever he may be, and send him to me before I die, so I can hear
him say he didn't lay it up against me,--my hardening my heart and
thinking he was guilty. Poor Seth, poor Seth! I'd give my life to blot
out all the past and have him with me just as he was before he went
away."
Captain Murdock was standing with his face to the window, but, as the
deacon ceased speaking, he turned, and going up to him, placed his hand
on either shoulder and looked into his eyes.
The movement was a most singular one, and to Mr. Graham, who knew that
there must be a powerful motive for the action, there came a suspicion
of the truth; but none to the old man, whose eyes fell beneath the
burning gaze riveted upon him.
"Who are you?" he asked in a bewildered tone, "why do you look at me so
hard? He scares me; Walter, take him away."
"Grandpa, don't you know him?" and Walter drew near to them, but not
until the old man's ear had caught the whispered name of "_Father_."
Then, with a scream of joy, he wound his feeble arms round the
stranger's neck.
"Seth, boy, darling, Walter, am I going mad, or is it true? _Is it
Seth?_ Is it my boy? Tell me, Walter," and releasing their grasp, the
shaking hands were stretched supplicatingly toward Walter, who answered:
"Yes, grandpa. _It's Seth._ I found him, and I have brought him home."
"Oh, Seth, Seth," and the hoary head bowed itself upon the neck of the
stranger, while the poor old man sobbed like a little child. "I didn't
expect it, Seth, though I've prayed for it so hard. Bless you, bless
you, boy, I didn't mean to go against you. I would have died at any time
to know that you were innocent. Forgive me, Seth, because I am so old
and weak."
"I do forgive you," answered Seth. "It's all forgotten now, and I've
come home to stay with you always till you die."
There was a hand laid lightly on Seth's shoulder, and turning, he looked
into the face of Mr. Graham, which quivered with emotion, as he said:
"I, too, have need of your forgiveness."
"None, Richard, none," and locked in each other's arms, the friends long
parted cancelled the olden debt, and in the heart of neither was there a
feeling save that of perfect love.
Long and passionately Mrs. Howland wept over her brother, for his return
brought back the past, and all that she had suffered since the night he
went away.
Aunt Debby, too, was much affected, but did not omit her accustomed "He
allus was a good boy."
Then Mrs. Bellenger approached, and offering her hand, said to him very
kindly:
"You are dear to me for Ellen's sake, and though I never saw you until
to-day, my heart claims you for a child. Shall I be your mother, Mr.
Marshall?"
He could only reply by pressing the hand she extended, for his heart was
all too full for utterance.
"Let me go away alone," he said at last, "to weep out my great joy," and
opening the door of what was once his room, he passed for a time from
their midst.
The surprise had apparently disturbed the deacon's reason, for even
after his son had left him he continued talking just the same: "Poor
Seth,--poor child, to think your hair should be so gray, and you but a
little boy."
Then, when Seth returned to them he made him sit down beside him, and
holding both his hands, smiled up into his face a smile far more painful
than tears would have been.
"Seth's come home. Did you know it?" he would say to those around him,
as if it were to them a piece of news, and often as he said it, he would
smoothe the gray hair which seemed to trouble him so much.
Gradually, however, his mind became clearer, and he was able to
understand all that Seth was telling them of his experience since the
night he went away.
At last, just as the sun was setting, Mr. Marshall arose, and without a
word, passed into the open air. No one watched him to see whither he
went, for all knew that before he returned to them he would go down the
lane, along the beaten path, to where the moonlight fell upon a little
grave.
It was long before he came back, and when he did, and entered the large
kitchen, two figures stood by the western window, and he thought the arm
of the taller was thrown about the waist of the shorter, while the face
of the shorter was very near to that of the taller. Advancing toward
them and stroking the dark curls, he said, half playfully, half
earnestly:
"I believe that as Mr. Marshall I have not greeted Jessie yet, so I will
do it now. Are you to be my daughter, little girl?"
"Yes, she is," answered Walter, while Jessie broke away from them, and
was not visible again that night.
But when, at a late hour, Mrs. Bellenger left the happy group still
assembled around the cheerful fire, and sought her room, from the depths
of the snowy pillows, where Jessie lay nestled, there came a smothered
voice, saying, half timidly:
"This is the nicest Thanksgiving I ever had, and I shall remember it
forever."