AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD IN ROCKLAND COUNTY.
The apple trees were in blossom on the old Rockland farm—fragrant,
bright and rich in beauty as they had given their breath to the air on
that spring morning when Daniel Hart met his sister on her way to the
post-office, when that as yet unexplained letter was sent to the man who
had now been in his grave so many years. There was no change in the
landscape, except that more perfect cultivation had enriched the basin
of Rockland county, thinning the wilderness of its trees and leaving
pleasant homesteads in their places.
Daniel was walking along the footpath across the very meadow-path Sarah
had met him. The wild meadow-flowers starred the grass on either side as
they brightened it then, but the path had been trod, year after year,
till plantain leaves and burdock, the wild growth that marks the steady
footprints of man, had sprung up and become thrifty along the way.
But Daniel Hart, the cheerful young fellow, proud of his newly-formed
marriage-ties, honest, earnest and generous, where was he? That heavy,
calm man with his eyes kind and serene like those of a Newfoundland dog,
but full of human intelligence—that stalwart form stooping at the
shoulders, more from the weariness of a hard day’s toil than from age;
the firmly planted foot, slow but sure in its tread the toil-hardened
hand swinging gently as he walked—did these belong to the youth of
twenty years ago? Had the smart youngster grown into that strong, steady
man?
A yoke of oxen, just unhitched from a plow that stood in the furrow of a
distant corn-field, pursued their swinging walk homeward a little in
advance of their owner, bending their necks low and patiently to the
yoke, as a married couple, with the light of a honeymoon lying twenty
years off, stoops kindly under the mutual burdens of life.
Once in a while the farmer spoke a word to his oxen, for they were old
friends, and he loved to reward their toil with a cheerful sound;
sometimes he stooped to pick a blue flag or violet from the grass; and
again he would lash the dark leaves with his cart-whip, smiling as he
cut them up at the roots, and sending a golden drift of dandelions after
them with a second whirl of the lash.
At last he came to the bars where Sarah had waited for him, twenty years
before, after putting her letter in the post-office: and there, just at
the same spot, stood a neighbor with a letter in his hand bearing the
New York post-mark, and with the name of his daughter daintly traced on
the snow of its envelope.
“Here’s a letter for some of your women folks,” said the man, as he
placed it in his hand. “I was over to the corner and the post-master
asked me to bring it along.”
“Much obliged. Won’t you come up to the house and have some supper?”
“Not to-night; the old woman will be waiting for me. Good-day.”
Daniel Hart returned his salutation with a request to be remembered to
the women folks, and, as the man walked on, glanced again at the
superscription.
“It’s from Gillian,” he said, half aloud. “I expect she wants to steal
Martha as well as her old aunt—bless her sweet eyes!”
He passed on toward the house, and, when his daughter heard his step on
the porch, she ran out to meet him.
“How late you are, father!” she exclaimed; “tea has been ready this
half-hour; I’m afraid the biscuits are cold.”
“Just let me wash up and have a wipe at the roller towel and I’m ready,”
he replied, patting her head with his broad hand. “Here is something to
take up your time while I do it.”
“It’s from Cousin Gillian,” Martha cried; joyfully, as he placed the
letter in her hands.
“I reckoned as much. I thought Aunt Hetty’s stiff fingers couldn’t make
such finified lines as them.”
Martha had broken the seal and was too deeply absorbed in the contents
of her epistle to heed his words. A letter was an unusual visitor to the
girl, and the arrival of Gillian’s was looked upon as an important
event.
A joyful expression escaped her as she read; but her father was rubbing
his forehead vigorously with the coarse towel and did not look around.
“Oh, what do you think, father!” she exclaimed. “So kind of her, dear,
good Gillian. Isn’t she a cousin worth having?”
“Well, what’s the matter?” asked Daniel Hart, turning down his shirt
sleeves.
“She wants me to come to New York and make her a visit; only think, she
is going to give a grand party in honor of her new house. Won’t it be a
house-warming worth while?”
“And your silly little head is turned with the idea. Well, well, it’s
nat’ral enough, I suppose. Young folks will be young folks.”
“Can I go, father? Do say yes. Oh! I am so crazy to be off.”
“I ain’t much given to saying no to you, am I?” he asked, smiling kindly
down upon her.
“Then I can go. I am so happy—how nice it will be! And Aunt Hetty, too—I
do want to see her so much. Oh! dear, won’t I have fun?”
She was interrupted in her exclamations by the appearance of an ebony
face at the door, crowned with a roll of black, woolly-hair that circled
the corresponding head like a turban.
“’Spect the tea’ll be cold if the men folks don’t come,” said a
discontented voice. “It’s be’n a drawin’ next door to an hour.”
“Coming, Dinah—all on hand,” said Daniel Hart, pleasantly.
“And oh! Dinah,” exclaimed Martha, “I am going to New York. My Cousin
Gillian has sent for me. Isn’t it splendid?”
The old negress drew up her gaunt form, and looked as if she thought her
young mistress was not sufficiently alive to a sense of her own dignity.
“’Spected she would, young Misses. Who would she a-sent for but her own
nat’ral born cousin?”
“But it is so kind of her, Dinah—so very kind!”
“Seem in a great pucker to go away from hum,” grumbled Dinah; “I never
seed no good of gallivanting all over the world. I knows what York is,
’cause I’ve travelled; I’ve be’n thar with Miss Sarah, and it’s my
’pinion you’ll get lost.”
“Not if you go with her, Dinah,” said the farmer.
“Me go travelling ag’in?” said the old woman, brightening up at once.
“Gillian wants me to bring you,” added Martha; “she speaks about it
particularly, and says you must save her some of those old-fashioned
cakes nobody can make but you.”
“Oh! de Lord,” said Dinah, with a chuckle that twisted her features into
something like an oak-knot. “Massy sakes alive! Wal, de young lady
allers was as sweet spoken as if she had sugar-plums in her mout. Hi!
hi! hi!” and she went off into another and more prolonged chuckle. “How
she did use tu walk into dem doughnuts; ’spect she’d never git nothin’
like dem with her fangled city niggers, nohow.”
“And now let’s have supper,” said Mr. Hart; “you and Martha can talk all
this over when we’re done.”
“I never ’trudes myself into no discuss,” said Dinah, drawing herself up
with immense dignity and sailing into the house. But all the while she
was giving the finishing touches to the tea-table her mouth was puckered
into a grim smile; and once or twice she was obliged, in order to quiet
her excessive delight, to give a punch in the side to her little sable
handmaiden, who dodged vigorously every time she become unfortunate
enough to get in her way.
Martha sat down at the table radiant with pleasant anticipation. Her
brown eyes shone like twin-stars, and her cheeks wore a richer bloom
than the cinnamon-roses that looked in at her through the kitchen
window.
Daniel Hart finished his meal almost in silence, scarcely heeding the
broken sentences which passed between Dinah and her young mistress. He
could not tell why, but, apart from the pain of losing Martha, he felt a
vague fear of the idea of this visit. Back into the past went his
thoughts again. Sarah’s image rose before him bright with youthful hope
and anticipation. What a gulf of bitter memories rolled between the
present and that spring time of life!
He pushed back his plate with a sigh, and seated himself by the window.
Martha ran to get his pipe, and, having carefully filled it, brought it
to him, holding a live coal between the tongs that he might light it.
“You look tired, father,” she said, when the preparations were
completed, and he was puffing out a white column of smoke from his lips.
“Likely as not; but it’ll all be gone in the morning.”
Dinah summoned her mistress away nominally for a discussion about a
pickle-crock, but in reality to whisper in her ear:
“’Spose we’ll start right off, young Misses?”
“At once, my cousin says; I’ll ask father.” She ran out of the pantry
again, calling:
“Father, father!”
“Well?” he asked, with a subdued sadness in peculiar contrast to her
unrestrained joy.
“Shall we go soon? Gillian wants me at once, you know——”
“As soon as you can get ready, darter.”
“Next week, then—do you hear, Dinah? We are going next week.”
“Dat’s no lifetime,” replied the stately dame, in a tone which vainly
attempted to express indifference. “Get out of my way, you Liz!” she
added, to her unfortunate assistant, but the girl was accustomed to the
mode of enforcing obedience which this tone threatened, and prudently
ducked her woolly head to escape the threatened blow. “Jest you wash the
dishes, you lazy nigger!” muttered Dinah, in a tone her master could not
hear, “and keep your fingers out o’ de pie.”
“Hain’t touched ’em,” retorted Liz, wiping her mouth with her fingers in
direct contradiction to her bold assertion.
Martha was accustomed to these altercations, and, while listening to her
father, paid no attention to this scene.
“And you are glad to go?” Mr. Hart said, striving to be cheerful.
She slipped her little hand into his, and the browned fingers closed
over it with a gentle pressure; while the kindly smile which always
softened his features, when he met the clear glance of her brown eyes,
passed over his whole face.
“Would you rather I stayed at home?” she whispered, struggling between
an ardent desire to go out into the world so natural to the young, and
reluctance to leave the fond parent, from whom she had been scarcely
separated since her earliest remembrance.
“No, darter,” he replied; “you are young, and it is natural you should
want to enjoy yourself a little. I ain’t going to hinder you. Mebby I
shall be a little lonesome at first; but, but——”
“But I don’t want to leave you all alone, father dear; you will miss me,
I know. I cannot go, that’s all!”
“Of course you shall! You have been a good darter, Martha, and never
given your old father a moment’s pain.”
Martha bowed her head, her excitement for an instant subdued by the
earnestness of his voice.
“I couldn’t be any thing else,” she whispered; “few girls have a father
like mine. Uncle Bentley is a good man, but I wouldn’t swap my father
for him,” and she threw her arms caressingly about the strong man’s
neck.
“Misses!” called Dinah, from the pantry.
“Well, what is it?”
“Won’t I give the house a clearin’ up to-morrow?”
“I guess so, Dinah; we will talk about it in the morning.”
Dinah muttered something about putting off things which ought to be
attended to at once, and went on with her work in indignant silence.
All that evening, Martha was in a state of pleasurable unrest, which
kept her eyes sparkling, and her cheeks a-glow with the thousand happy
thoughts to which her quick imagination gave rise.
When she had kissed her father good-night and stolen up to her room,
Dinah went creeping after, and, seating herself on the floor by her
young mistress’ bed, indulged freely in the numerous projects which were
flitting through her mind. Dinah was quite as much excited with the
thought of the coming visit as Martha herself, although she did her best
to hide it, ascribing her anxiety only to a fear of leaving her dear
child to undertake the journey alone.
Daniel Hart sat for a long time in his easy-chair, forgetful of fatigue,
and indulging in mournful memories of the past and present, until he
grew heavy-hearted with thoughts of his coming loneliness. But when he
rose in the morning, all trace of the sorrowful revery had disappeared,
and he went about his labors cheerful and kindly as was his wont.