The mild May afternoon was drawing to a close, as Friend Eli Mitchenor
reached the top of the long hill, and halted a few minutes, to allow his
horse time to recover breath. He also heaved a sigh of satisfaction,
as he saw again the green, undulating valley of the Neshaminy, with its
dazzling squares of young wheat, its brown patches of corn-land, its
snowy masses of blooming orchard, and the huge, fountain like jets
of weeping willow, half concealing the gray stone fronts of the
farm-houses. He had been absent from home only six days, but the time
seemed almost as long to him as a three years' cruise to a New Bedford
whaleman. The peaceful seclusion and pastoral beauty of the scene did
not consciously appeal to his senses; but he quietly noted how much the
wheat had grown during his absence, that the oats were up and looking
well, that Friend Comly's meadow had been ploughed, and Friend Martin
had built his half of the line-fence along the top of the hill-field.
If any smothered delight in the loveliness of the spring-time found
a hiding-place anywhere in the well-ordered chambers of his heart, it
never relaxed or softened the straight, inflexible lines of his face. As
easily could his collarless drab coat and waistcoat have flushed with a
sudden gleam of purple or crimson.
Eli Mitchenor was at peace with himself and the world--that is, so much
of the world as he acknowledged. Beyond the community of his own sect,
and a few personal friends who were privileged to live on its borders,
he neither knew nor cared to know much more of the human race than if
it belonged to a planet farther from the sun. In the discipline of the
Friends he was perfect; he was privileged to sit on the high seats,
with the elders of the Society; and the travelling brethren from other
States, who visited Bucks County, invariably blessed his house with
a family-meeting. His farm was one of the best on the banks of the
Neshaminy, and he also enjoyed the annual interest of a few thousand
dollars, carefully secured by mortgages on real estate. His wife,
Abigail, kept even pace with him in the consideration she enjoyed
within the limits of the sect; and his two children, Moses and Asenath,
vindicated the paternal training by the strictest sobriety of dress and
conduct. Moses wore the plain coat, even when his ways led him among
“the world's people;” and Asenath had never been known to wear, or
to express a desire for, a ribbon of a brighter tint than brown or
fawn-color. Friend Mitchenor had thus gradually ripened to his sixtieth
year in an atmosphere of life utterly placid and serene, and looked
forward with confidence to the final change, as a translation into a
deeper calm, a serener quiet, a prosperous eternity of mild voices,
subdued colors, and suppressed emotions.
He was returning home, in his own old-fashioned “chair,” with its heavy
square canopy and huge curved springs, from the Yearly Meeting of the
Hicksite Friends, in Philadelphia. The large bay farm-horse, slow and
grave in his demeanor, wore his plain harness with an air which made him
seem, among his fellow-horses, the counterpart of his master among
men. He would no more have thought of kicking than the latter would of
swearing a huge oath. Even now, when the top of the hill was gained, and
he knew that he was within a mile of the stable which had been his
home since colthood, he showed no undue haste or impatience, but waited
quietly, until Friend Mitchenor, by a well-known jerk of the lines,
gave him the signal to go on. Obedient to the motion, he thereupon
set forward once more, jogging soberly down the eastern slope of the
hill,--across the covered bridge, where, in spite of the tempting level
of the hollow-sounding floor, he was as careful to abstain from trotting
as if he had read the warning notice,--along the wooded edge of the
green meadow, where several cows of his acquaintance were grazing,--and
finally, wheeling around at the proper angle, halted squarely in front
of the gate which gave entrance to the private lane.
The old stone house in front, the spring-house in a green little hollow
just below it, the walled garden, with its clumps of box and lilac, and
the vast barn on the left, all joining in expressing a silent welcome to
their owner, as he drove up the lane. Moses, a man of twenty-five, left
his work in the garden, and walked forward in his shirt-sleeves.
“Well, father, how does thee do?” was his quiet greeting, as they shook
hands.
“How's mother, by this time?” asked Eli.
“Oh, thee needn't have been concerned,” said the son. “There she is. Go
in: I'll tend to the horse.”
Abigail and her daughter appeared on the piazza. The mother was a woman
of fifty, thin and delicate in frame, but with a smooth, placid beauty
of countenance which had survived her youth. She was dressed in a
simple dove-colored gown, with book-muslin cap and handkerchief, so
scrupulously arranged that one might have associated with her for six
months without ever discovering a spot on the former, or an uneven fold
in the latter. Asenath, who followed, was almost as plainly attired,
her dress being a dark-blue calico, while a white pasteboard sun-bonnet,
with broad cape, covered her head.
“Well, Abigail, how art thou?” said Eli, quietly giving his hand to his
wife.
“I'm glad to see thee back,” was her simple welcome.
No doubt they had kissed each other as lovers, but Asenath had witnessed
this manifestation of affection but once in her life--after the burial
of a younger sister. The fact impressed her with a peculiar sense of
sanctity and solemnity: it was a caress wrung forth by a season of
tribulation, and therefore was too earnest to be profaned to the uses
of joy. So far, therefore, from expecting a paternal embrace, she would
have felt, had it been given, like the doomed daughter of the Gileadite,
consecrated to sacrifice.
Both she and her mother were anxious to hear the proceedings of the
meeting, and to receive personal news of the many friends whom Eli had
seen; but they asked few questions until the supper-table was ready and
Moses had come in from the barn. The old man enjoyed talking, but it
must be in his own way and at his own good time. They must wait until
the communicative spirit should move him. With the first cup of coffee
the inspiration came. Hovering at first over indifferent details, he
gradually approached those of more importance,--told of the addresses
which had been made, the points of discipline discussed, the testimony
borne, and the appearance and genealogy of any new Friends who had taken
a prominent part therein. Finally, at the close of his relation, he
said--
“Abigail, there is one thing I must talk to thee about. Friend
Speakman's partner,--perhaps thee's heard of him, Richard Hilton,--has
a son who is weakly. He's two or three years younger than Moses. His
mother was consumptive, and they're afraid he takes after her. His
father wants to send him into the country for the summer--to some place
where he'll have good air, and quiet, and moderate exercise, and Friend
Speakman spoke of us. I thought I'd mention it to thee, and if thee
thinks well of it, we can send word down next week, when Josiah Comly
goes”
“What does THEE think?” asked his wife, after a pause
“He's a very quiet, steady young man, Friend Speakman says, and would be
very little trouble to thee. I thought perhaps his board would buy the
new yoke of oxen we must have in the fall, and the price of the fat ones
might go to help set up Moses. But it's for thee to decide.”
“I suppose we could take him,” said Abigail, seeing that the decision
was virtually made already; “there's the corner room, which we don't
often use. Only, if he should get worse on our hands--”
“Friend Speakman says there's no danger. He is only weak-breasted, as
yet, and clerking isn't good for him. I saw the young man at the store.
If his looks don't belie him, he's well-behaved and orderly.”
So it was settled that Richard Hilton the younger was to be an inmate of
Friend Mitchenor's house during the summer.