ELSIE IN THE LOG CABIN.
It was a lodge of ample size,
But strange of structure and device,
Of such materials as around
The workman’s hand had readiest found.
_—Scott._
The place selected by Magnus Hardcastle as the field of his life labor
was that grandly picturesque portion of Maryland now known as Alleghany
County, but then called indifferently the Mountains, the Wilderness, or
the Backwoods. The site chosen for his home was a wildly beautiful spot
in the midst of a deep, narrow valley lying between two ridges of the
Alleghany Mountains, and watered by a branch of the Potomac River.
Although Magnus Hardcastle’s first idea of a home in the backwoods
presented nothing but a log cabin, and although his young and lovely
bride was quite ready to dare and share the unmitigated rudeness and
privations of such a home and life, yet Providence, who “tempereth the
wind to the shorn lamb,” mercifully ameliorated the hardships of the
condition for the delicately nurtured girl, who, however willing, was,
notwithstanding all her health and strength, scarcely able to bear the
shock of such a sharp and sudden change. The contents of that casket—the
bridal gift of Alice Garnet to her daughter—amounted to nearly five
thousand dollars, and though the whole of this sum would go but a very
little way toward supplying the superfluities of a fashionable bride’s
trousseau, yet the half of it went very far toward completing and
furnishing a comfortable backwoods home for our young couple. Their
house was a log cabin indeed, but one of “ample size” and commodious
appointments.
It was near the close of a fine winter day that Alice and Elsie were
together in the family rooms of the cabin. This apartment was large, and
supplied with all needful furniture. The walls were lathed and
plastered, but not whitewashed, and retaining the original stone color,
gave a sober tone to the air of the room. There was no carpet on the
floor, but the broad hearth was a notable specimen of the fine arts, by
Hugh Hutton, who declared, in his pride, that it was an interesting,
instructive, and endless study, to anyone fond of tracing the
individuality and infinite variety of natural form and color. The hearth
was, in fact, a fine mosaic of fragments of rocks, of divers forms,
sizes, and colors, perfectly filled in, leveled and chinked with a hard,
white composition, that formed an irregular boundary line between the
pieces. Each side the ample fireplace were dressers, constructed of
strong plank, and at once laden and ornamented with crockery ware. From
the lowest and broadest shelves hung dark calico curtains, reaching to
the floor, and concealing “the humble little household gods,” as Elsie
called them. There were chairs and tables, made more for strength than
beauty, ranged along the walls. The windows were curtained with dark
calico. There was no article of luxury, no superfluity in the room, but
everything was convenient, orderly, and immaculately clean.
A fine fire blazed in the broad chimney, and though the hour was growing
dark, it illuminated the room, so as to render a lighted candle
unnecessary. The tea-kettle hung over the blaze, an oven lid sat upon
the logs by its side, and the oven was turned up against the front of
the fire to heat for baking.
Elsie stood at a deal-table, making out biscuits—busy, healthful, and
happy as ever.
A little to the left of the blazing, too-hot fire, sat Alice, in a
rocking-chair, and—a reverie. There was but one change in Alice since we
saw her last. The sunny ringlets of her unfaded hair (be it remembered
that she was but thirty-five), the sunny ringlets of her hair were
turned around her cheek, and their end twisted around with her back
braid. A little lace cap which she wore, because she said a cap was
proper for her at her time of life, and in her relations, sat gracefully
upon her still beautiful head, and gave a softness to the outline of her
delicate and spiritual face, making her seem even more youthful and
beautiful than before. She had been embroidering an infant’s dress, but
the work had dropped into her lap, and her hand had fallen upon the
little snow-white heap of muslin, and the richly-chased gold thimble
glittered idly in the firelight; but the tiny foot, in the delicate
slipper, was not idle—it turned upon the rockers of a cradle, where,
amid downy pillows and soft white drapery, reposed a lovely babe of
about two months of age. Altogether this beautiful and graceful group
was a little out of keeping with the log cabin, to which it nevertheless
lent a charm. But then, Elsie had always laughingly said that her mother
was an ingrain “lady,” while she herself, for her own part, was “only a
woman.”
Elsie having finished making out her biscuits, brought the tray to the
fire to put them on to bake. While kneeling with one knee upon the
hearth to arrange her bread in the oven, she looked up at her mother’s
pensive face, and said, sympathetically:
“Dear mother, it seems to me you are not happy, though you would have us
believe it is so?”
“Elsie, no one is perfectly happy; that is a saying as old as the
plucking of the forbidden fruit that first brought suffering into the
world, and yet we never believe it. We are ever striving for that
perfect happiness which is impossible.”
“I do not believe it to be impossible, dear mother. I am a firm believer
in perfect earthly happiness; I am so near it myself. Why, even now, I
should be perfectly happy but for the shadow on your brow, mother.”
“‘But,’ there is ever a ‘but.’ It is the order of life, and I am content
with it. Be at ease, dear; I, too, should be perfectly happy, but——”
“What, dearest mother?”
“I am a living falsehood, Elsie.”
“Mother!”
“Child, I did not mean to speak so strongly. But I have a secret to keep
that pains me always—a sinful secret, inasmuch as I am conscious that
the keeping of it may cause sin in others.”
“Sin, mother?”
“Yes, Elsie; your father is in the prime of life; he believes himself a
widower. What if he were to marry again?”
“Ha! I never thought of that. It seems so strange to me that people
should ever marry again.”
“I know it does, my happy Elsie; but, nevertheless, they do, you know.
Elsie, I have refrained from speaking of my thought, because I did not
wish to distress you or have an argument with your husband; but, my
love, I feel that I ought to write to General Garnet, and after that, as
you and yours are doing so very well, and as you are all so comfortable
and happy, and as I should not be missed among you, I think, if General
Garnet wishes it, I ought to go home.”
“He will not wish it, mother; you know he has a gentlemanly horror of a
nine days’ wonder. Sweet mother, you must remain with us. Not miss you!
Whom should we have to wait upon and adore if you were gone? And as for
writing, mother, talk to Magnus about that. Here he comes now, and Hugh
with him, as usual, and—a stranger with him, as unusual. Who can it be?”
said Elsie, as, setting the lid upon the oven and replacing the tray
upon the table, she looked out of the window into the moonlit yard.
The door opened, and Magnus Hardcastle entered, accompanied by a
gentleman, and followed by Hugh Hutton. The stranger was clothed in a
suit of rusty black, his tall, slim figure was slightly bowed, and his
black hair was thickly mixed with gray.
“Come in, sir; come in, sir. Hugh, my student, there, will care for your
horse. Come in, sir. It is needless to say that you are most gladly
welcome. A guest is a God-send to us. Come to the fire, sir,” said Dr.
Hardcastle, leading the way.
“Mrs. Garnet, let me present to you the Rev. Mr. Sinclair, missionary to
the Winnebagoes, who will do us the honor of resting in our cabin for a
few days, on his western route. Mr. Sinclair, Mrs. Garnet of Mount
Calm.”
“Is it possible! Alice!” ejaculated the stranger, dropping hat, gloves,
and whip, and reeling on his feet.
A slight paleness overspread the face of the lady, but rising with
perfect ease, she offered her hand, saying:
“Mr. Sinclair, it is many years since we last met. I am very glad to see
you.”
He drew back, then took the hand she offered, and looked wonderingly,
searchingly, into her face, as if to read her soul. Her face was
impassible to him. Turning to Dr. Hardcastle, she said:
“My dear Magnus, this is a very old acquaintance you have brought me, an
acquaintance of my girlhood. Elsie, my love!”
Elsie came forward.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she continued, still retaining his hand, “let me
introduce you to my daughter, Mrs. Hardcastle. Elsie, my love, Mr.
Sinclair is a very old friend of mine.”
“I am very glad to see you, sir. I should be glad even if you were a
perfect stranger, but I am very glad to see an old friend of my
mother’s. Do take this chair between mother and the chimney corner, sir;
it is not the post of honor, perhaps, but it is the most comfortable and
convenient seat, as you can rest and toast your feet and talk over old
times with mother at the same time—old times, I said. She does not look
like she had seen any very old times, does she, sir?” said Elsie, gayly
talking on, while she shook the hand of the guest and installed him in
his seat.
“Mamma,—‘Mrs. Garnet of Mount Calm,’—pray take the entertainment of Mr.
Sinclair upon yourself, while I attend to that for which I have the most
talent. I mean the creature comforts. Don’t tell him, mamma, that if
ever I lose my soul through either of the three great enemies of souls,
‘the world, the flesh, and the devil,’ it will be by the flesh, for that
I have very little of worldliness, not a whit of diabolism, but a grand
passion for creature comforts,” said Elsie, laughing, as she raised the
lid off the oven. “These biscuits are going to be very nice,” she
remarked, as the steam of the fresh warm bread greeted their nostrils.
She then replaced the lid, perceived and picked up the fallen hat,
gloves, and whip of the minister, looked at him as the most careless and
slovenly man she ever saw in her life, brushed and put away the things,
and hurried on with her preparations for supper.
“And is this the residence of the wealthy and distinguished General
Garnet’s widow and daughter?” said Sinclair, in a deep, stern tone,
looking around upon the rough walls.
“It is the home of General Garnet’s daughter, certainly, and the
temporary home of his wife.”
“Ah! I beg your pardon, earnestly—yet—the mistake was very natural,”
said the minister.
“Hugh, attend to that gentleman’s animal in the very best manner. Dear
Magnus, please to get me some more wood. Hugh, take the bucket, and, as
you come back, bring me a bucket of water. Dear Magnus, we must not
forget to request the minister to christen our baby. It may be a long
time before we have another opportunity, and anyhow, I prefer Mr.
Sinclair to officiate; it will be so interesting, he being mother’s old
friend,” said Elsie, as she hurried about, speaking to first one and
then another, attending to everything and forgetting nothing. Supper was
speedily placed upon the table—tea, fresh butter and eggs, venison, and
the nice biscuits. The minister asked a blessing, but ate little. And
soon after they arose from the table, Mr. Sinclair pleaded fatigue, and
requested to be shown to his room.
Dr. Hardcastle attended him to his chamber.
When Magnus returned to the family room he found the tea things had been
already washed up and put away, the hearth swept, the fire replenished,
and the two ladies with their needlework, and Hugh with his books, all
gathered around the table that was lighted by but one tallow candle. He
drew a chair up with the rest, and, putting his hand in his pocket,
said:
“I have got a letter from Huttontown.”
“A letter from Huttontown!” exclaimed all three, looking eagerly up.
“Yes, from Mr. Wilson.”
“What’s the news? How is father?” asked Elsie.
“Does he speak of the general? How is he?” inquired Alice anxiously.
“How are all the folks? How is Aunt Joe and Nettie?” asked Hugh Hutton.
All were speaking together, and all eagerly awaiting an answer.
“Peste! ladies and young gentleman, I cannot answer all at once,” said
Magnus, smiling, yet with something constrained in his manner. “I will
read the letter; it is very short; a mere note—a mere matter of
business.”
“Well?” said Alice, seeing him pause.
“A mere announcement, in truth—a—but I will read it. Hugh, you’re
discreet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Elsie, my dear, I have been anxious to submit this letter to your
mother and yourself all the evening.”
“Well, well, Magnus. My mother is on thorns, and I am scarcely more at
ease. Has anything happened? You look ‘perplexed, yet not in
despair’—not like the recipient of very ill news.”
“Why, no, not of ill news, yet strange news. You know before I came away
from Huttontown the last time I requested the Rev. Mr. Wilson to inform
me immediately by letter of anything important that might occur at Mount
Calm, and concern us.”
“Yes, yes. Well?”
“He has done so. Here is his letter—listen.”
“HUTTONTOWN, January, 18—.
“DEAR DR. HARDCASTLE: At our last interview you desired me, in the
event of General Garnet’s contemplating any second matrimonial
engagement, to inform you, by letter, without delay, saying that it
vitally concerned the welfare of all parties that this should
instantly be done. Without having the most remote idea of the cause of
your very emphatic instructions, I hasten to obey them, by advising
you that General Garnet and Miss Wylie of Point Pleasant are to be
married on Tuesday next. Nothing is talked of but the match and the
great preparations making for the wedding at Point Pleasant, and for
the reception of the bride at Mount Calm. The family of the lady seem
very well pleased with the match. Ulysses Roebuck, the jilted lover,
has gone—sailed for Europe, with the purpose of making the grand tour.
“There, you have the facts that most interest you. There is nothing
else stirring; all the same dull, dead level; a birth, death, or
marriage would be an historical event in this village.
“With respects to your lady, I remain,
“Your sincere friend,
“E. WILSON.”
“Good Heaven! There, what did I tell you, Elsie!” exclaimed Alice,
clasping her hands.
“My dear mother! my darling mother! never mind. There is one love on
earth that shall never fail you. I can have no second mother,” said
Elsie, rising and throwing her arms around the lady’s neck.
“Magnus, you see that I must go. I must write to-night, to prepare him
for my arrival, and to-morrow I must set out myself.”
“Oh, no, mother; don’t go! It will be worse than ever now in your old
home. Oh, mamma, don’t go! Write—only write. Or if it be indispensable
that someone go, Magnus will. Will you not, Magnus?”
“I will do whatever your mother wishes.”
“Then, dearest Magnus, mail my letter to-night, even late as it is, and
prepare to set out with me to-morrow. Yet, no: you must not leave Elsie.
Prepare me a way to go alone.”
“Dear Mrs. Garnet, dear friend, I implore you not to think of going. I
will go myself.”
“Magnus, dear, you know that upon some points I can be stubborn. I must
go straight to Mount Calm,” said Alice.
And despite all arguments and entreaties, she persisted in her
resolution.
“Then, since you will go, I shall attend you to the end of your journey,
and—bring you back—perhaps.”
“But, Elsie; you cannot leave her alone and unprotected at home.”
“She will not be alone; Hugh will be with her; and for protection, my
brave wife can protect herself, if necessary. Pooh! my dear madam, I
would leave Elsie here in the heart of the wilderness six months, if
needful, without fear or hesitation. She is one in a million, our Elsie.
What say you, dear Elsie?”
“I say—go with mother if you love me, Magnus. See her safe to her
journey’s end, and, if it be possible, bring her safe back to me again.”
That same night Alice’s letter was written and mailed.
The next morning, at an early hour Alice Garnet set out, under the
protection of Dr. Hardcastle, for the East.
An hour later, when the Rev. Mr. Sinclair arose and came down to
breakfast, Mrs. Hardcastle tendered him the compliments and excuses of
his host, informing him that a domestic affair of vital moment called
Mrs. Garnet suddenly to Mount Calm, whither Dr. Hardcastle was instantly
obliged to attend her.
After breakfast the minister, leaving his respects and adieus for the
absentees, took leave and proceeded on his journey.