THE BEEHIVE.
A cottage where domestic love
And truth breathe simple kindness to the heart,
Where white-armed children twine the neck of age,
Where hospitable cares light up the hearth,
Cheering the lonely traveler on his way.
_—Gilman._
“The Beehive” was the name that had been given by Elsie to her first
backwoods home, and afterward transferred by her to the substantial home
of hewn rock that had replaced the log cabin.
It is late in the afternoon of a blustering March day that I shall again
introduce you into the household of Dr. Hardcastle. And it is a large
and interesting family for which the doctor is now responsible.
First, there is himself, as glorious a type of manhood as ever stood in
the exposed outer circle of existence, interposing his own body between
the storms and cares of life and the cowering forms of women and
children.
Then, there was his pupil, Hugh Hutton—
“As tall, as sinewy, and as strong
As earth’s first kings—the Argo’s gallant sailors;
Heroes in history, and gods in song,”
and bearing, in that genial dignity of form, countenance, and manner
which was the natural expression of great conscious power and goodness,
a general resemblance to his master.
There was Mrs. Garnet, in her simple widow’s dress of black silk, with
surplice bosom, inside handkerchief, and little lace cap—somewhat jaded,
yet with her graceful form, fair complexion, delicate features, and
pensive thoughtfulness of expression, presenting a pleasing image of the
“intellectual system of beauty.” In charming contrast to her was her
daughter, Mrs. Hardcastle, in the full bloom of perfectly developed
vital beauty, revealing that marriage and maternity had been to her
healthful, sanguine, and joyous organization, what they should be to all
women, a continuous accession of new life, health, and happiness.
She had made no mistake in the calculation of her future. Active,
bustling, often very laborious her lot had been indeed, but suited to
her strong and cheerful nature. Her life had been guided, besides, by
almost unerring intelligence, sustained by undying love, and cheered by
unfailing hope. Anxieties had come, indeed, but these had not been
suffered to grow into corroding cares. Sorrow had visited them, too, but
this had not been permitted to crush them with despair, or even bow them
long in despondency. In the second year of their married life the Angel
of Death had entered their dwelling and lifted their only child from its
mother’s bosom. Yes, the firstling of their little flock—the first-born
of their youthful love, the strong and beautiful child, so full of
glorious promise, whose health and life seemed so secure, who was,
besides, so watched and tended—that idolized child was borne away from
their arms, and the hearts of the parents long writhed in the anguish of
bereavement before they could understand and receive the divine message
in the infant’s little life and death. They had been so independent, so
confiding, so happy in their earthly lot, so absorbed in their worldly
plans, that they might never even have lifted their eyes to Heaven but
for gazing after the soaring wing of their cherub; might never have
lifted their hearts to Heaven, but for yearning after the ascended and
glorified child; for “where the treasure is, there will the heart be
also.”
They had now been married eleven years, and six other children claimed
their love and care; six children—boys and girls—with their ages ranging
from one year old to nine. They were not rich. They owned the homestead,
farm, and improvements upon the latter, but beyond this they did not
possess a thousand dollars. Dr. Hardcastle’s practice was very
extensive, and very profitable to—his patients; not very enriching to
himself. With a large and growing family, with a strong and sympathetic
nature, generous heart, and open hand and purse, how could Magnus
Hardcastle grow rich? Indeed he must have been much poorer than he was
but for the efficient aid of his “woman-kind.”
Mrs. Garnet had gradually assumed to herself the responsibility of the
needlework of the family.
Elsie did all the housework.
Hugh Hutton constituted himself hewer of wood and drawer of water,
stock-driver and feeder, gardener, assistant nurse and tutor, doctor’s
boy, big brother, and helper-in-general to the establishment.
And he found time, besides, for the systematic and assiduous study of
medicine, so that within the last year he had been dubbed by the
neighbors the young doctor of the professional firm.
For the last two years Hugh had spent the winters in an Eastern city,
attending lectures at the Medical College. Upon these occasions he
usually left home upon the 1st of December and returned upon the 1st of
March. This was the last winter of his purposed migrations East, and his
friends at home were expecting his return with unusual impatience. The
1st of March had come, however, and he had not yet arrived. A letter
from him had informed his friends that he remained in the city for the
purpose of presenting himself before the medical board of examination as
a candidate for a diploma.
The family were now in daily expectation either of his arrival or of
another letter. It was upon the evening of the 7th of March, then, that
the commodious family room of the house was occupied by Mrs. Garnet and
six children of Elsie’s. This room was well warmed and lighted by a
large fire of pine logs in the chimney, and a couple of lighted candles
upon the mantelpiece. The supper-table was set, and supper was ready to
be served as soon as the doctor should get in from his rounds. It had
not long to wait; for soon Dr. Hardcastle was seen to ride into the
yard, dismount, and take off his saddle-bags and booted spurs, and,
great coated as he was, came into the house. As soon as he set foot
within the room the children swarmed upon him like bees upon a sunflower
stalk, or the Lilliputians upon Gulliver; and he lifted and kissed them
one by one, but looking around impatiently the while for one he loved
even more than all these little ones—to wit, the mother. At last:
“Where is Elsie, Mrs. Garnet?” he asked.
“Gone again; I do wish, Magnus, you would prevent her. She makes herself
a slave to these poor neighbors of hers. I do really think that she has
family cares and toils enough; and that when she has performed her
household duties as well as she always does, she might consider herself
discharged from other social obligations. I do wish you would talk to
her very seriously about it. Now to-day she has had a very fatiguing
time indeed; she was ironing all the forenoon, and this afternoon
baking. And yet this evening, as soon as she had got supper and set the
table, she placed the children all in my care, and against my advice,
high as the wind is, and deep as the snow is drifted, she took a basket
and filled it with provisions, and started to carry it to those poor
Millers on the mountain. Indeed, I wish, Magnus, you would tell her not
to do it.”
“Me tell Elsie to do or not to do! Whew! Do you know, my dear
lady-mother, what is the highest, the very highest boon of God to man?
Free will—the blessed liberty of going even to the old Nick if they
please. There are those so fond of ‘freedom,’ that they would prefer
going to perdition by the exercise of their free will to being
arbitrarily predestined to heaven!”
“Perhaps so; but Elsie is not one of those, Dr. Hardcastle. If you were
but to hint to your wife that you disapprove and dislike her thus
exposing herself, she would stop it at once; she would think it her duty
to do so.”
“I know it; and therefore I have to be more chary in meddling with her
docile spirit than if she had the self-will and temper of Xantippe. But,
ah! do you think it does not make my heart ache to see her expose
herself to wind and snow, and to think that I have not yet provided a
carriage for her, and to see her work from early morning till night,
doing all the housework of the family, and think that I have not yet got
a servant for her? And now having brought her to all this, shall I
fetter her will? No, by my soul!” said Dr. Hardcastle, with strong
emotion.
Mrs. Garnet arose and went to his side, and stood there, and drew his
arm over her shoulder caressingly, as she said:
“Magnus, you have made Elsie completely, divinely happy; I mean, as a
mortal woman can be! No man can do more for his wife, very few can do so
much. As for her privations and toils, it is I, only I, whose weakness
caused all that! It was I who disinherited her! I!”
“Hush! hush! a truce to self-criminations! Elsie is the only consistent,
rational, equable one in the family, now Hugh is gone. And here she
comes, the darling! and without her cloak, as I live. Come, Mrs. Garnet,
we will both scold her for that. Let’s open upon her as soon as she gets
in.”
He kissed Alice’s hand and hastened to meet his wife.
Here she came, cold as the weather was, actually without her cloak.
He opened the door quickly, and received her in his arms, pressing her
cold hands under his chin, to his bosom, to warm them, and drawing her
on toward the fire.
“Now where have you been, facing the wind, and plunging through the
snowdrifts?”
“I have been on the mountain,” said Elsie, untying her bonnet, and
giving it to one child, and throwing her shawl upon the arms of another.
“I have been on the mountain to see those poor Millers. Their little
girl, almost barefooted, came over here this afternoon for me to go to
her mother, who is confined. I knew they were suffering, and so I filled
the basket and went home with the little one.”
“But your cloak, dear! What in the world have you done with your cloak?”
“Oh! I laid it over Susan Miller and her babe, until I could come home,
and send them a blanket. Oh, now don’t look so shocked! I am warmly
clothed without the cloak; besides, the distance was short, and I ran
along fast. Nonsense, now! How is it that children are half their time
out running and romping in the cold, without being wrapped up, and only
grow more robust by the exposure?” said Elsie, laughing, as she arose,
pushed her curls back from her blooming face, and went and lifted her
crowing babe from the cradle.
Then she sat down and nursed it, while Mrs. Garnet, assisted by the
eldest child, a little girl of nine years old, began to arrange the
supper upon the table.
As Elsie sat and nursed the child, her blooming, joyous face softened
into sadness, tears gathered in her eyes, and she sighed deeply, bowing
her head over the babe. Magnus was watching her. He was accustomed to
her occasional moods of sorrowful tenderness, which, he said, compared
with her usual bright, cheerful temper as a general, steaming thaw
contrasts with a fine, clear, frosty morning. He stooped over the back
of her chair, and, bending his head close to hers, asked:
“Of what are you thinking so sadly, Elsie?”
A slight flush warmed her cheek, and she replied, meekly, without
raising her head:
“An unworthy thought, dearest; at least, ungrateful and presumptuous. I
was thinking of that poor family, of the little good that I was able to
do them, and the great pleasure it gave me to do even that. I will
confess to you all the egotism of my thought—then I thought how generous
I really was by nature, and how I should delight in doing a great deal
of good, if I had the means; and then an emotion of discontent, and a
disposition to murmur, came upon me, and I thought what a pity it was
that I, so really liberal by nature, should be compelled to repress so
many generous impulses—that I should not have a fortune to spend—and I
sighed from self-pity. I am ashamed that such ungrateful emotions should
have disturbed my heart, and I speak of them now with shame, for now I
feel how presumptuous they really were; for why, indeed, should I have a
fortune, or anything else that we have not gained by our own toil? I,
who am already so happy in the wealth of family affections, Magnus.”
“Dear Elsie, if the material and temporal good of mankind were first to
be thought of, doubtless then it were better that wealth should be in
the hands of the benevolent and philanthropic. But such is not the case.
It is the spiritual and eternal welfare both of the individual and of
the race that is provided for; and hence each individual is placed in
circumstances, not where he can do the most seeming good, but where he
can best develop his moral and spiritual nature. Thus, you have
benevolence. You do not need to have that virtue cultivated by the
contrast of your own wealth with another’s want, and by the exercise of
almsgiving; hence, you are not schooled in prosperity and the duty of
beneficence. But, Elsie, as you are not perfect, perhaps there are other
virtues you lack, and which can be developed only in poverty. But I did
not mean to preach you a little sermon, darling. And now, in requital of
prosing, I will tell you two pieces of good news—first, that as this is
the last year in which we shall be put to any expense for Hugh’s college
course of lectures, we shall have a hundred or so dollars over our
annual expenditures; half of this sum you shall disburse in judicious
alms. That is my first piece of glad tidings, and my second is like unto
it—Hugh himself will be home to-night.”
“Hugh home to-night? Oh, you don’t say so!”
“Yes; this afternoon, in post office, I got a letter that arrived
yesterday. And this letter announces the arrival of Hugh this very
evening.”
“Hugh coming home this evening? Oh, I am so glad! Children, children,
did you hear? Brother Hugh is coming home this evening.”
“Brother Hugh is come!” said a pleasant voice, as the door opened, and
Hugh Hutton stood among them.
All arose, and Magnus and Elsie hastened to meet him.
“Dear friends,” he said, shaking hands right and left, “I could not
resist the desire I felt to go to the window and look in upon you while
you were all at your quiet evening occupations. I have been watching you
for the last two minutes.”
“You rogue! But come to the fire, come to the fire. Supper is just
ready,” said Dr. Hardcastle, while Hugh threw off his great-coat, and
laid it aside with his hat. “Oh, Hugh, we are so glad to see you! Had
you a pleasant journey? What time did you get to the village? You have
traveled day and night, I am afraid? And then you have walked from the
village here?”
“Yes; I couldn’t have got a horse for two or three hours; and I really
couldn’t wait, I was so eager to get home.”
“Dear Hugh, you must be so tired and hungry! Here, sit down in this
chair near the fire,” said Elsie, pushing a chair forward with one hand,
while she held the child with the other arm.
Hugh threw himself into the chair, and mechanically stretched out his
arms and took the crowing, laughing infant from its mother, and set it
upon his knee, playing with it all the time he talked to others.
“Oh, have you got your diploma, Hugh? Let’s see the document with our
own eyes,” said Dr. Hardcastle, coming forward.
“Yes; here it is,” said Hugh, rooting in his pocket with one hand, while
he hugged the baby up with the other. “Here it is. I took it out of my
trunk to bring along as a sort of credential that your years of kindness
have not been thrown away upon me, my best friend;” and Hugh produced
the parchment, and laid it on the table.
“Good! good! Here it is, Elsie! Come, look! Here is Dr. Hutton’s warrant
to kill and cure, secundum artem. Here is the diploma. Here is the prize
for which he has toiled so hard—the good of his race.”
“No; not the good, but the great starting place. Is it not so, Hugh?”
said Elsie, coming forward.
“Yes, true, the starting point. She is worthier than I. The starting
point, my boy. And now for a brilliant career. Aim high, Hugh. He who
aims at the sun may not bring it down, but his arrow will fly highest.
You must be more successful than I have been, Hugh. I am a useful—if you
please—an extensively useful member of my profession, and of society.
You must be a distinguished honor to the faculty and the world. Oh! I
have a grand ambition for you, Hugh, my son!”
“My dear friend! my best friend! all that I am and have I owe to you, to
your patient, disinterested teaching of many years. Oh, yes! and all
that I may become or may possess I shall still owe to you! Ah, Dr.
Hardcastle! I speak of a debt! I shall never be able to pay the debt I
owe to you.”
“Why, Hugh!” replied Dr. Hardcastle, throwing his arm affectionately
over the shoulder of his young friend, and speaking in a voice as
harmonious and gentle as a woman’s. “Why, Hugh! never let me hear
another word of owing anything but brotherly love to me. You who have
been my second self in all my labors and professional cares; a son to
me, except that you have given me no anxiety, but much ease. My brother,
companion, confidant! Why, whatever could I have done without you, Hugh?
What could any of us have done without you? Mrs. Garnet! how could you
have got along without your son, Hugh? Elsie! how could you have managed
to conduct your domestic and business affairs without Hugh? Children!
little ones, I say! what would you take for ‘big brother’?”
The last-named little shareholders in the Hugh Hutton property swarmed
around him, some with gentle, some with vociferous demonstrations of
affection. And their mother laid her hands affectionately on his
shoulders, and, looking up in his face, said:
“Dear Hugh! No! no one could possibly have supplied your place to us,
since we have known you. You have been, indeed, like a younger brother,
or an elder son of the family, only that, as the doctor says, instead of
giving us trouble, you have relieved us of it. Oh, Hugh! our dear boy!
only be half as eminent as we hope you will be, and we shall be so proud
and happy in your success!”
“Come, come, Elsie, a truce to sentiment! Supper waits, and a man who
has staged night and day for a week, and walked three miles to-night,
must have a good appetite for his supper, and a strong disposition to
his bed. Come; give the babe to his sister, there, and draw your chair
up. The children have been suffered to sit up in honor of your arrival,
Hugh. They are usually in bed at this hour. Come,” said Dr. Hardcastle,
seating himself at the table, when all the others were seated, “let’s
see! What have we here to tempt a traveler’s appetite? Mocha coffee—some
of that which you sent us by the wagon, Hugh—and cream and butter, such
as Elsie only can make. Here are some buckwheat cakes; just try one. Our
buckwheat has surpassed itself this year. There, I don’t think you ever
met with buckwheat cake like that in the city. Indeed, I don’t think
people east of the mountains know what good buckwheat really is. Take
honey with your cake. There’s honey for you. The comb clear and clean
like amber and frost. Our bees have distinguished themselves this
season. There are venison steaks before you. Use the currant jelly with
them, Hugh, it is better than the grape. That is the finest venison that
I have seen this winter. Ah, Hugh, you should have been with me when I
brought that stag down—shot him on the Bushy Ridge. Great fellow!—eight
antlers—five inches of fat in the brisket!—weighing—how much did he
weigh, Elsie? No matter. You are laughing, Hugh. What at, sir, pray?”
“At you, and myself, and stag-hunting, and deerstalking, and
story-tellings. The truth is, I never hear of stags and antlers, but I
think of a fine, bragging tale I was cut short in while telling to my
fellow-students at a little farewell supper given by them to me when I
was coming away. I was trying to persuade some of them to come out here,
and boasting of the country. I was launched into the midst of a
grandiloquent eulogium. ‘Glorious country, sir!’ said I, ‘glorious
country! sublime mountains, piercing the clouds! mag-nif-i-cent forests
stretching five hundred miles westward! splendid trees, sir, standing
but two feet apart, their trunks measuring three yards in circumference!
their luxurious branches inextricably intertwined! and game, sir! superb
deer, with antlers six feet apart, bounding through those forests——’
‘Where the trees grow but two feet apart, and their branches are
inextricably entwined, how the very deuce do they manage to get through
them, Hutton?’ asked my friend, bringing my magniloquence to a sudden
stand. I never was so disconcerted in my life. I knew I had been telling
the truth, yet had made it sound like a fiction. At last I answered, ‘By
Dian, sir, that is their business, not mine, nor yours!’”
“Ha, ha, ha! Yes, pretty good! Yet, Hugh, you are not romancing. There
are parts of the forest where the great trees grow in such thickets as
you have described; but they are as impassable to the deer as to us, of
course; and then there is superb game in the forest, which may never
approach within miles of such thickets. Take another cup of coffee?”
“No, no, not any more,” said Hugh, pushing up his plate and cup.
Mrs. Hardcastle gave the signal, and they arose from the table. The
children had also finished their milk and bread, and their mother took
them upstairs to be put to bed, while Mrs. Garnet washed up the tea
things and Dr. Hardcastle replenished the fire.
When the table was cleared away, and Elsie had returned, and they were
all gathered around the evening fireside, deeply engaged in telling and
in hearing all that had happened to each during the winter’s separation,
Hugh suddenly clapped his hand to his pocket, with a “Lord bless my
soul!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, was ever such absence of mind!”
“Never in the world, of course. Only what’s it about?” laughed Dr.
Hardcastle.
“Why, a letter—a letter that came in the same stage with myself—a letter
from Huttontown, for you. I took it out of the office, and—indeed, I
hope I have not lost it,” continued Hugh, fumbling first in one pocket
and then in another. “Oh, here it is,” he exclaimed, producing the
letter, and handing it to the doctor.
“The superscription is in a strange hand, to begin with—a lady’s hand.
Whom can it be from?” said Dr. Hardcastle, breaking the seal. “Dated
‘Mount Calm.’”
“Mount Calm!” exclaimed all three of his hearers, in a breath.
“Yes, dated ‘Mount Calm,’ and signed ‘Garnet Seabright.’”
“Garnet Seabright?” exclaimed Mrs. Garnet, in a tone of surprise and
displeasure.
“My little sister Nettie,” said Hugh, bending forward with interest.
“Can you read it aloud, doctor?” inquired Elsie, in a low voice.
“Yes, dear,” replied Dr. Hardcastle, stooping to pick up a second
letter, that had fallen out of the first, and retaining the one in his
hand while he read the other, as follows:
“MOUNT CALM, March 1, 18—.
“DR. HARDCASTLE.
“DEAR SIR: Will you do me the favor of transmitting the inclosed
letter to Dr. Hugh Hutton, of whose address I am entirely ignorant?
Pray, pardon me for urging your prompt attention to my request, as its
subject is of the utmost importance to Dr. Hutton, and requires his
instant action.
“Very respectfully,
“GARNET SEABRIGHT.”
“Here, Hugh, after all, the matter concerned only you. Here is your
letter,” said Dr. Hardcastle, handing over the inclosed epistle to Hugh,
who took it with a look of amazed interest, tore it open, and read it in
silence. Suddenly he sprung up, overturning the chair, and dropping the
letter, as he exclaimed vehemently:
“Your horse! Your horse, doctor! Can I have your horse to-night?”
“‘A horse! A horse! my kingdom for a horse!’ Why, what the deuce is the
matter now? Who’s killed? Who’s wounded?”
“Oh, doctor, no jesting. This is serious—this is terrible.
Only—quick!—can I have your horse?”
“Certainly, certainly, Hugh. But tell me, in one word, what’s the
matter?”
“My mother, my long-lost mother, is found, and at Mount Calm, but ill
and dying, I fear. There! read Nettie’s letter, while I saddle the
horse. I must ride at once to the village—the mail stage starts from
there at ten o’clock. I must go in it,” said Hugh, hastening out.
Mrs. Garnet and Elsie gathered around Dr. Hardcastle, while he read the
following letter:
“MOUNT CALM, March 1, 18—.
“DEAREST HUGH: Wherever you are, and whatever may be your engagements,
drop them at once, and hasten to Mount Calm. Your long-lost mother is
found—she is here with me, but very, very ill of brain fever. Hasten.
There are other things, too, dear Hugh, of which I cannot write now,
but of which you will hear when you come. I write in haste and
agitation, but, indeed, I am, as much as ever,
“Your affectionate sister,
“NETTIE.”
“Strange! most strange!” said Mrs. Garnet.
“And most unsatisfactory,” observed Elsie.
“We shall know no more, however, until Hugh writes us from Mount Calm.
Here he comes! How quick he has been!” said the doctor, going to meet
Hugh as he entered.
“You know, Hugh, how much I feel with you about this. Let me know now if
in any way I can be of service to you.”
“Oh, my friend, I know all your goodness. But do you know how much my
secret heart has ever been filled with the desire of finding my mother?
I could never hope to find her, but still, from my boyhood, the thought
of seeing her has haunted me like the dream of an impossible good; and
now she is found, but——”
Hugh’s voice broke down, and he covered his face with his hands.
“Hope for the best, Hugh. You used to be hopeful. And, oh, Hugh, be sure
that we feel your trouble as if it were our own. It is our own,” said
Elsie, laying her hand gently upon him.
“My horse is ready. I only run in to say good-by; good-by, dear friends.
Good-by, Mrs. Garnet—pray that I may not be too late! Good-by, Mrs.
Hardcastle—give my love to the dear children when they ask for me
to-morrow. Good-by, Dr. Hardcastle, my best friend. I will write to you
from Mount Calm,” said Hugh, shaking and squeezing hands right and left,
and then preparing to hasten out.
“Aint you going to take your great-coat?” asked the doctor, holding it
up.
“Yes, yes; I had forgotten it. I haven’t time to put it on. I can throw
it upon the horse,” exclaimed Hugh, hurriedly throwing the garment over
his arm. “Once more, good-by to all.”
“If I had a second horse, or had time to borrow one, I would go with
you, Hugh,” said Dr. Hardcastle, attending him from the house.