orange-blossoms. She would be glad, indeed, to make sure of a plain
dark silk and only two kinds of cake; and of late even her hopes of
these have become empty and melancholy as a last-year's birds-nest.
Yet she clings still to the shadow of her old coquette girlhood, and
rejuvenates herself with a new bonnet every spring, with as much
seeming cheerfulness and confidence as if she were fifteen instead of
thirty-five.
_Forty._ Decided changes.
'Squire Tupper rests in a grave marked by the most upright and
respectable of tombstones. And then all the chattering tongues, that
had before wagged themselves weary with gossip and conjecture, took a
renewed impetus, and it was settled in all quarters that Molly would
now be married as speedily as the proprieties of mourning would permit.
And John himself, it would seem, thought as much; for, without any
undue haste, he did make some motions looking that way. He bought a
new gig, and took Molly out to ride several times, besides sitting
very regularly in her pew at church. And, having thus evinced the
earnestness of his intentions, he made himself spruce one Sabbath
evening, and proceeded to call on her, with the express design of
asking her to fix the long-deferred day.
But what was his surprise on finding, as he came upon the stoop where
he and Molly had so often exchanged vows of eternal fidelity (which
had, indeed, been tolerably tested), the best parlor gayly alight as
in the days of his early courtship, and to hear a male voice in very
animated conversation with Molly.
Curiosity and pride alike forbade him to retreat; but how was his
surprise intensified to dismay when Molly, looking remarkably bright
and young, ushered him into the presence of Mr. Niles, a most
respectable gentleman resident in town, whose wife had been now three
months dead. He was as smiling and interesting as Molly. And presently
that outrageous damsel spoke up in the easiest way in the world,--
"You dropped in just the right time, _Cousin_ John, for now you shall
be the first one to be invited to our wedding. It is to come off a week
from next Wednesday in the evening. We have just settled the time, and
I shall have to stir around pretty lively to get ready."
It was all true, and there was no help for it. John Avery had presumed
a trifle too much upon the elastic quality of Molly's love for him, and
now, at the eleventh hour, her seraphic patience had given way, and let
him most decidedly and disgracefully down. When her father was dead and
she left in loneliness, and John still delayed to make direct provision
for altering the state of things, Molly felt that she had passed the
limit of forbearance, and with a sudden dash of spirit, in which she
seemed to concentrate all the unspoken pain and suppressed sense of
wrong that had struggled in her heart through all these years past, she
actually set her cap for this forlorn widower with six children, caught
him, rushed him through a violent courtship, evoked from his stricken
heart an ardent and desperate declaration, accepted, and married him,
all in the space of eight weeks.
And this was John's first intimation. Will any woman blame her if she
_had_ been a little studious to conceal the preliminaries from him,
till it should be time to acquaint him with the result, or if she
wasn't especially tender of his nervous sensibilities in making her
disclosure?
But he was bidden to the wedding, and must needs go,--which he did,
looking very glum, and kissing the bride with far less gusto than
he had done in former times. But it was a very festive occasion,
notwithstanding, for the bridegroom appeared in a blue coat with brass
buttons, and his hair was greased to preternatural glossiness, while
all the six children stood in a row, their stature being graduated
like a flight of steps, and the cake was all that Molly had ever
pictured it in the wildest flight of her imagination. And Molly herself
in a perfect cloud of gauze and blaze of blushes renewed her youth
prodigiously.
It was all over, and John Avery walked slowly homeward with a
glimmering consciousness that the things of this life in general were
rather shaky and uncertain,--indulging even a brief doubt as to the
reliability of his system of averages.
_Fifty._ Both of our old bachelors are beginning to grow gray and
morose. Philo stoops considerably, but is otherwise in excellent
physical preservation; reads all the medical books about abstinence and
frugality as the means of promoting long life, and practises rigidly
upon their principles. John is equally tough and temperate. Neither
shows the least sign of giving out for fifty years to come. Both have
increased in substance and have the reputation of being "forehanded."
The insurance table has been reduced to the very last fraction; but,
spite of its scientific accuracy, seems to be one of those rules that
are proved by their exceptions.
Mrs. Niles is the most devoted of wives, the perfection of
step-mothers, and rejoices, besides, in a chubby little boy of her own.
All the seven are united in neglecting no opportunity to rise up and
call her blessed.
_Sixty._ Ditto--only more so.
_Seventy._ The Ghosts?
Yes, indulgent reader, your patience hath had its perfect work, if it
hath brought you through all these preceding pages, in order that you
may witness this _denouement_ scene, in which the ghosts appear, with
such real and startling semblance in the eyes of some of our actors,
that, in comparison, the fifth act of a sensation drama would have
seemed mild as milk.
It is to see these supernatural visitants that we have brought you all
this long road. Let them show themselves but once, and we will then be
content, nay glad, to drop our curtain, retire from the footlights,
and whisk our actors back to the serene shades of private life. Grant
us, for a little time, the gifts of conjurers and "meejums." Let our
Asmodeus take you in charge, and show you things that are beyond the
range of mere mortal perception. Ubiquity shall be yours while you
journey into the land of spirits, and the name of the mischievous
wizard and terrible practical joker who conducts you thither shall be
Jack Niles.
For we omitted to mention, in its appropriate connection, that when
Molly found herself laid under the responsibility of naming her boy,
she was debarred from bestowing on him that of his father, since it
had been previously appropriated among the six, and her artistic
sense revolted from starting the poor, helpless innocent out in the
world under the honored designation of Zophar Tupper, which his
grandfather had borne with such eminent respectability. And so, being
influenced by the tender grace of motherhood, and desirous of showing
her kind feeling towards the man whom she had once so loved and had
now so freely forgiven, she felt that she could do it in no more
expressive way than by calling her baby John Avery. The compliment was
appreciated, and there may still be seen, among the family treasures of
the Niles tribe, a silver cup, of punchy form and curious workmanship,
marked with the inscription "J. A. N. from J. A."
Jack the second grew up a tolerably correct copy of the boyhood of
his namesake. He was gifted with the same gayety of temperament, and
facility for getting into scrapes. It had happened more than once that
heedless pranks of his had been leniently looked upon, and concealed
or remedied by the considerate care of John the elder, who, spite of
all the miserable warping and drying up of all his kindlier sympathies
under the influence of that ever-impending possibility, still seemed
to find a congenial satisfaction in the society of this frank, jolly
youth, whose presence brought with it such an echo of his own once
careless, joyous life.
But, spite of warnings and admonitions, Jack was still a sad boy, and
his favorite mode of working off his surplus activity was in devising
and executing practical jokes. His invention and audacity reached their
culmination in a most unprincipled scheme against the two venerable
Avery cousins.
Philo was now as sour, dry, and wizened an old man as dwelt in the
state of Connecticut, and those bleak hills and stony slopes do not
seem to produce very ripe and mellow old age. But Philo was known as an
especially hard and grasping old sinner, living a sort of dog's life,
all by himself, and too stingy to open his eyes wide. And it befell
once that he and his strange, barren mode of life were touched upon in
the evening talk of the Niles family, and then the mother, with her
old, modest sprightliness, went over the story of the two wills made
so long ago, and which must, in the natural course of human events,
soon come into effect. She had grown to be an old woman, this blessed
mother, but none of the loving ones, to whom her presence had been a
joy and consolation for so many years, ever thought of her gray hairs
or caps or spectacles, except as the emblems of more abundant peace and
benediction.
She tells her story now,--about the early days of the two old men,
whose withered faces, and bent forms, and eager, acquisitive eyes are
so familiar to them all,--and as she proceeds, Jack lapses from lively
attention to a mood of profound reflection, which is always a bad sign
for somebody.
In the evening twilight of the next day, a thin, yellow-haired lad,
mounted on a large, bony, sorrel horse, presented himself with an
appearance of great haste and urgency before the door of Philo Avery's
hermetic dwelling. After a vigorous though fruitless knocking, he made
his way to the rear of the small, dismal brown house, and spied an aged
figure advancing from an adjacent piece of woods, bending under the
weight of a large heap of brush.
"Be you Philo Avery?"
"Yes," answered the ancient, with evident suspicion.
"Then I've got a letter for you," said the thin youth, and, thrusting
it forth, sprang upon his high horse and clattered away down the road.
A letter! Philo stood and watched the messenger till he disappeared
from sight, filled with a vague sense that something strange was
about to break upon him. A letter sent to him was in itself a strange
occurrence. Who could write to him? and for what? Could it indeed
be the one thing so long looked for? and, if it were, how sudden!
Tremulous with excitement, he trotted into the house, and, after many
minutes of agitated fumbling, succeeded in lighting a candle. Then he
held the letter close and tried to examine the address, for Philo was
a victim to that unaccountable oddity, to which the greater portion of
human nature is prone, of making a close and critical scrutiny of any
unexpected or mysterious letter, before opening it for the conclusive
knowledge of its contents. But everything looks misty before his eyes,
and, after much squinting and peering, it occurs to him that he has
forgotten his spectacles. And at last, after more delay and fumbling,
he comes to the subject matter, very brief but comprehensive:--
"John Avery died last night. Funeral at ten o'clock to-morrow morning."
No date, no signature; but what of that? Over and over Philo read the
two lines, before his mind could really grasp the intelligence they
conveyed. It would have made a striking picture,--that withered, bent
figure, in its coarse, well-worn clothes, stooping in the dim, lonely
room, and the hungry eyes devouring that bit of news. It had happened
at last, this thing for which he has waited almost half a century. How
many hundred times he had imagined his own feelings when it should
come to him, and how different it all was! The old man sinks into a
chair and gives himself up to revery. And sitting thus, there come
stealing upon him remembrances of long past scenes. He thinks of the
time when he and John were boys together, and of all his mother's love
and care of both; of the parting on the deck of the Skylark, and their
long voyage. And then came the slow-moving panorama of all the dull,
dreary, barren years that dragged their slow length onward between his
present self and all these boyish memories. The hours pass unnoted as
the poor old man goes through the successive stages of his retrospect,
and finally arouses himself with a start when the candle, that has been
burning dim and flickering, gives a dying glare and goes out in the
socket. And then he arises, cramped and stiff, and creeps trembling
to bed as the cocks are crowing for midnight. But the newly-made heir
cannot sleep. Haunting images visit him, as the Furies surrounded
Orestes. At length he rises and seeks the repository of his valuables.
He takes out the will, and though he has known it, every word by heart,
for a whole generation's lifetime, he reads it mechanically over.
How strange the lines look, and the name of _Zophar Tupper_, written
with the old magisterial flourish! Here, too, are the signatures of
the witnesses, and he finds himself wondering why John never married
Molly after all, and, even now, does not dream that he himself was the
obstacle, by his disagreeable persistency in living; for our mortality
is the last and severest lesson that we learn in life.
Philo wonders if it is not almost daylight, and looks out at the east
window for the first streak of dawn; reflects that he must start early,
for it is nine miles to the town, and his old horse is not over-active.
He will have to dress up, too, for the funeral. How strange! To pass
away the time, he begins to get out his clothes and lay them ready.
From the depths of a great red chest he brings up a pair of good, new
pantaloons, that he has not worn for ten years, and then a coat to
match, and a fine shirt with a ruffled bosom, that Aunt Betsy made for
him while she was still young enough to do such things. And, lastly, he
bethinks himself of a pair of black linen gloves that he bought on the
occasion of the good woman's funeral, and from the darkest corner of
the chest he fishes them up. A little dingy and rotten they are, to be
sure, but still in wonderful preservation, though they give way in two
or three spots when he puts them carefully on.
In these little occupations he wears away the hours till the darkness
begins to grow gray, and as soon as he can see sufficiently he goes to
the pasture and leads his astonished old horse to the door. Then comes
the terrible process of shaving;--and what spectacle is more forlorn
than that of an old bachelor trying to shave a long, stiff beard by
a weak light and with cold water? Even this is at length achieved;
and then, after much brushing and other unaccustomed elaborations of
toilet, he places the will carefully in his pocket, and, drawing on
the rusty gloves, takes a final survey of himself before starting. The
mouldy little mirror reflects a thin, yellow face dried into long,
fine wrinkles, straggling gray locks, and watery, pale-blue eyes. The
old-fashioned clothes make the thin, stooping figure more awkward and
spindling, and a high, tight cravat completes the scarecrow effect
of the whole. Still Philo has done his best, and is satisfied, as
he mounts his ancient steed, that he presents the very likeness of
respectable sorrow.
And jogging decorously onward, as becomes his dismal errand, he ponders
how different this morning is from all the other mornings of his life.
In the silver-gray dawn there come back all the strange sentiments that
had arisen out of the surprise and excitement of the previous midnight.
A thick mist creeps up from a little stream that runs by the road-side,
and its damp, clinging chill seems to strike through and saturate his
very vitals. It occurs to him that the road is very lonely, and the few
scattered farm-houses very dreary and inhospitable-looking, for it is a
cloudy morning, and people are not yet stirring.
All the influences and associations of the hour are dreary and
funereal. He tries to fix his mind upon the inheritance into which he
is about to step, but no bright, alluring visions rise at his call, and
his thoughts are either perpetually recurring to the early memories
that so affected him the night before, or else to the suggestion of his
own form lying stiff and cold for burial in the place of his cousin's.
All the well-known landmarks of the familiar way start into new and
strange aspects; and he recoils in affright from an old guideboard that
has stood in exactly the same place for forty years, but now appears
like some spectral gallows that spreads its arms in ghostly invitation.
He twists and pinches himself as he rides along, to be assured that he
is in the world of realities; but the night's experiences have unstrung
his aged nerves, and mind and body quiver helplessly alike.
And now, from the brow of a little eminence, he perceives a gig slowly
advancing from below, and, as it nears him, he becomes conscious of a
great familiarity in its appearance. It is certainly very like the one
that John bought so long ago, before Molly was married, and which he
has used ever since. Curiously, too, it is drawn by a white horse, and
John has had a white horse for ages past. This is indeed a coincidence.
The thing comes noiselessly nearer. Oh, horror of horrors! It is John's
own self,--his form,--his features,--his old brown hat,--John indeed,
but deadly pale, and with wide, wild eyes fixed in a terrible stony
gaze. No natural look, no nod of recognition, but only that hideous,
glassy stare as he comes silently along, riding up out of the white fog.
Philo can neither move nor cry out. He would turn and escape, but his
stiffened hand refuses to draw the rein, and his horse has become, like
himself, rigid and motionless.
Prayers, oaths, and invocations rush, in a confused huddle, through his
bewildered brain, as he sits and gazes, unable to remove his eyes from
that horrid sight, and while he is vainly seeking to frame his lips to
some sort of utterance, the wraith itself breaks the silence.
"Philo." The tone is broken and distant.
Trembling and choked, he tries to answer. The blood rushes to his face
and almost blinds him, and he stammers out,--
"John Avery,--aren't you dead?"
"Are you?" asks the wraith.
"I--I--I don't know," says Philo, and he didn't.
The ghost rises, steps down from the gig, and extends his hand. It is
very cold and clammy, but still a sound, fleshly hand, though quite
hard and shrunken from its early proportions.
"Thank God!" shouts Philo Avery.
"_Thank God!_" responds John Avery, fervently.
"How came you here?" asks Philo, still a little incredulous as to the
real mortality of his companion.
"On my way to attend your funeral," says John.
"Why, no,--that can't be,--I'm going to yours."
"Heavens!" exclaims John.
"I guess it's a hoax," suggests Philo.
John takes out a letter and reads aloud: "_Philo Avery died last night.
Funeral at ten o'clock to-morrow morning._"
"Just like mine, except the name," says Philo. "So you thought I was a
ghost."
"Didn't know what else you could be. You looked queer enough for one,"
replied John.
"Well, I've lived long enough to see ghosts, but this is the first of
that kind of gentry that ever showed themselves to me," cried Philo,
in his high, cracked voice, and actually convulsed with laughter. John
joined in, and the two ghosts made the whole region alive.
"It must have been somebody that knew about the wills," said John, when
they had grown calm.
"Yes," replied Philo; "and what cursed things they have been?"
"Cursed--for both of us," said John.
"Have you got it along with you?"
"Yes, of course,--have you?" answered John, reddening faintly.
"Why, yes,--and here it goes," cried Philo, with sudden energy, pulling
it out, and shredding it in strips. John was not to be outdone. With
equal eagerness he pulled his out, and, in a few seconds, both the
wills were fluttering in fragments among the elderberry bushes by the
road-side.
"What a contemptible old screw I've been!" exclaimed John,
penitentially, as the insurance table came into his mind.
"No worse than I," said Philo, thinking of all his drudging, grovelling
years.
"Why, do you know I've wished you dead," burst out John.
"Well, suppose you have,--I've done the same by you," answered Philo.
"May God forgive us both."
"_Amen_," said Philo, solemnly.
"And help us in the future," continued John.
"Amen again," said Philo.
The muffled clatter of a horse's hoofs sounded through the fog, and
presently the twinkling face of Jack Niles beamed upon the ghostly
couple. Looking with well simulated astonishment on the group, the
empty gig, and his venerable namesake standing in the middle of the
road, Jack paused and begged to know what was the trouble, and whether
he could be of service.
"I believe it was you," said Philo, looking at the mischievous lad with
sudden prescience.
"I know 'twas," said John.
And though Jack never owned it, that was a conviction that never
departed from the minds of the two, and when they died, long after, he
found himself bound by substantial reasons to remember the Two Ghosts
of New London Turnpike.
DOWN BY THE SEA.
DOWN BY THE SEA.
[Illustration]
There is a lonely old house situated close down by the sea, in one
of the most secluded yet lonely nooks, not far from one of the most
noted resorts on the seaboard; an old gray stone house, showing the
marks of the many wild storms which have beat upon it in all the long
years which have passed over it; a house whose bareness and desolation
are enlivened but little by the heavy-trailing ivy which creeps over
a portion of it and in which many wild birds build their nests. Old
as it is, it seems never to have been finished,--rather to have been
left without any of the last touches which complete a building, and to
have thus stood for many years, with the wild winds and storms of the
coast beating against it. Here and there a shutter is torn from its
hinges, and lies where it fell under the window. The point is entirely
gone from cornice and colonnade, and the floor of the latter, which
had never been painted, is old and worm-eaten. The grounds about it
are an intricate tangle of brushwood. Flowering shrubs, which had been
planted here and there, have grown up into wild and unshapely trees.
Rose-bushes and wild vines choke up the paths, and the gates and fences
are broken and dilapidated. There is one path, which leads down to
the beach, which has been kept open, and has, apparently, been often
trodden; but apart from this there seems to be but little sign of life
around the old gray house. There is, indeed, one red-curtained window
upon the side which looks out to sea, and here a bright light is always
burning at night, and all night, and the sailors have learned to watch
for it as for a signal; and the place is known to them as the Lone-Star
House. Let us watch around the house, and perhaps it will have a story
to tell,--such places often do have, lonely and deserted as they seem;
stories often full enough of human love and heart-break. "It looks as
though it might be haunted," say the gay parties who ride by it from
the fashionable resort a few miles away. Yes, and there is no doubt but
what it is.
"All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
Phantoms unseen upon their errands glide
With feet that make no noise upon the floors."