HOME, ADIEU!
It was toward the close of the afternoon that we took our way from the
glade through the forest to the river shore. We crossed the river, and
passed through the village. Together we ascended the road that led
to our home, and at the wicket-gate, found a splendid carriage with
liveried servants.
The good clergyman stood at the gate, his bared forehead and white
hairs bathed in the sunshine; beside him, darkly dressed, diamonds upon
her rich attire, my mother. Old Alice stood weeping in the background.
"Come, Frank, your things are packed and we must be away," she said,
abruptly, as though we had seen each other only the day before; "I wish
to reach our home in New York, before night. Go in the house dear," she
kissed me, "and get your bonnet and shawl. Quick my love!"
Not daring to trust myself to speak--for my heart was full to
bursting--I hurried through the gate, and along the garden walk.
"How beautiful she has grown!" I heard my mother exclaim. One look into
the old familiar library room, one moment in prayer by the bed, in
which I had slept since childhood!
Placing the bonnet on my curls, and dropping my shawl around me, I
hurried from my cottage home. There were a few moments of agony, of
blessings, of partings and tears. Old Alice pressed me in her arms, and
bid me good-by. The good old clergyman laid his hands upon my head, and
lifting his beaming eyes to heaven, invoked the blessing of God upon my
head.
"I give your child to you again!" he said, placing me in my mother's
arms--"May she be a blessing to you, as for years past she has been the
blessing and peace of my home!"
I looked around for Ernest; he had disappeared.
I entered the carriage, and sank sobbing on the seat.
"But I am not taking the dear child away from you forever," said my
mother, bending from the carriage window. "She will come and see you
often, my dear Mr. Walworth, and you will come and see her. You have
the number of our town residence on that card. And bring your son, and
good Alice with you, and,----"
The carriage rolled away.
So strange and unexpected had been the circumstances of this departure
from my home, that I could scarce believe myself awake.
I did not raise my head, until we had descended the hill, passed the
village and gained a mile or more on our way.
We were ascending a long slope, which led to the summit of a hill, from
which, I knew, I might take a last view of my childhood's home.
As we reached the summit of the hill, my mother was looking out of one
window toward the river, and I looked out of the other, and saw, beyond
the church spire and over the hills, the white walls of my home.
"Frank!" whispered a low voice.
Ernest was by the carriage. There was a look exchanged, a word, and he
was gone. Gone into the trees by the? roadside.
He left a flower in my hand. I placed it silently in my bosom.
"Frank! How beautiful you have grown!" said my mother, turning from the
window, and fixing upon me an ardent and admiring gaze. And the next
moment she was wrapt in thought and the wrinkle grew deeper between her
brows.