THE OLD HOMESTEAD.
There was not about her birth-place,
A thicket, or a flower,
But childish game, or friendly face,
Had given it a power
To haunt her in her after life,
And be to her again,
A sweet and bitter memory
Of mingled joy and pain.
It was a wild and lovely spot in the heart of Maine, a state where the
rural and the picturesque are more beautifully blended than can be found
elsewhere upon the face of the earth. The portion we speak of is broken,
and torn up, as it were, by undulating ridges of the White Mountains,
that seem to cast their huge shadows half over the state. The valleys
are bright with a wealth of foliage, which, in the brief summer time, is
of a deeper and richer green than ever was found elsewhere on this side
the Atlantic. Hills, some of them bold and black with naked rocks,
others clothed down the side with soft waving ridges of cultivation,
loomed over fields of Indian corn, with buckwheat, all in a sea of snowy
blossoms. Patches of earth newly ploughed for the next year's crop,
blended their brown tints with mountain slopes, rich with rye and oats.
Wild, deep lakes, sleeping in their green basins among the hills;
mountain streams plunging downward, and threading the dark rocks
together as with a thousand diamond chains closely entangled and
struggling to get free, shed brightness and music among these hills; and
the Androscoggin, gliding calmly on, winding through the hills, and
rolling softly beneath the willows that here and there give its banks a
park-like beauty, and a thousand broken hollows--sheltered and secluded
nooks of cultivated ground, sometimes containing a single farm,
sometimes a small village; such is the country, and such are the scenes
to which our story tends.
In one spot the mountainous banks loomed close and dark over the river;
but there was a considerable depth of rich soil among the rocks, and
thrifty trees crowded the poverty-stricken yellow pine up to the very
summit of each beautiful acclivity; for half a mile the shadows of this
rough bank fell nearly across the river, but all at once it parted as if
some earthquake had torn it, centuries before, and there lay a little
valley opening upon the stream, walled on one hand by an abrupt
precipice, and on the other by a steep and broken hill, its crevices
choked up by wild grape-vines, mosses, and every species of forest tree
that can be found among the high grounds of Maine. This little valley
was perhaps half a mile in width, and cut back into the mountains twice
that distance. From thence the highway wound up the broken bank, and was
lost sight of among the pine trees bristling along the horizon.
The river was broad at this point, as a rich flat of groves and meadow
land lay on the opposite side. This was threaded by a turnpike,
connected with the road we have mentioned by a ferry-boat, or rather
ancient scow, in which two old men of the neighborhood picked up a
tolerable subsistence.
A few weeks after the events already related in the course of our
story, a plain, one-horse chaise came slowly along the highway, and bent
its course toward the ferry. The scow had been hauled up beneath a clump
of willows, and two old men sat in the shade, waiting for customers.
They saw the chaise, and instantly sprang to work, pushing the scow out
into the stream, and bringing it up with a clumsy sweep against the
carriage track.
The chaise contained two persons; one was a female, in a neat,
unostentatious travelling dress, and with her face partially concealed
by a green veil. The old men had never travelled far beyond the river
which afforded them support, but there was something in the air and
general appearance of the lady, which aroused them to an unusual degree
of curiosity.
The man, too--there was much in his air and dress to attract
observation; a degree of rustic awkwardness, mingled with
self-confidence and a sort of rude strength, that struck the old men as
unnatural and foreign. The chaise was soon recognized as belonging to
the landlord in a neighboring village; but the two persons who rode in
it puzzled them exceedingly. The man in the chaise drove at once into
the scow, and, stepping out, he took his horse by the bit.
"Now move on!" he said, addressing the old men with the air of one who
understood the place and its customs. "If the horse stands steady, I
will lend a hand directly."
"Oh, he's steady enough; we've rowed the critter across here more than
once; he ain't shiey, that horse ain't," answered one of the men, ready
to open a conversation on any subject.
"That may be, but I'll hold him just now and see how he stands the
water."
There was nothing in this to open a fresh vein of conversation; so,
taking up their poles, the two old men pushed their lumbering craft into
the river, casting now and then a furtive glance at the lady, who had
drawn her veil aside, and sat with her eyes fixed on the opposite shore,
apparently unmindful of their scrutiny.
"Purty, ain't she?" whispered one of the men.
The other nodded his head.
"A sort of nat'ral look about her," continued the man, drawing back, as
if to give a fresh plunge with his pole.
"Just so," was the rejoinder.
The lady, who had, up to this time, kept her eyes eagerly bent on the
little village to which they seemed creeping over the water, suddenly
addressed them--
"There are three houses in the valley now--that nearest the water, to
whom does it belong?"
"That, ma'am! oh, that's the new tavern; the sign isn't so well seen
when the leaves are out, yet if you look close, it's swinging to that ar
willow agin the house."
The lady cast a glance toward the willow, then her eyes seemed to pierce
into the depths of the valley. Beyond the tavern lay an apple orchard,
and back of that rose the roof of an old gray house. The ridge and heavy
stone chimney alone were visible; but the old building seemed to
fascinate her gaze--she bent forward, her hands were clasped, her
features grew visibly pale. She cast an earnest look at the old man, and
attempted to speak; but the effort only made her parted lips turn a
shade whiter. She uttered no sound.
"You needn't be afraid, ma'am, there's no arthly danger here!" said one
of the men, mistaking the source of her emotion. "I've been on this
ferry sixteen years, and no accident, has ever happened in my time. You
couldn't drown here if you was to try."
The lady looked at him with a faint quivering smile, that died gently
away as her gaze became more earnest. She dwelt upon his withered old
face, as if trying to study out some familiar feature in its hard lines.
"Sixteen years!" she said, and the smile returned, but with an
additional tinge of sadness, "sixteen years!"
"It seems a long time to you, like enough; but wait till you get old as
I am, and see how short it is."
The lady did not reply; but sinking back into her seat, drew the veil
over her face.
All this time, the traveller, who still held the horse by the bit, had
been regarding the lady with no ordinary appearance of anxiety. He
overheard the whispers passing between the ferrymen, and seemed annoyed
by their import. He was evidently ill at ease. When the scow ran with a
grating noise upon the shore, he gave the usual fare in silence, and
entering the chaise with a swinging leap, drove toward the tavern.
The landlord, who had just arisen from an early supper, washed down by a
cup of hard cider, came indolently from the front stoop and held the
horse while the travellers dismounted.
"Want to bait the horse?" he inquired, pointing toward a wooden trough
built against the huge trunk of the willow.
"Put him up--we shall stay all night, replied the guest."
The landlord's face expanded; it was not often that his house was
honored by travellers of a higher grade than the teamsters, who brought
private fare for man and horse with them; the same bag usually
containing oats or corn in one end, and a box of baked beans, a loaf of
bread, and a wedge of dried beef in the other--man and beast dividing
accommodations equally on the journey.
"Oats or grass?" cried the good man, excited by the rich prospects
before him.
"Both, with two rooms--supper for the lady in her own chamber--for me,
anywhere."
"Supper!" cried the landlord, with a crest-fallen look, "supper! We
haven't a morsel of fresh meat, nor a chicken on the place."
"But there is trout in the brook, I suppose," answered the traveller.
"Wal, how did you know that? Been in these parts afore mebby."
"These hills are full of trout streams, everybody knows that, who ever
heard of the state," was the courteous reply. "If you have a pole and
line handy perhaps I can help you."
"There is one in the porch--I'll just turn out the horse, and show you
the way."
The traveller seemed glad to be relieved from observation. He turned
hurriedly away, and taking a rude fishing-rod from the porch went round
the house, and crossing a meadow behind it, came out upon the banks of a
mountain stream, that marked the precipitous boundaries of the valley. A
wild, sparkling brook it was--broken up by rocks sinking into deep,
placid pools, and leaping away through the witch-hazels and brake leaves
that overhung it with a soft, gushing murmur so sweet and cheerful, that
it seemed like the sunshine laughing, as it was drawn away to the hill
shadows.
Jacob Strong looked up and down the stream with a sad countenance. "How
natural everything seems," he muttered. "She used to sit here on this
very stone, with her little fish-pole, and send me off yonder after
box-wood blossoms and wild honeysuckles, while she dipped her feet in
and out of the water, just to hurry me back again. Those white little
feet--how I did love to see her go barefooted! By and by, as she grew
older, how she would laugh at my awkward way of baiting her hook--she
didn't know what made my hand tremble--no, nor never will!"
Jacob sat down upon the stone on which his eyes had been riveted. With
his face resting between his hands, an elbow supported by each knee, and
his feet buried in a hollow choked up with wood moss, he fell into one
of those profound reveries, that twine every fibre of the heart around
the past. The fishing rod lay at his feet, unheeded. Just beneath his
eye, was a deep pool, translucent as liquid diamond, and sleeping at the
bottom, were three or four fine trout, floating upon their fins, with
their mottled sides now and then sending a soft rainbow gleam through
the water.
At another time, Jacob, who had been a famous angler in his day, would
have been excited by this fine prospect of sport; but now those delicate
creatures, balancing themselves in the waves, scarcely won a passing
notice. They only served to remind him more vividly of the long ago.
He was aroused by the landlord, who came up the stream, pole in hand,
baiting his hook as he walked along. He cast two fine trout, strung upon
a forked hazel twig, on the moss at Jacob's feet, and dropped his hook
into the pool.
Jacob watched him with singular interest. His eyes gleamed as he saw the
man pull his fly with a calm, steady hand over the surface of the water,
now dropping it softly down, now aiding it to float lazily on the
surface, then allowing it to sink insidiously before the graceful
creatures, that it had as yet failed to excite.
All at once, a noble trout, that had been sleeping beneath a tuft of
grass over which the water flowed, darted into the pool with a swiftness
that left a ripple behind him, and leaped to the fly. Jacob almost
uttered a groan, as he saw the beautiful creature lifted from the wave,
his fins quivering, his jewelled sides glistening with water drops, and
every wild evolution full of graceful agony. He was drawing a parallel
between the tortured trout and a human being, whose history filled his
heart. This it was that wrung the groan from his heart.
"This will do!" said the landlord, gently patting the damp sides of his
prize, and thrusting the hazel twig under his gills. "You're sartin of a
supper, sir, and a good one too--they'll be hissing on the gridiron long
before you get to the house, I reckon, without you make up your mind to
go along with me."
"Not yet; I will try my luck further up the stream," answered Jacob, and
snatching up the rod, he plunged through a clump of elders, and
disappeared on the opposite bank. But the man was scarcely out of sight,
when he returned again and resumed his old position.
Again he fell into thought--deep and painful thought. You could see it
in the quiver of his rude features, in the mistiness that gathered over
his eyes.
The afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen across the valley, but
they only served to plunge poor Jacob into memories still more bitter
and profound. Everything within sight seemed clamoring to him of the
past. Near by was a clover-field ruddy with blossoms, and broken with
clumps and ridges of golden butter-cups and swamp lilies. Again the
little girl stood before him--a fair, sweet child, with chestnut curls
and large earnest eyes, who had waited in a corner of the fence, while
he gathered armsful of these field-blossoms, for her to toss about in
the sunshine. On the other hand lay an apple orchard, with half a dozen
tall pear trees, ranging along the fence. He remembered climbing those
trees a hundred times up to the very top, where the pears were most
golden and ripe. He could almost hear the rich fruit as it went tumbling
and rustling through the leaves, down to the snow-white apron held up to
receive it. That ringing shout of laughter, as the apron gave way
beneath its luscious burden--it rang through his heart again, and made a
child of him.
The shadows grew deeper upon the valley, dew began to fall, and every
gush of air that swept over the fields, became more and more fragrant.
Still Jacob dwelt with the past. The lady at the inn was forgotten. He
was roaming amid those sweet scenes with that wild, mischievous,
beautiful girl, when a hand fell upon his shoulder.
He started up and began to tremble as if caught in some deep offence.
"Madam--oh, madam! what brought you here?"
"I could not stay in that new house, Jacob. It was so close I could not
breathe. The air of this valley penetrates my very heart--but I cannot
shed a tear. Is it so with you, Jacob Strong?"
Jacob turned his head away; he could not all at once arouse himself from
the deep delirium of his memories; his strong brain ached with the
sudden transition her presence had forced upon it. Ada looked
searchingly up the valley, and made a step forward.
"Where are you going, madam, not up yonder--not to the old house?"
"I must go, Jacob--this suspense is choking me--I could not live another
hour without learning something of them."
"No, not yet, I beg of you, do not go yet."
Ada Leicester turned abruptly toward her humble friend; her lips grew
very pale.
"Why, why? have you inquired? have you heard anything?"
"No, I did not like to ask questions at first."
"Then you know absolutely nothing?"
"Nothing yet!"
"But you have seen the old house. It should be visible from this
hollow!"
"Not now, madam. The orchard has grown round since--since----"
"Have the saplings grown into trees since then, Jacob? Indeed it seems
but like yesterday to me," said the lady, with a sad wave of the hand.
"I thought to get a view of the house from this spot, just as one
ponders over the seal of a letter, afraid to read the news within. Let
me sit down, I feel tired and faint."
Jacob moved back from the stone, and tears absolutely came into his eyes
as she sat down.
"How strangely familiar everything is," said the lady, looking around,
"this tuft of white flowers close by the stone--it scarcely seems to
have been out of blossom since I was here last, I remember. But why have
you crushed them with your feet, Jacob?"
"Because _I_ remember!" answered the man, removing his heavy foot from
the bruised flowers, and regarding them with a stern curve of the lip,
which on his irregular mouth was strangely impressive. The lady raised
her eyes, filled with vague wonder, to his features. Jacob was troubled
by that questioning glance.
"I never loved flowers," he faltered.
"You never loved flowers! Oh, Jacob, how can you say so?"
"Not that kind, at any rate, ma'am," answered Jacob, almost vehemently,
pointing down with his finger. "The last time I came this way, a snake
was creeping round among those very flowers. That snake left poison on
everything it touched, at least in this valley."
The lady gazed on his excited face a moment very earnestly. Then the
broad, white lids drooped over her eyes, and she only answered with a
profound sigh.
The look of humble repentance that fell upon Jacob's face was painful to
behold. He stood uneasily upon his feet, gazing down upon the tuft of
flowers his passion had trampled to the earth. His large hands, with
their loosely knit joints, became nervously restless, and he cast
furtive glances at the face and downcast features of the lady. He could
not speak, but waited for her to address him again, in his heart of
hearts sorry for the painful thoughts his words had aroused. At length
he ventured to speak, and the humble, deprecating tones of his voice
were almost painful to hear.
"The dews are falling, ma'am, and you are not used to sitting in the
damp."
"There was a time," said the lady, "when a little night dew would not
drive me in doors."
"But now you are tired and hungry."
"No, Jacob, I can neither taste food nor take rest till we have been
yonder--perhaps not then, for Heaven only knows what tidings may reach
us. Go in and get some supper for yourself, my good friend."
Jacob shook his head.
"I _am_ wrong," persisted the lady; "let me sit here till the dusk comes
on; then I will find my way to the house--perhaps I may sleep there
to-night, Jacob, who knows?" She paused a moment, and added, "If they
are alive, but surely I need not say if. They must be alive."
"I hope so," answered Jacob, pitying the wistful look with which the
poor lady searched his features, hoping to gather confidence from their
expression.
"And yet my heart is so heavy, so full of this terrible pain, Jacob.
Leave me now; if any thing can make me cry, it will be sitting here
alone."
Jacob turned away, without a word of remonstrance. His own rude, honest
heart was full, and the sickening anxiety manifest in every tone and
look of his mistress was fast undermining his own manhood. He did not
return to the tavern, however, but clambering over a fence, leaped into
the clover field, and wading, knee-deep, through the fragrant blossoms,
made his way toward the old farm-house, whose chimney and low, sloping
roof became more and more visible with each step.
On he went, with huge, rapid strides, resolute to carry back some
tidings to the unhappy woman he had just left. "I will see them first,"
he muttered; "they might not know her, or may have heard. It ain't
likely, though--who could bring such news into these parts? Anyhow, I
will see that nothing is done to hurt her feelings."
Full of these thoughts, Jacob drew nearer and nearer to the old house.
He crossed the clover lot, and a fine meadow, whose thick, waving grass
was still too green for the scythe, lay before him, bathed in the last
rays of a midsummer sunset. Beyond this meadow rose the farm-house,
silent and picturesque in the waning day, with gleams of golden light
here and there breaking over the mossed old roof. Jacob paused, with his
hand upon an upper rail of the fence. His heart misgave him. Every
object was so painfully familiar, that he shrunk from approaching
nearer. There was the garden sloping away from the old dwelling, with a
line of cherry trees running along the fence, and shading triple rows of
currant and gooseberry bushes, now bent to the ground with a load of
crimson and purple fruit. There was the well sweep, with its long, round
bucket swinging to the breeze, and the pear tree standing by, like an
ancient sentinel staunch at his post, and verdant in its thrifty old
age. A stone or two had fallen from the rough chimney, and on the
sloping roof lay a greenish tinge, betraying the velvety growth of moss
with which time had dotted the decayed shingles, while clumps of
house-leeks clustered here and there in masses from under their warped
edges.
Silent and solemnly quiet stood that old dwelling amid the dying light
which filled the valley. A few jetty birds were fluttering in and out of
a martin-box at one end, and that was all the sign of life that
appeared to the strained eyes of Jacob Strong. He stood, minute after
minute, waiting for a sight of some other living object--a horse grazing
at the back door--a human being approaching the well, anything alive
would have given relief to his full heart.
He could contain himself no longer: a desperate wish to learn at once
all that could give joy or pain to his mistress possessed him. He sprang
into the meadow, found a path trodden through the grass, and sweeping
the tall, golden lilies aside, where they fell over the narrow way, he
strode eagerly forward, and soon found himself in a garden. It was full
of coarse vegetables, and gay with sun-flowers; tufts of
"love-lies-bleeding" drooped around the gate, and flowering beans,
tangled with morning-glories, half clothed the worm-eaten fence.
Coarse and despised as some of these flowers are, how eloquently they
spoke to the heart of Jacob Strong! The very sun-flowers, as they turned
their great dials to the West, seemed to him redolent and golden with
the light of other days. They filled his heart with new hope; since the
earliest hour of his remembrance, those massive blossoms had never been
wanting at the old homestead.
Again the objects became more and more familiar. The plantain leaves
about the well seemed to have kept their greenness for years. The
grindstone, with a trough half full of water, stood in its old place by
the back porch. Surely, while such things remained, the human beings
that had lived and breathed in that lone dwelling, could not be entirely
swept away!
Jacob Strong entered the porch and knocked gently at the door. A voice
from within bade him enter, and, lifting the latch, he stood in a long,
low kitchen, where two men, a woman, and a chubby little girl, sat at
supper. One of the men, a stout, sun-burned fellow, arose, and placing a
splint-bottomed chair for his guest, quietly resumed his place at the
table, while the child sat with a spoon half way to its mouth, gazing
with eyes full of wonder at the strange man.
Jacob stood awkwardly surveying the group. A chill of keen
disappointment fell upon him. Of the four persons seated around that
table, not one face was familiar. He sat down and looked ruefully
around. A single tallow candle standing on the table shed its faint
light through the room, but failed to reveal the troubled look that fell
upon the visitor. The silence that he maintained seemed to astonish the
family. The farmer turned in his chair, and at last opened a discourse
after his own hospitable fashion.
"Sit by and take a bite of supper," he said, while his wife arose and
went to a corner cupboard.
"No, I thank you," answered Jacob, with an effort; for the words seemed
blocking up his throat.
"You had better sit by," observed the wife, modestly, coming from the
cupboard with a plate and knife in her hands. "There's nothing very
inviting, but you'll be welcome."
"Thank you," said Jacob, rising, "I'm not hungry; but if you've got a
cup handy, I will get a drink at the well."
The farmer took a white earthen bowl from the table, and, reaching
forward, handed it to his guest.
"And welcome! but you'll find the well-pole rather hard to pull, I
calculate."
Jacob took the bowl and went out. It seemed to him that a draught from
that moss-covered bucket would drive away the chill that had fallen on
his heart at the sight of those strange faces.
He sat the bowl down among the plantain leaves, and seizing the pole,
plunged the old bucket deep into the well. When it came up again, full
and dripping, he balanced it on the curb and drank. After this, he
lingered a brief time by the well, filled with disappointment, and
striving to compose his thoughts. At length he entered the house again
with more calm and fixed resolution.
"This seems to be a fine place of yours," he said, taking the chair once
more offered to his acceptance, and addressing the farmer. "That was as
pretty a meadow I just crossed as one might wish to see!"
"Yes, there is some good land between this and the brook," answered the
man, pleased with these commendations of his property.
"You keep it in good order, too; such timothy I have not seen these five
years."
"Wal, true enough, one may call that grass a little mite superior to the
common run, I do think!" answered the farmer, taking his chubby little
daughter on one knee, and smoothing her thick hair with both his hard
palms. "Considering how the old place was run down when we took it, we
haven't got much to be ashamed of, anyhow."
"You have not always owned the farm?" Jacob's voice shook as he asked
the question, but the farmer was busy caressing his child, and only
observed the import of his words, not the tone in which they were
uttered.
"I rayther think you must be a stranger in these parts, for everybody
knows how long I've been upon the place; nigh upon ten years, isn't it,
Mabel?"
"Ten years last spring," replied the woman, in a pleasant, low tone;
"jist three years before Lucy was born."
"That's it! she's as good as an almanac at dates; could beat a hull
class of us boys at cyphering when we went to school together, couldn't
you, Mabel?"
The wife answered with a blush, and a good-humored smile divided
cordially between her husband and Jacob.
"You must not think us over-shiftless," she said, "for living in the old
house so long; we've talked of building every year, but somehow the
right time hasn't come yet; besides, my old man don't exactly like to
tear the old house down."
"Tear it down!" cried Jacob, with a degree of feeling that surprised the
worthy couple--"tear the old homestead down! don't do it--don't do it,
friend. There are people in the world who would give a piece of gold for
every shingle on the roof rather than see a beam loosened."
"I guess you must have been in this neighborhood afore this," said the
farmer, looking at his wife with shrewd surprise; "know something about
the old homestead, I shouldn't wonder!"
"Yes, I passed through here many years ago; a man at that time, older
than you are now, lived on the place; his name was--let me think----"
"Wilcox--was that the name?"
"Yes, that was it--a tall man, with dark eyes."
"That's the man, poor old fellow; why we bought the farm of him."
"I wonder he ever brought himself to part with it! His wife seemed so
fond of the place, and--and his daughter: he had a daughter, if I
recollect right?"
"Yes, we heard so; I never saw her; but the folks around here talk about
her wild, bright ways, and her good looks, to this day; a harnsome,
smart gal she was if what they say can be relied on."
"But what became of her? Did she settle anywhere in these parts?"
"Wal, no, I reckon not. A young fellow from somewhere about Boston or
York, come up the river one summer to hunt and fish in the hills, he
married the gal, and carried her off to the city."
"And did she never come back?"
"No; but a year or two after, the young man come and brought a little
girl with him, the purtyest creature you ever sat eyes on. Hard words
passed between him and the old man, for Wilcox wouldn't let any human
being breathe a whisper agin his daughter. Nobody ever knew exactly what
happened, but the young man went away and left his child with the old
people. It wasn't long after this before the old man kinder seemed to
give up, he and his wife too, just as if that bright little grandchild
had brought a canker into the house.
"After that things went wrong, nothing on earth could make the old
people neighborly; they gin up going to meeting, and sat all Sunday long
on the hearth, there, looking into the fire. Wal, you know the best of
us will talk when anything happens that is not quite understood. Some
said one thing, and some another, and Wilcox, arter a while, got so shy
of his neighbors that they took a sort of distaste to him."
"Did the old people live alone after their daughter went away?" asked
Jacob, in a husky voice. "There was a young man or boy in the family
when I knew anything about it."
"Oh, yes, I jist remember, there was a young chap that Mr. Wilcox
brought up--a clever critter as ever lived. He went away just arter the
gal was married, and nobody ever knew what became of him. People thought
the old man pined about that too: at any rate, one thing and another
broke him down, and his wife with him."
"You do not mean to say that Mr. Wilcox and his wife are dead?"
The farmer turned his eyes suddenly on the form of Jacob Strong, as
these words were uttered, for there was something in the tone that took
his honest heart by surprise. Jacob sat before him like a criminal,
pale, and shrinking in his chair.
"No, I did not mean to say that they died, but when a tough, cheerful
man, like Wilcox, gives up, it is worse than death."
"What happened then--where did he go? is the child living?" almost
shouted Jacob Strong, unable to control the agony of his impatience a
moment longer; but the astonished look of his auditors checked the burst
of impetuous feeling, and he continued more quietly----
"I took an interest in this family long ago, and stopped in the valley
over night, on purpose to visit the old gentleman. I had no idea he
would ever leave the farm, and was surprised to find strangers here,
more so than you could have been at seeing me. Tell me now where the
Wilcox family can be found?"
"That is more, by half, than I know myself," answered the farmer. "I
bought the farm, paid cash down for everything, land, stock, furniture,
and all."
"But where did they go?" cried Jacob, breathless with suspense.
"To Portland; they took one wagon load of things, and when the teamster
came back, he said they were left in the hold of a schooner lying at the
wharf."
"But where was she bound?--what was her name?"
"That was exactly what we asked the teamster, but he could tell nothing
about it; and from that day to this, no person in these parts has ever
heard a word about them!"
Jacob arose and supported himself by his chair.
"And is this all? Gone, no one knows where? Is this all?"
"All that I or any one else can tell you," answered the kind-hearted
farmer.
"But the teamster, where is he?"
"Dead!"
Jacob left the house without another word. He knew that these tidings
would be more terrible to another than they had been to him, and yet
that seemed scarcely possible, for all the rude strength of his nature
was prostrated by the news that he heard.
The twilight had given place to a full moon, and all the valley lay
flooded in a sea of silver. The meadows were full of fireflies, and a
whip-poor-will on the mountain-side poured his mournful cry upon the
air. Jacob could not endure the thought of meeting his friend and
mistress, with tidings that he knew would rend her heart. He left the
homestead, tortured by all that he had heard, and plunged into a hollow
which opened to the trout stream. In this hollow stood a tall elm tree,
with great, sweeping branches, that drooped almost to the ground. A
spring of never-failing water gushed out from a rocky bank, which it
shaded, and the sweet gurgle of its progress as it flowed away through
the cowslips and blue flag that choked up the outlet to the mountain
streams, fell like the memory of an old love upon his senses.
He drew near the tree, and there, sitting upon the fragment of rock,
with her head resting against the rugged trunk of the elm, sat Ada
Leicester. Her face shone white in the moonbeams, and Jacob could hear
her sobs long before she was conscious of his presence.
She heard his approach, and starting to her feet, came out into the
full light. The hand with which she wildly seized his was damp and cold,
and he could see that heavy tear-drops were trembling on her cheek.
"You--you have seen them--are they alive? I saw you go in, and have been
waiting all this time. Tell me, Jacob, will they let me sleep in the old
house to-night?"
"They are all gone; no one of the whole family are there!" answered
Jacob Strong, too much excited for ordinary prudence.
A wild cry, scarcely louder than the scream of a bird, but oh, how full
of agony! rang down the valley, and terror-stricken at what he had done,
Jacob saw his mistress lying at his feet, her deathly face, her lifeless
hands, and the white shawl which she had flung about her, huddled
together in the pale moonlight.
The strong man lost all self-control. He looked fiercely around, as if
some one might attempt to stop him; then gathered Ada Leicester up in
his huge arms, and folded her close to his bosom. It was not a light
burden to carry; but he neither wavered nor paused, but strode down the
hollow, folding her tighter and tighter against his heart; and a joy
broke over his features, as the moonlight fell upon them, that seemed
scarcely human.
"Ada Wilcox--little Ada--I have carried you so a thousand times. Then,
Ada, you would lift up your little arms, and fold them over my neck, and
lay your cheek against mine, as it is now, Ada."
His face sunk slowly toward hers. He gave a sudden start.
"God forgive me! oh, Ada, forgive me!" broke from him, as he looked down
upon the pale forehead which his lips had almost pressed.
He stood still, holding his breath, trembling in all his limbs, and
beginning to move to and fro, as he perceived that her pale eyelids
began to quiver in the moonlight.
It was a delusion; the fainting fit had been too sudden; the exhaustion
complete. She lay in his arms like one from whom life had just
departed--her pale limbs relaxed--her eyelids closed. He stood thus
awhile, and then she began to move in his arms.
"Do not move, Ada--Ada Wilcox; it is Jacob, your father's bound boy. We
are all alone, in the home meadow. He has carried you down to the brook
a thousand times, when you knew all about it and laughed and--and----;
not yet--not yet," he said passionately; "you are not strong enough to
stand alone."
Still she struggled, for in his excitement he girded her form with those
strong arms, till the pain restored her to consciousness.
"Not yet--oh, not yet," he pleaded, feeling the strong heart within him
sink with each faint struggle that she made; "you cannot stand--the
grass is deep and damp--be still--I am strong as an ox, Ada--I can carry
you."
"Is it you, Jacob Strong?" she said, but half conscious.
"Yes," said Jacob in a choked voice, "it's me, your father's bound boy;
we are in the old home lot again. I--I--it is a long time since I have
carried you in my arms, Ada Wilcox."
"Ada Wilcox!" said the woman, with a start; "let me down, Jacob Strong;
my name is not Ada Wilcox; all that bore that name are gone; the
homestead is full of strangers; Wilcox is a dead name; that of Leicester
has crept over it like night-shade over a grave."
Jacob Strong unfolded his arms so abruptly, that Ada almost fell to the
earth.
"I had forgotten that name," he said with mournful sternness.
The poor woman attempted to stand up, but she wavered, and her pale face
was lifted with piteous helplessness toward him.
"No, Jacob, I tremble--this blow has taken all my life. Help me to stand
up, that I may look on the old homestead once more. How often have we
looked upon it from this spot!"
"I remember," answered Jacob, "the moonlight lies upon the roof as it
did that night; the old pear tree had stretched its shadow just to the
garden fence."
Jacob Strong grew pale in the moonlight. Ada felt his arm shake beneath
the grasp of her hand.
"You shiver with the cold," she said.
"It is cold, madam; the dew is heavy; I will go forward and break a path
through the grass. It will not be the first time."
Jacob moved on, tramping down the grass, and casting his long, uncouth
shadow before her, in the moonlight. She followed him in silence,
casting back mournful glances at the old homestead.
Jacob paused to let down a heavy set of bars that divided the meadow
from the trout stream. He jerked them fiercely from their sockets in the
tall chestnut posts, dropping them down on each other with a noise that
rang strangely through the stillness. Ada Leicester passed through the
opening, and moved slowly toward the tavern. She reached the door, but
turned again to her attendant.
"Jacob," she said, very sorrowfully, "I am all alone now, in the wide
world; you will not leave me?"
"Ada Wilcox, I have not deserved that question," said Jacob, pushing
open the door.
She shrunk through timidly, perhaps expecting her servant to follow; but
he closed the door and rushed away, leaping the pile of bars with a
bound, and plunging back into the meadow.
"Leave her!" he said, dashing the tall herds-grass aside with his hand;
"Leave her, as if I warn't her slave--her dog--her jackall, and had been
ever since I was a shaver, so small that this very grass would have
closed over my head; and yet she don't know why--thinks it's the wages,
may be. It never enters her head that I've got a soul to love and hate
with. What did I follow her and that man to foreign parts for, but to
stand ready when her time of trouble came? What did I give up my
freeborn American birthright for, and put that gold lace, and darn'd
etarnal cockade over my hat, like an English white nigger, only because
I couldn't stand by her in any other way? What is it that makes me
humble as a rabbit, sometimes, and then, again, snarling around like a
dog? She don't see it; she believes me when I tell her that it was a
hankering to see foreign parts, that sent me over sea; and that I, a
freeborn American citizen, have a nat'ral fancy to gold bands and
cockades, as if the thing wasn't jist impossible! True enough, she don't
want me to wear them now; but if she did, it's my solemn belief that I
should do it, jist here, in sight of the old homestead.
"The old homestead," he continued, standing still in the grass, and
looking toward the old home, till the bitter mood passed from his heart,
and his eyes filled with tears. "Oh, if I was only his bound boy again,
and she a little girl, and the old folks up yonder. I would be a
nigger--a hound--anything, if she could only stand here, as she did
then--as innocent and sweet a critter as ever drew breath. But he did
it--that villain! Oh, if he could be extarminated from the face of the
earth! It wan't her fault--I defy the face of man to say that. It was
the original sin in her own heart."
Poor Jacob! All his massive strength was exhausted now. He even ceased
to mutter over the sad, sad memories that crowded on him. But all that
night he wandered about the old homestead--now lost beneath its pear
trees--now casting his uncouth shadow across the barn-yard, where half a
dozen slumbering cows lifted their heads and gazed earnestly after him,
as if waiting for the intruder to be gone. There was not a nook or
corner of the old place that he did not visit that night, and the
morning found him cold, sad and pale, waiting for his mistress at the
tavern door.
Just after daylight, the one-horse chaise crossed the ferry again. The
old boatmen would gladly have conversed a little with its inmates, but
Jacob only answered them in monosyllables, and they could not see the
lady's face, so closely was it shrouded with the folds of her travelling
veil.