The carriage was slowly ascending the road to the old church, a familiar
and dear object to each member of the Weston family. A village churchyard
fills up so gradually, that one is not startled with a sudden change. Mr.
Weston looked from the window at the ivy, and the gothic windows, and the
family vault, where many of his name reposed.
The inmates of the carriage had been conversing cheerfully, but as they
approached the point where they would see home, each one was occupied with
his or her musings. Occasionally, a pleasant word was exchanged, on the
appearance of the well-known neighborhood, the balmy air, and the many
shades of green that the trees presented; some of them loaded with white
and pink blossoms, promising still better things when the season should
advance.
Alice leaned from the window, watching for the first glimpse of the
well-remembered house. She greeted every tree they passed with a lively
look, and smiled gaily as the porter's lodge presented itself. The gates of
it flew open as the carriage approached, and Exeter in its beauty met their
view. "Oh, uncle," she said, turning from the window, "look! look! Is there
any place in the world like this?"
"No, indeed, Alice;" and he took a survey of the home which had been so
blessed to him. "How beautiful every thing looks! and how we will enjoy it,
after a crowded, noisy hotel. Anna, you are not sorry to see its familiar
face again. Ellen, my darling, we have not forgotten you--Exeter is your
home, too; you are as welcome as any of us. Why, you look sober; not
regretting Washington already?"
"No sir," said Ellen, "I was thinking of other things."
"Well," said Mrs. Weston, "we must look very happy this evening. I wonder,
Ellen, Mr. Barbour has not met us."
"I suppose," said Alice, laughing, "he is too much agitated at the thought
of meeting Ellen again--he will be over this evening, I dare say."
"I am sorry I can't keep my word with Mr. Barbour," said Ellen, "but I have
concluded to marry Abel Johnson, on Arthur's recommendation, and I ought
not to give good Mr. Barbour any false expectations."
"You must know, dear uncle," said Alice, "that Ellen and Arthur have been
carrying on a postscript correspondence in my letters, and Arthur has
turned matchmaker, and has been recommending Abel Johnson to Ellen. They
have fallen in love with each other, without having met, and that was the
reason Ellen was so hard-hearted last winter."
"Ah! that is the reason. But you must take care of these Yankee husbands,
Miss Ellen, if Mr. Kent be a specimen," said Mrs. Weston.
"I am quite sure," said Alice, "Arthur would not have such a friend."
Mr. Weston smiled, and looked out again at home. They were rapidly
approaching the gates, and a crowd of little darkies were holding them open
on each side. "I wish Arthur were here," said he. "How long he has been
away! I associate him with every object about the place."
Alice did not answer; Arthur was in her thoughts. This was his home, every
object with which she was surrounded breathed of him. She had thought of it
as her home, but she had no right here--she was really only a guest. The
thought was new and painful to her. Could the whole of her past existence
have been dreamed away?--had she indeed no claim to the place she loved
best on earth--was she dependant on the will of others for all the gay and
joyous emotions that a few moments before filled her breast? She thought
again of Arthur, of his handsome appearance, his good and generous heart,
his talents, and his unchanging love to her--of Walter, and of all with
which he had had to contend in the springtime of his life. Of his faults,
his sin, and his banishment; of his love to her, too, and the delusion
under which she had labored, of her returning it. Arthur would, ere long,
know it all, and though he might forgive, her proud spirit rebelled at the
idea that he would also blame.
She looked at her uncle, whose happy face was fixed on the home of his
youth and his old age--a sense of his protecting care and affection came
over her. What might the short summer bring? His displeasure, too--then
there would be no more for her, but to leave Exeter with all its happiness.
Poor child! for, at nearly nineteen, Alice was only a child. The
possibility overpowered her, she leant against her uncle's bosom, and wept
suddenly and violently.
"Alice, what is the matter?" said her mother. "Are you ill?"
"What _is_ the matter?" said her uncle, putting his arm around her, and
looking alarmed.
"Nothing at all," said Alice, trying to control herself. "I was only
thinking of all your goodness to me, and how I love you."
"Is that all," said Mr. Weston, pressing her more closely to his bosom.
"Why, the sight of home has turned your little head. Come, dry up your
tears, for my old eyes can distinguish the hall door, and the servants
about the house collecting to meet us."
"I can see dear Cousin Janet, standing within--how happy she will be," said
Mrs. Weston.
"Well," said Ellen, "I hope Abel will make a fuss over me, for nobody else
ever has."
"If you are to be married," said Alice, smiling through her tears, "you
must have his name changed, or always call him Mr. Johnson."
"Never," said Ellen. "I have a perfect passion for the name of Abel. There
was a picture in my room of Abel lying down, and Cain standing, holding the
club over him. Whenever I got into a passion when I was a child, mammy used
to take me to the picture and say, 'Look there, honey, if you don't learn
how to get the better of your temper, one of these days you will get in a
passion like Cain and kill somebody. Just look at him, how ugly he
is--because he's in such a rage.' But I always looked at Abel, who was so
much prettier. I have no doubt Abel Johnson looks just as he does in the
picture."
They were about to pass through the gates leading to the grounds; some of
the servants approached the carriage, and respectfully bowing, said,
'Welcome home, master,' but passed on without waiting to have the
salutation returned. Mrs. Weston guessed the cause of there not being a
general outbreak on the occasion of their return. Miss Janet had spoken to
a number of the servants, telling them how unable Mr. Weston was to bear
any excitement, and that he would take the earliest opportunity of seeing
them all at their cabins. As he was much attached to them and might feel a
good deal at the meeting after so long a separation, it would be better not
to give him a noisy welcome.
She had, however, excepted the children in this prohibition, for Miss Janet
had one excellent principle in the management of children, she never
forbade them doing what she knew they could not help doing. Thus, as the
carriage passed the lodge, a noisy group of small-sized darkies were making
a public demonstration. "Massa's come home," says one. "I sees Miss Alice,"
says another. "I sees Miss Anna, too," said a third, though, as yet, not a
face was visible to one of them. They put their heads out of the carriage,
notwithstanding, to speak to them, and Alice emptied a good-sized basket of
sugar-plums, which she had bought for the purpose, over their heads.
"Take care, Mark," said Mr. Weston, "don't cut about with that whip, while
all these children are so near."
"If I didn't, sir," said Mark, "some of 'em would a been scrunched under
the carriage wheels 'fore now. These little niggers," he muttered between
his teeth, "they're always in the way. I wish some of 'em would get run
over." Mark's wife was not a very amiable character, and she had never had
any children.
"Hurrah! daddy, is that you?" said an unmistakeable voice proceeding from
the lungs of Bacchus the younger. "I been dansin juba dis hole blessed
day--I so glad you come. Ask mammy if I aint?"
"How is your mother, Bacchus?" said Mr. Weston, looking out the window.
"Mammy, she's well," said the young gentleman; "how's you, master?"
"Very well, I thank you, sir," said Mr. Weston. "Go down there and help
pick up the sugar-plums."
Bacchus the elder, now slid down from the seat by Mark, and took a short
cut over to his cabin.
"Poor Aunt Phillis!" said Mrs. Weston, looking after him, "I hope she will
get well."
"Ah!" said Mr. Weston, "I had forgotten Phillis on this happy day. There is
something, you see, Anna, to make us sigh, even in our happiest moments.
"But you shall not sigh, dearest uncle," said Alice, kissing his hand, "for
Aunt Phillis will get well now that we are all back. Oh, there is Cousin
Janet, and little Lydia--I wish the carriage would stop."
"You are the most perfect child I ever saw, Alice," said Mrs. Weston. "I
think you are out of your senses at the idea of getting home."
The carriage wheeled round, and William let down the steps, with a face
bright as a sunflower. Miss Janet stood at the top of the portico steps, in
her dove-colored gown, and her three-cornered handkerchief, with open arms.
Alice bounded like a deer, and was clasped within them. Then Mrs. Weston,
then Ellen; and afterwards, the aged relatives warmly embraced each other.
Little Lydia was not forgotten, they all shook hands with her, but Alice,
who stooped to kiss her smooth, black cheek. William was then regularly
shaken hands with, and the family entered the large, airy hall, and were
indeed at home.
Here were collected all the servants employed about the house, each in a
Sunday dress, each greeted with a kind word. Alice shook hands with them
two or three times over, then pointing to the family pictures, which were
arranged along the hall, "Look at them, uncle," said she; "did you ever see
them so smiling before?"
They went to the drawing-room, all but Alice, who flew off in another
direction.
"She is gone to see Phillis," said Mr. Weston, gazing after her. "Well, I
will rest a few moments, and then go too."
Never did mother hold to her heart a child dearer to her, than Phillis,
when she pressed Alice to her bosom. Alice had almost lived with her, when
she, and Walter, and Arthur were children. Mrs. Weston knew that she could
not be in better hands than under the care of so faithful and respectable a
servant. Phillis had a large, old clothes' basket, where she kept the toys,
all the little plates and cups with which they played dinner-party, the
dolls without noses, and the trumpets that would not blow. Her children
were not allowed to touch them when the owners were not there, but they
took a conspicuous part in the play, being the waiters and ladies' maids
and coach-drivers of the little gentlemen and Alice. After Walter and
Arthur went away, Alice was still a great deal with Phillis, and she,
regarding her as Arthur's future wife, loved her for him as well as for
herself. Alice loved Phillis, too, and all her children, and they
considered her as a little above mortality. Bacchus used to insist, when
she was a child, that she never would live, she was _too good_. When,
during her severe illness, Phillis would go to her cabin to look around,
Bacchus would greet her with a very long face, and say, "I told you so. I
know'd Miss Alice would be took from us all." Since her recovery, he had
stopped prophesying about her.
"Aunt Phillis," said Alice, "you don't look very sick. I reckon you _will_
work when you ought not. Now I intend to watch you, and make you mind, so
that you will soon be well."
"I am a great deal better than I was, Miss Alice, but there's no knowing;
howsomever, I thank the Lord that he has spared me to see you once more. I
want to give Master time to talk to Miss Janet a little while, then I am
going in to see him and Miss Anna."
"Oh! come now," said Alice, "or he will be over here."
Phillis got up, and walked slowly to the house, Alice at her side, and
Bacchus stumping after her. As they went in, Alice tripped on first, and
opened the drawing-room door, making way for Phillis, who looked with a
happy expression of face towards her master.
"Is this you, Phillis?" said Mr. Weston, coming forward, and taking her
hand most kindly. Mrs. Weston and Ellen got up to shake hands with her,
too. "I am very glad to find you so much better than I expected," continued
Mr. Weston; "you are thin, but your countenance is good. I hope you will
get perfectly well, now that we are going to have summer weather."
"Thank you, sir," said Phillis. "I am a great deal better. Thank God, you
all look so well, Miss Anna and all. Miss Janet began to be mighty
lonesome. I've been a great trouble to her."
"No, you have not," said Miss Janet; "you never were a trouble to any one."
"Master," said Bacchus, "I think the old ooman looks right well. She aint
nigh so bad as we all thought. I reckon she couldn't stand my bein away so
long; she hadn't nobody to trouble her."
"You will never give her any more trouble," said Alice. "Aunt Phillis, you
don't know how steady Uncle Bacchus has been; he is getting quite a
temperance man."
"Old Nick got the better of me twice, though," said Bacchus. "I did think,
master, of tryin to make Phillis b'lieve I hadn't drank nothin dis winter;
but she'd sure to find me out. There's somefin in her goes agin a lie."
"But that was doing very well," said Alice; "don't you think so, Aunt
Phillis? Only twice all through the winter."
"Its an improvement, honey," said Phillis; "but what's the use of getting
drunk at all? When we are thirsty water is better than any thing else; and
when we aint thirsty, what's the use of drinking?"
Phillis had been sitting in an arm-chair, that Mrs. Weston had placed for
her. When she first came in, her face was a little flushed from pleasure,
and the glow might have been mistaken as an indication of health. The
emotion passed, Mrs. Weston perceived there was a great change in her. She
was excessively emaciated; her cheek-bones prominent, her eyes large and
bright. The whiteness of her teeth struck them all. These symptoms, and the
difficulty with which she breathed, were tokens of her disease. She became
much fatigued and Miss Janet advised her to go home and lie down. "They
shan't tell you of their grand doings to-night, Phillis," she said; "for
you have been excited, and must keep quiet. In the morning you will be able
to listen to them. Don't tell any long stories, Bacchus," she continued.
"Dr. Lawton wants her to keep from any excitement at night, for fear she
should not sleep well after it. All you travelers had better go to bed
early, and wake up bright in the morning."
Alice went home with Phillis, and came back to welcome Mr. Barbour, who had
just arrived. The happy evening glided away; home was delightful to the
returned family.
Bacchus gave glowing descriptions of scenes, in which he figured largely,
to the servants; and Bacchus the younger devoutly believed there had not
been so distinguished a visitor to the metropolis that winter, as his
respected father.
Dr. Lawton came regularly to see Phillis, who frequently rallied. Her
cheerfulness made her appear stronger than she was; but when Alice would
tell her how well she looked, and that the sight of Arthur would complete
her recovery, she invariably answered, "I want to see him mightily, child;
but about my gettin well, there's no telling. God only knows."