HOME AGAIN
Now soon your home will greet you
And ready kindness meet you,
And love that will not flee.
PERCIVAL.
They found John Palmer standing at the head of a powerful white mare,
before a large, old-fashioned gig.
Em. had not seen her father for a week, and during that separation from
him she had, for some incomprehensible reason, thought of him only from
first impressions—as she had known him in Laundry Lane—gaunt, sallow,
dark, stooping. She was now, for the first time, struck with the change
that had come over him since he had lived the more wholesome life of the
mountaineer, as he stood there, erect, tall, strong, handsome, and, in
spite of his hair turning “sable silvered,” younger looking than she had
ever known him.
He stood, listening to the discourse of Commodore Bruce, hat in hand, in
deference to age, not rank.
A thrill of fear shook the girl’s nerves as she saw them. What were they
discussing so earnestly? Ronald and herself? Oh, why would old folks
interfere so much with poor, young lovers? It was like picking the
hearts out of flowers, she thought to herself, as she shrank for a
moment before approaching them.
But no! what a relief! They were not talking of Ronald or herself. They
were talking of crops, stocks, finances—or at least Commodore Bruce was
talking and John was listening.
As Em. came up the commodore ceased to speak, and John turned toward
her, saying:
“Well, my dear, are you all ready? I am glad to get you back again,
lass, I tell you. I never knew how lonesome a house full of people could
be, Em., until you were gone. But ‘sich is life,’” he added, as he
kissed her and gave his hand to lift her into the gig.
“And, oh, I am glad to see you again, father, dear, good father! There
is Lieutenant Bruce,” she whispered, as he settled her comfortably in
her seat.
“Ah, how do you do, Lieutenant? Happy to see you, sir. Very happy! You
have been away since I saw you last?” heartily exclaimed John, as he
seized and shook the young man’s hand, adding: “Sorry I cannot stop to
have a good talk with you now; but it is getting late. It will be dark
before we get home, and the roads are dreadful.”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the old commodore, who did not approve of this
friendliness under all the circumstances. “Yes, the roads are very
dangerous to be traveled after dark. Don’t stand talking to Mr. Palmer
and keeping him here all night, Ronald.”
Ronald had not said a word up to this moment. John had done all the
talking. Now, however, the young man warmly shook the hand of the
overseer, saying:
“I will not detain you now, much as I should like to do so, but I will
drop in on you very soon.”
“_Do, do, do_, now; and the _sooner_ you do the better! You’ll always
find a plate at the table and a bed in the house heartily at your
service,” earnestly exclaimed the unsuspicious John, as he stepped into
the gig, seated himself beside his daughter and took the reins in his
hands.
“Good-by, Commodore Bruce,” said Em., bending from her seat and holding
out her hand. “Please make my excuses and adieux to the ladies. I did
not see any of them as I came out. They were all in their rooms.”
“Dressing for dinner—a fearfully long task for them, my dear. I will
give them your message, though they don’t deserve it. Good-by, and God
bless you, my dear,” said the old man, pressing a kiss upon her bent
forehead and withdrawing.
“Good-by, Lieutenant,” said Em. in a lower and less assured tone, as she
doubtfully held out her hand.
“Good-night; but not good-by. I shall see you very, very soon.
_To-morrow afternoon_,” he added in a lower tone, as he raised her hand
and pressed it to his lips and in his turn withdrew.
“They seem main fond of you at that house, Em.,” said John Palmer, as
they drove through the end gate and took the roundabout road leading
down the mountainside. “But, Lord! who wouldn’t be fond of her,” he
mentally added in a meditative mood.
“They were very kind to me, father,” answered the girl, who found it a
hard task to speak steadily and without tears.
“Why, yes; the old man and the young one took leave of you as lovingly
as if you’d a-been the sister of one and the daughter o’ t’other.”
“Are they all well at home, father?” inquired Em.
“Every one as well as con be,” heartily responded John. “And now, little
daughter, I know how hard it is for a girl to hold her tongue under any
circumstances, especially when she has been away a week from home; but
just try to keep quiet, my dear, until we get to the foot of this
mountain, for it will take all my attention to look after Queen Bess,”
said John, as he tightened the reins of the mare to hold her up in going
down hill.
“Very well, father; but remember, I am loving you all the time, although
I am not telling you so,” said Em., with an attempt at a smile, which,
even if she had succeeded, could not have been seen by him for whom it
was intended, for the short though brilliant twilight of the autumn had
faded away, and it was growing dark in the wooded mountain road.
They drove on slowly and in silence, winding down the mountainside.
An hour’s careful driving brought them down to the foot of the precipice
and to the banks of the river.
Then John paused for a few moments to rest his horse.
“The old commodore was main fond of you, Em.”
“Yes, father, and I of him, too.”
“Indeed! Were you now? That’s odd! He said he wanted you to stay with
him as his reader and writer after you had got through with Mrs. Bruce’s
sewing, but you declined.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am glad of it! Why, Em., what on earth should an edicated old
gentleman like him, with a good pair of spectacles, want of a reader and
writer, especially a young girl like you? It is all in my eye, Em.! The
old man wanted to marry you! A thing as your mother and I never would
have consented to, no, not if he had been as rich as _Creases_!”
“Oh, oh, oh, father!” cried Em. in a perfect ecstacy of horror. “It was
nothing like that! Nothing, nothing like that! He never would have
dreamed of such a dreadful thing! Oh, no, no, no! Oh, father, how could
you dream of such—oh, father!”
“I don’t know, Em. These aged old gentlemen, when they are widowers, are
perfect wampires after young wives, and think they can buy a pretty one
for money, just as easy as a heathen could go buy a girl in one o’ them
slave markets in London or Paris, or some o’ them Pagan nations where
they sell young women for wives. Wish one on ’em would come after _you_,
Em.! I would send him home with a wasp in his ear that would make him
dance livelier ’n he did in his boyhood’s days! Would be almost as good
for him as a young wife! Are you cold, child? Wrap your shawl closer
around you; you are shivering.”
“No, father, dear, but this talk is horrible,” said the girl,
shuddering.
“Glad to hear it! It was so intended! And now I hope you won’t think any
more of marrying a rich old dotard and being made a lady of _that way_!
said John sturdily.
“Oh, father, I never _did_ think of it; nor no one else that I know of
except you!”
“Glad to hear _that_, too! Hope you never will! No, Em., no rich old
husbands for you! I want you to have a happy life, my girl. By and by,
when the proper time shall come, I hope you will wed some good and
good-looking young fellow of your own rank, with whom you will be as
happy as your mother and I have been all our lives. Yes, the Lord knows,
and I thank him,” said John, reverently raising his hat, “that we have
been very happy in spite of poverty, sickness, death and the common ills
that come to us all. For what is this life but a climbing-place to the
higher? And what are these troubles but the stones that must sometimes
bruise our feet, and the thorns that may pierce our flesh? When a
faithful, loving pair travel this upward road together, Em., they do not
mind these troubles by the way. So I hope, my girl, that some day you
may be the wife of some honest young fellow of your own class, and not
the toy and slave of a rich old husband. But there, I won’t preach any
longer. Queen Bess is tossing her head and shaking her ears in impatient
scorn of my discourse. She wants to get home to her stall and her oats,”
said John, laughing, as he started the white mare.
“And she is no better tempered than her namesake,” said Em., as they
went along.
The rest of the road home was short and easy, leading along the banks of
the river, with the woods on one side and the water on the other, and
then by a short angle leading through the thicket up to the park gate,
which was wide open to receive them, with old ’Sias on the watch to
welcome them.
Little old ’Sias grinned literally “from ear to ear” as he bowed and
continued to bow while the gig rolled through the gate.
“I am so glad to see you again, Uncle ’Sias! Come up to the house and
talk with us this evening,” said Em.
“So I will, miss! ’Deed I feel as you’d been gone a year, more or less!”
returned the old man.
But they were soon out of hearing, for Queen Bess, finding herself so
near home, mended her pace, nor thought of slacking it until drawn up in
front of the old red wing.
It was soon quite dark, but a cheerful firelight gleamed through the
open doors and unshaded windows of the house.
All the family came forth to meet Em. with joyful welcomes, as though
she had been absent on a six years’ tour in a foreign country instead of
a six days’ sojourn in the immediate neighborhood.
Mother, sisters and brothers took her in their arms in turn and warmly
embraced and kissed her, while the little Italian girl danced
frantically around, among them all, waiting for a chance to get at her
“Caressima,” as she continually called Em.
“Now, Tom, run and put up the horse and gig. You can do the rest of your
welcoming after you come back,” said John.
The youth ran off to obey his father, and the family party entered the
house and passed on into the sitting-room, where a fire of pine logs and
cones was blazing up the chimney, lighting up the whole house.
Here Ann Whitlock and Aunt Monica were both engaged in putting finishing
touches on the neatly-set tea-table, where extra dainties had been
placed in honor of the daughter’s return.
But both the old women left off work and ran to welcome their favorite.
“No, let Em. go upstairs and take off her things—_do_!” said Molly,
carrying her sister off in triumph.
“See now what a nice fire Ned kindled for you, Em. Isn’t it just
splendid to have such a grand plenty of wood that we can make a roaring
fire to warm a great room like this?” said Nelly, who had followed her
sister to the attic.
“_I_ brought all the cones to kindle with, _my_self,” added little
Vennie, who came creeping up behind all the rest.
Em. turned and kissed the little creature, and then unpacked her trunk,
which her father and Ned had already brought up to her room.
Assisted by busy and affectionate little helpers, Em. soon got through
her task, and leaving her chamber in perfect order, and followed by a
bevy of little sisters, she hurried downstairs to the sitting-room,
where all the rest of the family were waiting for her.
As soon as she entered tea was placed on the table, and they all sat
down to it.
The father of the family asked a blessing, and then they all fell to
with good appetites and fine spirits.
Ah, how different was the atmosphere of this lowly, loving, merry party
to that proud, cold, gloomy circle she had left behind! Coming from one
to the other was like passing from purgatory into Paradise. It was
almost worth parting with Ronald to experience such a change.
Almost! not quite, as the aching from the depths of her heart seemed to
assure her.
She had loved Ronald Bruce from the first hour she had met him—when he
had saved her life by laying her brutal assailant stunned at her feet.
She had loved him involuntarily, secretly, silently—never dreaming that
her love was but the response of his own unspoken passion.
Now she knew he loved her, and had loved her from their first meeting.
Ronald Bruce, who had traveled all over the world, and had mixed with
the best society in many countries, and who from his position and
prospects might have chosen his wife from almost any class—had
overlooked all others to choose _her_, Em., above all other women—to
choose her, who had neither wealth, position or accomplishments—nothing
but herself. And if she had loved him at first she adored him now! Oh,
how she longed for all the advantages that might make her as acceptable
to Ronald’s family, as, without any of them, she was to him!
Even seated in the sweet circle of this pure, unselfish family affection
these thoughts troubled her peace.
No wonder then that in the solitude of her own attic chamber, when she
had retired to rest that night, that they should destroy her repose.
Em. lay wide awake all night thinking, dreaming.
Now tempting thoughts came to the troubled, wakeful dreamer, “in the
waste and middle of the night.”
Em. remembered Ronald’s last words whispered in her ear just as he left
her seated in the gig by her father’s side.
_To-morrow afternoon_, he had said.
To-morrow afternoon, then, Ronald would be sure to make his appearance.
He would be sure to ask her father for her, as he had declared he would.
Her father liked Ronald very much, she knew; but he would never listen
to his suit for her hand unless that suit came authorized by Ronald’s
uncle. And so it would never come. And so her father would refuse her to
Ronald, and would probably request him to refrain from visiting the
house.
Then Ronald would be sure to seek an interview with her, and he would
press her to end all their trouble by marrying him at once.
Now why—the tempter asked her—should she not take him at his word? These
old people—the evil-one whispered—whose pride and stubbornness were
separating Ronald and herself, were interfering with their loves beyond
all reason and justice. They had no right to make two young people
wretched all their lives. They could not do so, if Ronald should have
his own way. And nothing obstructed _that_ but Em.’s own scruples.
Ronald’s and her happiness now depended upon herself alone. Why should
she not make sure of it by accepting him as her husband? A few hours’
travel would take them into Maryland, where they could be legally
married, although she was not of age. Then they would instantly return
to the manor-house and ask forgiveness.
Her gentle father, her tender mother, would be _sure_ to forgive them on
the asking. Then they would be happy.
Yes; but that father and mother! Should she wound those gentle and
tender hearts by an act of disobedience that would be nothing less than
a cruel insult to them, receive it however charitably they might?
And then her promise to Commodore Bruce, whom she loved, though he _did_
almost break her heart!
Em. could come to no decision on her future course of action.
Act as she might, she could not escape suffering in herself and causing
suffering to others.
Thus thinking and dreaming, she lay wide awake all night, and was glad
when she saw the dawn of morning through the uncurtained eastern windows
of her room.
She arose and mended her fire, replenishing it from the box of fuel in
the corner. Then she bathed and dressed, offered up her morning prayers
and went downstairs.
It was now sunrise, and the sunshine was filling the sitting-room, where
all the family were assembled for morning worship.
They greeted Em. affectionately and then seated her among them.
The father opened the family Bible and read a chapter and then
reverently closed it and led their devotions.
After this breakfast was placed upon the table.
It was while handing her daughter a cup of coffee that Susan Palmer
looked in Em.’s face and exclaimed:
“I do declare, child, that your week’s stay at the old commodore’s
hasn’t improved you much! I didn’t notice it last night by candle-light,
but now I see you by daylight, you are as pale as a ghost.”
“Yes, _that_ she is,” chimed in several of the others.
“It is sitting so much over her needle! She sha’n’t do it again, that is
certain,” said John positively.
“No, she sha’n’t, and I am glad this is Sunday, so she may have a
complete rest,” added Susan.
The nearest church was thirty miles off; so John Palmer’s family could
only attend it once a month, on communion days, when they had to take a
Saturday afternoon’s journey and stay over until Monday morning.
But whether they were privileged to go to church, or compelled to stay
at home, the Sabbath was always conscientiously observed by them.
After breakfast, when order was restored, John Palmer assembled his
family and read the morning service, every member of the household
taking part in it.
They had always a nice, appetizing Sunday dinner, though no cooking was
ever done beyond boiling water to make tea or coffee and warming over
the soup and meat that had been prepared the day before.
After dinner each individual pleased himself or herself by reading,
walking, talking or sleeping.
This particular Sunday afternoon, however, all the family were assembled
around the fire in the sitting-room, questioning Em. concerning her
week’s sojourn on the mountain, and she was telling them all she could
communicate without unveiling the mystery of her own heart.
While they were all thus engaged the old gatekeeper, ’Sias, put his head
in at the door and said:
“Young Marse Lieutenant Ronald Bruce have come to see you, sar, and
would like to pay his dispects, if conwenient.”
“Mr. Bruce! Well, I declare!” exclaimed Susan Palmer in surprise.
“Humph! I thought as much!” said Ann Whitlock significantly.
“Am I to denounce de young ge’man into de house?” inquired old ’Sias.
“Yes, certainly,” cordially responded John Palmer, while Em.’s heart
bounded with delight.