On the evening of Thanksgiving day, John Inglefield, the blacksmith,
sat in his elbow-chair, among those who had been keeping festival at
his board. Being the central figure of the domestic circle, the fire
threw its strongest light on his massive and sturdy frame, reddening
his rough visage, so that it looked like the head of an iron statue,
all aglow, from his own forge, and with its features rudely fashioned
on his own anvil. At John Inglefield’s right hand was an empty chair.
The other places round the hearth were filled by the members of the
family, who all sat quietly, while, with a semblance of fantastic
merriment, their shadows danced on the wall behind then. One of the
group was John Inglefield’s son, who had been bred at college, and was
now a student of theology at Andover. There was also a daughter of
sixteen, whom nobody could look at without thinking of a rosebud almost
blossomed. The only other person at the fireside was Robert Moore,
formerly an apprentice of the blacksmith, but now his journeyman, and
who seemed more like an own son of John Inglefield than did the pale
and slender student.
Only these four had kept New England’s festival beneath that roof. The
vacant chair at John Inglefield’s right hand was in memory of his wife,
whom death had snatched from him since the previous Thanksgiving. With
a feeling that few would have looked for in his rough nature, the
bereaved husband had himself set the chair in its place next his own;
and often did his eye glance thitherward, as if he deemed it possible
that the cold grave might send back its tenant to the cheerful
fireside, at least for that one evening. Thus did he cherish the grief
that was dear to him. But there was another grief which he would fain
have torn from his heart; or, since that could never be, have buried it
too deep for others to behold, or for his own remembrance. Within the
past year another member of his household had gone from him, but not to
the grave. Yet they kept no vacant chair for her.
While John Inglefield and his family were sitting round the hearth with
the shadows dancing behind them on the wall, the outer door was opened,
and a light footstep came along the passage. The latch of the inner
door was lifted by some familiar hand, and a young girl came in,
wearing a cloak and hood, which she took off, and laid on the table
beneath the looking-glass. Then, after gazing a moment at the fireside
circle, she approached, and took the seat at John Inglefield’s right
hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her.
“Here I am, at last, father,” said she. “You ate your Thanksgiving
dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening with you.”
Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield. She wore the same neat and maidenly
attire which she had been accustomed to put on when the household work
was over for the day, and her hair was parted from her brow, in the
simple and modest fashion that became her best of all. If her cheek
might otherwise have been pale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it
with a healthful bloom. If she had spent the many months of her absence
in guilt and infamy, yet they seemed to have left no traces on her
gentle aspect. She could not have looked less altered, had she merely
stepped away from her father’s fireside for half an hour, and returned
while the blaze was quivering upwards from the same brands that were
burning at her departure. And to John Inglefield she was the very image
of his buried wife, such as he remembered her on the first Thanksgiving
which they had passed under their own roof. Therefore, though naturally
a stern and rugged man, he could not speak unkindly to his sinful
child, nor yet could he take her to his bosom.
“You are welcome home, Prudence,” said he, glancing sideways at her,
and his voice faltered. “Your mother would have rejoiced to see you,
but she has been gone from us these four months.”
“I know it, father, I know it,” replied Prudence, quickly. “And yet,
when I first came in, my eyes were so dazzled by the firelight, that
she seemed to be sitting in this very chair!”
By this time the other members of the family had begun to recover from
their surprise, and became sensible that it was no ghost from the
grave, nor vision of their vivid recollections, but Prudence, her own
self. Her brother was the next that greeted her. He advanced and held
out his hand affectionately, as a brother should; yet not entirely like
a brother, for, with all his kindness, he was still a clergyman, and
speaking to a child of sin.
“Sister Prudence,” said he, earnestly, “I rejoice that a merciful
Providence hath turned your steps homeward, in time for me to bid you a
last farewell. In a few weeks, sister, I am to sail as a missionary to
the far islands of the Pacific. There is not one of these beloved faces
that I shall ever hope to behold again on this earth. O, may I see all
of them--yours and all--beyond the grave!”
A shadow flitted across the girl’s countenance.
“The grave is very dark, brother,” answered she, withdrawing her hand
somewhat hastily from his grasp. “You must look your last at me by the
light of this fire.”
While this was passing, the twin-girl-the rosebud that had grown on the
same stem with the castaway--stood gazing at her sister, longing to
fling herself upon her bosom, so that the tendrils of their hearts
might intertwine again. At first she was restrained by mingled grief
and shame, and by a dread that Prudence was too much changed to respond
to her affection, or that her own purity would be felt as a reproach by
the lost one. But, as she listened to the familiar voice, while the
face grew more and more familiar, she forgot everything save that
Prudence had come back. Springing forward, she would have clasped her
in a close embrace. At that very instant, however, Prudence started
from her chair, and held out both her hands, with a warning gesture.
“No, Mary,--no, my sister,” cried she, “do not you touch me. Your bosom
must not be pressed to mine!”
Mary shuddered and stood still, for she felt that something darker than
the grave was between Prudence and herself, though they seemed so near
each other in the light of their father’s hearth, where they had grown
up together. Meanwhile Prudence threw her eyes around the room, in
search of one who had not yet bidden her welcome. He had withdrawn from
his seat by the fireside, and was standing near the door, with his face
averted, so that his features could be discerned only by the flickering
shadow of the profile upon the wall. But Prudence called to him, in a
cheerful and kindly tone:--
“Come, Robert,” said she, “won’t you shake hands with your old friend?”
Robert Moore held back for a moment, but affection struggled
powerfully, and overcame his pride and resentment; he rushed towards
Prudence, seized her hand, and pressed it to his bosom.
“There, there, Robert!” said she, smiling sadly, as she withdrew her
hand, “you must not give me too warm a welcome.”
And now, having exchanged greetings with each member of the family,
Prudence again seated herself in the chair at John Inglefield’s right
hand. She was naturally a girl of quick and tender sensibilities,
gladsome in her general mood, but with a bewitching pathos interfused
among her merriest words and deeds. It was remarked of her, too, that
she had a faculty, even from childhood, of throwing her own feelings,
like a spell, over her companions. Such as she had been in her days of
innocence, so did she appear this evening. Her friends, in the surprise
and bewilderment of her return, almost forgot that she had ever left
them, or that she had forfeited any of her claims to their affection.
In the morning, perhaps, they might have looked at her with altered
eyes, but by the Thanksgiving fireside they felt only that their own
Prudence had come back to them, and were thankful. John Inglefleld’s
rough visage brightened with the glow of his heart, as it grew warm and
merry within him; once or twice, even, he laughed till the room rang
again, yet seemed startled by the echo of his own mirth. The grave
young minister became as frolicsome as a school-boy. Mary, too, the
rosebud, forgot that her twin-blossom had ever been torn from the stem,
and trampled in the dust. And as for Robert Moore, he gazed at Prudence
with the bashful earnestness of love new-born, while she, with sweet
maiden coquetry, half smiled upon and half discouraged him.
In short, it was one of those intervals when sorrow vanishes in its own
depth of shadow, and joy starts forth in transitory brightness. When
the clock struck eight, Prudence poured out her father’s customary
draught of herb-tea, which had been steeping by the fireside ever since
twilight.
“God bless you, child!” said John Inglefield, as he took the cup from
her hand; “you have made your old father happy again. But we miss your
mother sadly, Prudence, sadly. It seems as if she ought to be here
now.”
“Now, father, or never,” replied Prudence.
It was now the hour for domestic worship. But while the family were
making preparations for this duty, they suddenly perceived that
Prudence had put on her cloak and hood, and was lifting the latch of
the door.
“Prudence, Prudence! where are you going?” cried they all, with one
voice.
As Prudence passed out of the door, she turned towards them, and flung
back her hand with a gesture of farewell. But her face was so changed
that they hardly recognized it. Sin and evil passions glowed through
its comeliness, and wrought a horrible deformity; a smile gleamed in
her eyes, as of triumphant mockery, at their surprise and grief.
“Daughter,” cried John Inglefield, between wrath and sorrow, “stay and
be your father’s blessing, or take his curse with you!”
For an instant Prudence lingered and looked back into the fire-lighted
room, while her countenance wore almost the expression as if she were
struggling with a fiend, who had power to seize his victim even within
the hallowed precincts of her father’s hearth. The fiend prevailed; and
Prudence vanished into the outer darkness. When the family rushed to
the door, they could see nothing, but heard the sound of wheels
rattling over the frozen ground.
That same night, among the painted beauties at the theatre of a
neighboring city, there was one whose dissolute mirth seemed
inconsistent with any sympathy for pure affections, and for the joys
and griefs which are hallowed by them. Yet this was Prudence
Inglefield. Her visit to the Thanksgiving fireside was the realization
of one of those waking dreams in which the guilty soul will sometimes
stray back to its innocence. But Sin, alas! is careful of her
bond-slaves; they hear her voice, perhaps, at the holiest moment, and
are constrained to go whither she summons them. The same dark power
that drew Prudence Inglefleld from her father’s hearth--the same in its
nature, though heightened then to a dread necessity--would snatch a
guilty soul from the gate of heaven, and make its sin and its
punishment alike eternal.