Transcriber’s Note
Italic text displayed as: _italic_
A Winter in Retirement
Or
Scattered Leaves
By
Hannah Blaney Washburn
[Illustration: Decoration]
Frank Allaben Genealogical Company
Forty-Second Street Building, New York
_Copyright, 1914, by Frank Allaben Genealogical Company_
PREFACE
The scene of this little sketch is laid in one of the most delightful
of our sea-coast residences, as it respects local situation; one of
the earliest settlements of New England, and the birthplace of many
individuals, whose memory, though perhaps unknown to fame, is cherished
by their descendants to the third and fourth generation. With the hope
that it may be received with favor, and do good, the writer, who is
herself a native of Lynn, offers it to the public.
H. B. W.
A WINTER IN RETIREMENT
OR
SCATTERED LEAVES
CHAPTER I
A home on Ocean’s sounding shore
Would be the home for me,
Though loudly hoarse the wild waves roar,
’Tis the music of the Sea.
There is no prospect more lovely and attractive to those who were born
upon its shores, than that of the Ocean. In the heat and sunshine of
a bright summer day, there is a delicious coolness and refreshment
in the breezes which float over its waters never to be forgotten by
the wanderer from his native home, and even the hollow murmuring of
its waves, when presaging an approaching storm, and their wild roar
when the tempest is abroad in its fury, is remembered with a sort of
pleasure as being the lullaby for many a calm and sound night’s sleep.
In sickness, when far away from the land of his birth, the exile will
remember its pure and healthful atmosphere, and in his dreams, perhaps,
fancy himself treading the pebbly shore, and feeling the pleasant air
upon his fevered brow. Such a fond remembrance has led to the location
of the scene of this tale, a remembrance which will exist as long as
memory remains.
* * * * *
“And this is the end of all our plans and anticipations for the winter?
Oh, Mary, what shall we do through this long dreary season of nearly
six months? No balls, no parties, indeed, no society, shut up in my
aunt’s lonely house, with nothing to amuse us but the sound of the
dismal waves, dashing against the rocks, the mournful wind, whistling
through that forest of apple trees, and not a man to be seen but old
Philip”—and here the voice of the speaker was stopped by her tears
which were, however, soon soothed by the mild and gentle voice of her
sister.
“Do look on the bright side of things, dear Susan,” said she, “you
forget, how, when we were little girls, we used to love that orchard,
how many merry plays we have had among those trees, and how many
stories old Phillip would tell us; then, the beautiful shells we picked
up upon the little beach, at the foot of the rocks,”—“But that was in
the summer, Mary, when you know it is pleasant out doors, and that was
when we were so young, and so easily amused, but now it is so very
different, and then Aunt Wilson is so very, very pious—Oh; she will not
let us read anything but sermons, or sing anything but psalm tunes.”
This was, indeed, but a gloomy prospect for a gay young girl of
seventeen, and it required more stoicism than Susan Morton possessed to
view it with indifference. The illness of their father, the necessity
of his seeking a warmer climate through the winter, and his wish that
his wife should accompany him, were the reasons which had induced him
to trust his daughters, during his absence, to the care of his sister,
a widow lady of much respectability, who resided near the sea-coast,
and, who, since the death of her husband, had devoted her time and
talents to the education of her children, two sons and a daughter; and,
it was after bidding a sorrowful adieu to their parents, and finding
themselves shut up in the carriage, which was to convey them to their
winter home, that this conversation commenced. Susan was the youngest
of the two sisters, a lively beautiful girl, very fond of society,
and always the life and animation of every circle. She had formed
many gay schemes of pleasure for the coming winter, the winter after
she entered her seventeenth year, which had been all dispersed by the
gradual but increasing illness of her father, and she had listened
to the arrangement which had consigned her to the care of her aunt
through that season which she had anticipated with so much delight with
a dissatisfaction and gloom, which prevented her from seeing anything
pleasant in their winter abode, or seizing upon any circumstances
to soften her disappointment. Not so with Mary; with as lively a
disposition as her sister, she still possessed the happy talent of
extracting pleasure from any situation, and enjoying herself under
almost any circumstances, and now endeavored, with earnest kindness,
to bring to her remembrance many little events of their early youth,
connected with their aunt and her family, which would aid in restoring
her tranquility, and she succeeded, for before their arrival at their
destined home, Susan had joined in many a merry laugh at some pleasant
recollection. The evening of a dull November day closed in before
they arrived at the end of their journey, the monotonous dashing of
the waves against the beach sounded drearily, and the chilly air, and
the gloomy appearance of the sky made them welcome the bright light,
which they knew, streamed from the retired dwelling of their aunt. The
carriage now turned into the lane which led to the house, and they
were greeted at the porch by the kind old Philip, whose hair seemed not
a shade whiter, nor his face a whit more wrinkled than when, five years
before, two lively little girls, they bade him “good-bye,” at that
very door. They had hardly time to return his good humored smile, when
they were surrounded by the rest of the family, and the affectionate
caresses of their aunt, the joyous welcome of their cousins, and even
the broad smile which displayed the white teeth of black Phoebe, made
them feel that they had, indeed, as Philip said, “Got home again,”
and caused Susan to forget her sad forebodings. The transition from
the cold darkness of the evening without to the pleasant warmth and
cheerful light of the sitting room was delightful, and, in a short
time Susan found herself seated among a circle of lovely and beloved
friends, all striving to make her happy, and all happy together, and,
when, after an evening of the most charming sociability, she found
herself alone with her sister, she acknowledged that she was never more
entertained than she was this evening.
A bright and pleasant morning sun after a night of uninterrupted and
tranquil repose, rendered sweet by the fatigue of the preceding day,
restored all the gay cheerfulness of Susan, and she received the kind
greetings of her friends, and their affectionate inquiries, with all
her wonted good humor. A livelier party never surrounded a breakfast
table, from the mother to the youngest of Mrs. Wilson’s children, the
light-hearted Charles, a sprightly, intelligent boy of thirteen. Her
eldest, a son, a member of the University, had returned to his home
to spend the winter vacation. Herbert Wilson was a noble specimen of
the youth of New England, active and enterprising, uniting to a fine
constitution, habits of industry and order, and already ranking high
among the talented sons of his native State. Elizabeth, the daughter,
was the counterpart, in disposition, of her cousin Mary; she was the
friend and companion of her mother, and the loving counsellor of her
brothers. The clouds of the preceding evening had dispersed; it was one
of those delightful days which sometimes occur in November; a walk was
proposed to the seashore, and with light and happy hearts, the young
party, after crossing the brow of the hill, which separated them from
the ocean, beheld its vast expanse stretched before them in boundless
majesty. The sands, covered with shells, sparkled in the sunbeams;
far off, in the distance, were seen the white sails of ships, some
leaving their native shores, and some returning to them, and, in the
southwest, rose the dome of the State House and many spires of Boston,
from whence, on a clear morning, might be heard the cheerful sound of
bells. On the smooth beach that united the shore with the beautiful
peninsula of Nahant, were seen sportsmen with their guns, in pursuit
of the wild fowl, which were wheeling in hurried circles above their
heads, and, here and there, a fishing boat, lying upon the surface of
the water, while its owner was engaged in his customary employment of
fishing. “How delightful,” said Susan, “I could not have believed it
would have been so pleasant here in November. I think I shall be quite
contented here, after all.” “But reflect, my cousin,” said Herbert,
“this is one of our days of sunshine, what will you say in the days of
storm and tempest, when the waves dash against these rugged rocks, and
the rain pours in torrents or snow darkens the atmosphere?” “Oh,” said
the listening Charles, “you would not be discontented then, for, you
know, the days are short, and soon pass away, and the evenings are so
pleasant. Oh, cousin Susan! you don’t know anything about those winter
evenings.” “Do tell me about them, Charlie, do tell me,” said the
lively Susan. “Well, then, Herbert reads”—“Stop, stop, my little man,”
said Herbert, “do not let Susan waste all her pleasure in anticipation,
but, I hope, dear cousin of mine, to convince you that our happiness
is not dependent upon the weather, or upon local situation, and, that,
years hence, perhaps, on some bright day, in the most delightful season
of the year, or, when surrounded, it may be with everything to make
your life happy, you will look back to this winter in retirement as one
of the bright spots in your existence.” “I am half inclined to believe
you, dear Herbert, but we will walk faster, for I think Mary and
Elizabeth have found a prize.” Charles now bounded over the sands, and,
upon joining his sister and cousin, found them engaged in examining
a shell fish of singular construction. “Why, it is nothing but a
horseshoe,” said he. “Uncle Bill says they call them so because they
look like one, and, look, Herbert, there is Uncle Bill himself, with a
basket of clams. Hurrah! Uncle Bill, what will you do with your clams?”
He then ran to join a man who was coming from the edge of the water,
where he had been employed in procuring the contents of his basket.
He was slightly built, of a florid complexion, and a mild sensible
countenance, but a certain wandering and restless expression indicated
an unsettled mind. As Herbert greeted him kindly his eyes lighted with
animation, and his respectful salute to the young ladies had an air
of good breeding, unusual in a person in his apparent condition of
life. To the repeated question of Charles as to what he would do with
his clams, he said he would carry some to Phoebe, that she might make
him a chowder. “That is the very thing, Uncle Bill; hurrah for clam
chowder, and I’ll go forward and tell her,” said Charles, and he ran
on, followed more slowly by Uncle Bill. “There is something singular in
the appearance of that man,” said Mary. “There is something singular
in his history,” said Herbert. “Sometime, on one of those stormy days
of which I have forewarned Susan, I will tell you the outlines of it.”
“Oh, no outlines,” said Susan, “tell me all the particulars, all the
little shades of the story. I do not like rough sketches, I have not
imagination enough to fill them up.” “I will tell you all I myself know
of his life,” said Herbert, “and it is an illustration of the caprice
and coquetry of which some of your sex are accused.” “A love story;
that will be grand,” said Susan, “only it is a pity that the hero is an
old clam merchant.”
A cheerful walk returned them to their home, where each resorted to
their usual avocations, Herbert to pursue his studies and instruct
Charles, Elizabeth to attend to and learn the necessary duties of a
housewife, and during their morning walk she had contrived to inspire
Mary with a desire to emulate her in becoming a complete cook and
housekeeper, and thus give her kind mother an agreeable surprise
on her return. Susan, also, was forming many plans for her winter
pursuits, among which, one was commencing the study of Latin, under
the instruction of Herbert, and another of working, in worsted, a
cover for a family Bible, with the names of her parents wrought upon
it, in imitation of the one which laid upon her aunt’s table, and
which she thought would please her father and mother. Thus the day
passed, and when the family surrounded the tea table, health and
cheerfulness glowed in every countenance, and Susan forgot every cause
of discontent. After the tea things were removed. “Now,” said Charles,
“now for the story, Herbert.” “What,” said Susan, “about Uncle Bill?”
“No, no, not now,” said Charles, “a story about Rome, in the time of
the early Christians. I am studying the history of Rome in Latin,
and Herbert promised he would read a story about it.” “In that case,
Charles,” said Mrs. Wilson, “you will be able to detect any deviations
from the truth of history.” “But, may I speak, mother, when I think
I find anything that is not true?” “There will be times, my dear,
when Herbert will pause awhile, and then you can make your remarks.”
“There is a peculiar charm,” said Herbert, “in retracing the records
of antiquity, for we lose sight, in the distance, of all roughness
and inequalities, and our imagination only rests upon the smooth and
distant perspective. I remember journeying with my father, many years
ago, through the northern part of this State, and when I remarked to
him that the hills which we saw around us looked as if they were highly
cultivated, their surface appearing so even and delightful, here and
there dotted with clumps of trees, he repeated the words of the poet,
‘’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.’ ‘If, my son, you were
there, upon those very spots that appear so pleasant, you would be
disappointed by their rugged and uneven appearance, perhaps deformed
with unsightly stumps, or with patches of rock.’” “So it is with the
romance of history,” said Elizabeth, “but, if we are too critical in
our remarks, we should lose much pleasure.” “True,” said Herbert, “and
therefore, not to spoil the appetite of Charles for our little tale,
we will not proceed with our illustrations.” Herbert produced his
manuscript, the little circle arranged themselves at their different
employments, and silence ensued, while in a clear voice he commenced
reading a tale of which the scene was laid in the days of Nero, the
tyrant of Rome, and the malignant persecutor of the Christians.