THE TWO INFANTS.
And then I thought of one, who in her pale, meek beauty, died,
The fair young blossom that grew up and faded by my side;
In the cold, moist earth, we laid her, where the forest cast its
leaf,
And we sighed that one so beautiful should have a lot so brief.
BAYANT
After awhile the old man resumed.
"The next year Farnham came up into the mountains with his wife. Some
city speculation had made him rich, and they sat a terrible dash--but
I won't speak of that, Mary. If ever the old adversary does rise in my
bosom, it is when I remember the way those two persons drove by the
house they had made gloomy as a grave-yard.
"Hannah was sitting by the window. Her face seemed turning into stone
as the woman leaned out of her carriage, gave a long, impudent stare,
and then fell back laughing, as if she had found something about my
sister's appearance to make fun of.
"A little after this, Anna came home. She wanted care and comfort,
poor little darling, and her husband let her search for it in the Old
Homestead.
"Farnham went back to New York the day after she came, so I believe
she never saw him to the day of her death.
"Mrs. Farnham was left behind, and poor Salina had a nice time with
her airs and the impudence of her city servants, as she called the
white slaves that came with her. Our Anna came alone, for her husband
could neither spend time nor money to bring her further than Catskill.
He had been out of employment, and devided his last few dollars with
Anna when they parted.
"She was very down-hearted all the time, and it was more than I could
do to make her smile, though I tried to say a thousand droll things;
and Hannah, I'm sure it made my heart ache to see how she tried and
tried to cheer the young thing up."
Here again the old man paused. By this time the storm was raging down
the valley in a hurricane. The hoary old hemlocks on the river side
shook and bent and tossed their gnarled limbs over the vexed waters
with terrible fury. The winds roared and held a wild riot on the
hill-tops. In years and years so fierce a gust of weather had not been
known in the mountain passes.
Uncle Nathan bowed his head, and locking his hands, went on.
"It had been threatening weather all day, and everything looked gloomy
inside and outside the house. At sunset the storm commenced just as it
did to-night. It seems to me as if it was only yesterday--no--as if
this was the very night," continued the old man in a faltering voice.
"The wind howled among the trees, and tore down the valley, just as it
does now. The rain came down in buckets full, rolling like volleys of
shot on the roof, pouring in sheets of water over the eaves. Out
yonder you could see the old apple-trees tossing about, and groaning
as they do this minute like live things tormented by the storm. It was
an awful night!"
"It is an awful night _now_!" murmured Mary Fuller, shivering. "How
the rain beats; how the old trees tug and wrestle against the wind!
The valley is full of fierce noises. I cannot even hear the river in
all this rush of wind and water."
"So it was then," said uncle Nathan, "but there was another sound,
that I seem to hear now deep in my very heart."
"What was it, uncle Nathan? A wolf or a panther? Such animals used to
prowl among the hills here, I know."
"It was the cry of a young child, darter, of our Anna's baby; a
little, feeble wail; but I should have heard it, if the storm had been
twice as loud. I had been sitting here, from sundown to ten o'clock,
with no company but my fears and the raging storm. Hannah came, once
or twice, and put her pale face through the door, and went off again
as if she wanted me out of the way, but for the whole world I couldn't
have moved till that little cry came."
"But you went then," said Mary Fuller, deeply moved, "of course you
went then."
"I got up to go, but it was of no use; my knees shook, and knocked
together; the porch seemed whirling around, rain and all; I made one
step toward the out-room; fell into the chair, and burst out a crying.
The baby's voice had taken away all my strength."
"But you didn't sit here all night, in a storm like this!" said Mary.
"After awhile--I don't know how long--I got up and went into the
house. Everything was still as death. I stood at the out-room door and
listened. There was no noise. I thought it was the storm that drowned
everything, and opened the door. Hannah was not there, nor Salina
either, but a window had blown open, and in drifted the rain and wind
over the bed that stood close by it--poor Anna's bed. I could not see
distinctly, my eyes were blinded with the storm that leapt into my
face, and I could hardly close the window agin it.
"At last I got the sash down and went up to Anna's bed. She was
there"--
"Well!" said Mary, at length, in a low whisper.
"She was there--all alone--dead--my little sister Anna!" answered the
old man, covering his face with both hands, and crying till his sobs
were carried away in the louder wail of the storm. "At first I could
not believe it. A candle stood on the table with its wick bent double.
It had swirled away at the sides till the tallow ran down upon the
brass. After I had shut the window, it gave out a steadier light, that
fell on Anna's face. I would not believe it, but bent down and kissed
her on the forehead. My lips were amost as cold as hers then, I
believe. Oh! darter, darter, our poor little Anna was dead--dead--and
cold--with the storm blowing over her."
Mary took uncle Nathan's hand between hers, and kissed it.
"Don't cry," said the old man, gently removing his hand, upon which
her tears had fallen. "_I_ can't help it, but _you_ mustn't cry. It
was very hard at the time, and the old house has never been the same
since,--or, at any rate," continued the kind old man, thoughtful of
Mary's feelings even in his grief, "not till you came."
"But I can't be supposed to fill her place," said Mary, "she, so
bright and handsome."
"I thought," answered uncle Nathan, "as I sat by her bed that night,
and saw her lying there, so young, and with her bright hair falling in
waves down the pillow, that one of God's own angels couldn't have
looked more lovely. She was smiling in her death, just as I'd seen her
a thousand times when she fell asleep. It seemed as if a kiss from
brother Nathan would make her start up, and open those great brown
eyes again; but when I gave the kiss it didn't wake her, but froze me
almost into a stone."
"But the cry you had heard?" said Mary.
"I forgot that, and never thought to ask why every one had left poor
dead Anna alone, with the swirling light and the storm. But the next
day Hannah took me up into her bedroom, and showed me our sister's
child, a little boy, Mary, that might have been a comfort to us. I
couldn't bear to look at it, lying there so innocent, like a young
robin left alone in its nest; the sight of it almost broke my heart."
"But what became of it?"
"Hannah brought it up by hand a few weeks, and then went down to York
with it herself, and left the poor baby with its father."
"How could she?" exclaimed Mary; "I wonder you could part with it."
"I did want to keep him, but Hannah was set in her way, and would not
hear of it. She never looked at the helpless little fellow, as he
slept there in Anna's bed, like a forsaken bird, without turning pale
to the lips. It was enough to kill her!"
"You must have hated to give it up so much though," said Mary.
"She did her duty--Hannah always does, let what will come. Money has
been sent, every year, to help bring the boy up. Let what would come
she always scrimps and saves enough out of the old place for that."
"Perhaps it is this that has put you so behind-hand," suggested the
child, thoughtfully.
"I've often misdoubted it--but she's right. I'd rather see the
Homestead sold, than have Anna's boy want anything; but, somehow, the
drain comes heavier and heavier every year."
"And I! what am I but a burden?" said Mary, in a heart-broken voice.
"What can I do? Surely, God intended some walk of usefulness to every
one of his creation. Oh, uncle Nathan, tell me where mine lies!"
"You ain't much more helpless than I am," answered uncle Nathan,
sadly. "It seems as if the more things go wrong, the more clumsy I
grow, and the heavier I weigh. The chair is getting almost too small
for me, and I ain't fit for anything but sitting now."
Mary shook her head, and a quaint smile stole across her lips in the
darkness.
"You are too large, uncle Nathan, and I am too helpless; we are good
for nothing but to comfort one another."
"Aunt Hannah, you don't know how much she loves us both."
Mary was very thoughtful. The story she had heard for the first time;
the rush of the storm; the darkness that seemed to surround her, body
and soul, was cruelly depressing. It seemed like an epoch in her life,
as if some grave event were approaching in which she must hold a
share.
"Now, darter," said uncle Nathan, laying his hand or her head, "you
and I have got a secret between us. It's the first time in years that
I have mentioned Anna. We needn't be afraid to talk about her now,
when Hannah isn't by."
Just then, amid the turmoil of winds, and the tossing of trees, a
burst of thunder shook the house in every timber. Then came flash
after flash of lightning, shooting long fiery trails through the rain,
and spreading sheets of lurid flame in the air. Another crash, another
burst of fire, and lo! a column of flame shot up into the blackened
sky, lighting the river, the hills, and all the minute surroundings of
uncle Nathan's house; as it were with a fiery cataract.
"It is the dry hemlock by the river-side," cried uncle Nathan; "that
night it was struck for the first time, this night for the last," and
he rushed out bareheaded, into the storm of fire and rain that deluged
the valley.
Mary followed him. A little further down the valley was the
grave-yard. The stones with which it was crowded gleamed cold and
ghastly in the light of the burning hemlock.
On two of these stones, somewhat apart, but facing the same way, Mary
could see the black lines with gloomy distinctness.
"Isn't it strange?" said uncle Nathan, pointing toward the stones,
"isn't it strange that the light should fall strongest on those two
graves, just as we were talking about them for the first time? What is
going to happen now? That night two children came into the world, and
one good soul went out of it. While Farnham's wife lay under her silk
curtains, with her baby warm and sleeping by her side, our Anna lay
alone in her cold bed, and the baby would have been chilled to death
on her bosom. Why was the storm only for our Old Homestead, the
sunshine for them?"
"Perhaps God will explain all this when we get to heaven," answered
Mary, lifting her forehead in the gloomy light. "Come, uncle Nat--come
in."
With gentle violence the girl drew him into the house.
From that night Mary Fuller ceased to be a child. The story of a
woman's wrongs had given her a woman's heart.