THE FARNHAMS' RETURN FROM ABROAD.
There is fruit from the orchard and corn from the field,
For old mother earth gives a bountiful yield;
There is light in the kitchen and fire on the hearth,
The Homestead is ready for feasting and mirth.
It was the day before uncle Nathan's husking-frolic. All the corn
was housed and stacked upon the barn floor, which had been swept and
garnished for the occasion; for after the husking was to come a
dance--not in the house, aunt Hannah had some old-fashioned prejudices
about that--and uncle Nat shrunk from the idea of having a frolic in
the out-room where poor Anna had died; so as the barn was large and
the room sufficient, the play usually ended where the work began,
upon the barn floor, which was always industriously cleared from the
corn-stalks as the husking went on.
Of course it was a busy day at the old house. Salina came early, and
was in full force among the culinary proceedings of the occasion. Aunt
Hannah received a slight exhilaration of life; she moved about the
kitchen more briskly, let her cap get somewhat awry, and twice in the
course of the morning was seen to wear a grim smile, as Mary, in her
active desire to please, brought the flour-duster and nutmeg-grater to
her help, before the rigid lady had quite found out that they were
wanted.
Uncle Nat, too, acted in a very excited and extraordinary manner, all
day running in from the porch, asking breathlessly if he could do
anything, and then subsiding back in his old arm-chair before aunt
Hannah could force her thin lips into a speaking condition.
As for Salina, though her tongue was always ready, she had found the
old man too dull of comprehension for any thought of taking help at
his hands; and when he meekly offered to cut up a huge pumpkin for
her, she paused, with her knife plunged deep into its golden heart,
and informed dear, unconscious uncle Nathan, that she did not require
help from the face of man, not she.
With that, she cut down into the pumpkin with a ferocity quite
startling, and split the two halves apart with a jerk that made the
horn-comb reel among her fiery tresses, and sent uncle Nat quite
aghast through the back door.
Salina looked after him with a smile of grim triumph, snuffed the air
like a victorious race-horse, and after forcing the half-dislodged
comb into her hair with both hands, she proceeded to cut up the
pumpkin into great yellow hoops, with another toss of her head, which
denoted intense satisfaction.
It is possible that Salina would have been a little provoked, had she
seen with what composure uncle Nat took the rebuff, and how quietly he
settled down to a basket of large potatoes by the barn door, which he
softly cut in twain, scooping each half out in the centre, and cutting
off the bottoms with mysterious earnestness. As each potatoe was
finished, uncle Nat fastened it to the edge of a new hogshead-hoop
that lay on the floor beside him, till the whole circle was dotted
with them.
When this mysterious circle was completed, uncle Nat tied a cord to
the four divisions of the hoop, and with the aid of a stout ladder,
suspended it between two high beams in the centre of the barn. Having
descended to the floor and taken a general observation of the effect,
he was about to mount the ladder again, when Mary Fuller ran in, eager
to make herself useful.
"Stop, stop, uncle Nathan, let me go up, while you set down on the
corn-stalks and tell me if I place them right. Here, now, hand up the
candles," she continued, stooping down from the ladder after she had
mounted a round or two.
Uncle Nathan drew a bundle of candles from his capacious coat-pocket
and reached them up.
"I hope there'll be enough," he said, regretfully, "but somehow Hannah
is getting rather close with her candles."
"Plenty--plenty," answered Mary Fuller, "we'll scatter them about, you
know; besides, Salina brought over half a dozen nice sperm ones."
"Did she?" said uncle Nathan, heaving a deep sigh, "that's very good
of her, especially as she seems to be a little out of sorts lately
with us--don't you think so, Mary?"
"Not at all," said Mary, laughing blithely from the top of the ladder,
as she settled the candles each into the potatoe socket prepared for
it. "Salina's cross sometimes, but then it amounts to nothing."
The old man sat down on a bundle of corn-stalks, and quietly gazed
upon Mary as she proceeded with her task; but all at once the
folding-door was softly opened, and a broad light flooded the barn.
"Jump down--jump down, Mary!" cried uncle Nat, "some one is coming."
"Oh! it's only me, don't mind me, you know," said a sharp, little
weasel-eyed man gliding through the opening; "yes, I see, preparing
for the husking frolic. All right, just the thing, labor gives value
to everything--of course corn is worth more with the husks off."
At first uncle Nathan seemed a little startled by this abrupt
entrance, and Mary came down the ladder with an anxious look, for this
man was the village constable, and with a vague sense of debts that
they did not comprehend, both the old man and girl received him with
something like apprehension. But he clasped both hands under his coat
behind, and looked so complacently first at the corn-stalks, then at
uncle Nathan, that it quite assured the old man; though Mary, who had
glided down the ladder, and stood close by his side, still bore an
apprehensive look in her eyes.
"Fine corn!" said the constable, breaking off an ear, and stripping
the husk carelessly from the golden grain, "the rows are even as a
girl's teeth, the grain plump and full as her heart I say, uncle
Nathan, why didn't you invite me to the husking? I'm great on that
sort of work."
"Didn't Hannah invite you?" answered uncle Nat, blushing at this
implied charge of inhospitality. "If she didn't, I'll do it now, of
course we should be glad to have you come--why not?"
"Of course--why not? If I can't dance like some of the young fellows
at a regular strife, I'll husk more corn than the best on 'em. See if
any of 'em has as big a heap as I do after the husking. Oh, yes,
I'll come!"
"What are you coming for?" inquired Mary, in her low, quiet way,
fixing her clear eyes on his face.
"To dance with you, of course and to drink the old man's cider--what
else should I come for, little bob-o'-link?"
"I don't know," answered Mary, with a faint sigh, which uncle Nat did
not hear, for he was busy gathering himself up from his low seat on
the bundle of stalks.
"Won't you step in and take a drink of cider now?" said the kind old
man to his visitor.
"No, thank you; but this evening, you may depend on it, I'll be among
you."
As he said this, constable Boyd put on his hat, settled it a little on
one side, and thrusting a hand into each pocket of his coat, walked
with a great dignity toward the door.
A yoke of oxen, fat, sleek, Old Homestead animals, lay in the grass a
little distance from the barn.
"Fine yoke of cattle," said the constable, sauntering toward them,
"fat enough to kill a'most, ain't they?"
"I fed them myself," answered uncle Nathan, patting a white star on
the forehead of the nearest animal, as he lay upon his knees half
buried in the rich aftergrowth. "Isn't he an old beauty?"
"Kind in the yoke?" questioned the constable.
"I should think so!" answered uncle Nat, with a mellow laugh. "Come go
in and see how the women folks get along."
"No, thank you, I'll just take a short cut across the garden; but you
may depend on me to-night--good day."
"Good day," said uncle Nat; with his usual hearty manner, and picking
up a fragment of pine, he moved with it toward the porch.
A barrel of new cider had been mounted on the cheese-press. It was
evidently just beginning to ferment, for drops were foaming up from
the bung, and creaming down each side the barrel in two slender
rivulets.
Uncle Nathan drove the bung down with his clenched hand. Then seating
himself comfortably in the old arm-chair, took a double-bladed knife
from his pocket, and began with great neatness to whittle out a spigot
from the fragment of pine, sighing heavily now and then, as if some
unaccountable pressure were on his mind.
Aunt Hannah crossed the porch once or twice on her way to the
milk-room, and at each time uncle Nat ceased whittling and gazed
wistfully after her. Once he parted his lips to speak, but that moment
Salina came to the kitchen door with a quantity of apple-parings
gathered up in her apron, and called out, "Miss Hannah, do come along
with that colander, the pumpkin sarse will be biled dry as a
chip--where on arth is Mary Fuller?"
"Here," answered Mary, in a low voice, coming down from her chamber.
Had Salina looked up she might have seen that Mary's eyes were heavy
and moist, as if she had been weeping, but the strong-minded maiden
had emptied her apron, and sat with a large earthen bowl in her lap,
beating a dozen eggs tempestuously together, as if they had given her
mortal offence, and she were taking revenge with every dash of her
hand.
"Throw a stick or two of wood into the oven, Mary, that's a good girl,
then take these eggs and beat them like all possessed, while I roll
out the gingerbread and cut some brake leaves in the pie crust. Aunt
Hannah now always will cut the leaves all the way of a size, as if any
one with half an eye couldn't see that it isn't the way they grow by
nature, but broad at the bottom and tapering off like an Injun arrow
at the top. Besides, Mary, it's between us, you know, aunt Hannah
never does make her thumb-marks even about the edges, but Nathan, now
I dare say, don't know the difference between her work, and a leaf
like that."
Salina had resigned her bowl while speaking, and was now lifting up
the transparent upper crust of a pie, where she had cut a leaf,
through which the light gleamed as if it had been lace-work.
"Look a-there, now, Mary Fuller, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he
never noticed the difference between this and that outlandish
concern;" here Salina pointed, with a grim smile, to a neatly-covered
pie which aunt Hannah had left ready for the oven, and added, with a
profound shake of the head, which arose from that want of appreciation
which is said to be the hunger of genius, "there's no use of exerting
one's self when nobody seems to mind it."
With these words Salina spread down the crust of her pie, and lifting
the platter on one hand cut around it with a flourish of the
case-knife, and began a pinching the edges with a determined pressure
of the lips, as if she had quite made up her mind that every
indentation of her thumb should leave its fellow on uncle Nat's
insensible heart.
"There," she said, pushing the pie against that of aunt Hannah's, "see
if any one knows the difference between that and that--I know they
won't--there now!"
This was said with a dash of defiance, as if she expected Mary to
contradict her, but the young girl sat languidly beating the eggs,
lost in thought; something very sad seemed to have come over her.
"Humph?" said Salina, snuffing the air, "what's the use talking!" and
seizing the rolling-pin, she began with both hands to press out a flat
of gingerbread, and proceeded to cut it up into square cards, which
she marked in stripes with the back of her knife. Just then aunt
Hannah came from the out-room rapidly, and with a strange look in her
usually cold eyes.
"Goodness gracious, what's the matter now?" cried the strong-minded
maiden, pointing her case-knife toward the old lady, "one would think
she'd seen a bear or a painter! What is it now, do tell?"
Aunt Hannah did not reply, but sat down in uncle Nat's arm-chair in
silence. Mary looked up with strange confusion in her eyes; she
fancied that the cause of aunt Hannah's agitation might be the same
that had filled her own mind with forebodings, and her look was
eloquent of sympathy.
Salina failing to obtain an answer, rushed into the front room, still
grasping her knife, and thrust her head out of the window.
A travelling carriage was passing rather slowly, which contained three
persons, two ladies and a gentleman. The ladies leaned forward,
looking out toward the house. Never were two faces more strongly
contrasted than those; the elder, pale, withered and thin, glanced out
from a rather showy travelling bonnet for an instant, and was drawn
back again; the other, dark, sparkling and beautiful, was turned with
a look of eager interest toward the house, and as Salina gazed after
the carriage, a little gloved hand was waved toward her, as if a
recognition or adieu were intended.
"Well now, I never did, if that isn't--no--yes--goodness me--it is
Miss Farnham!"
Back ran the maiden to the kitchen, untying her apron as she went. She
flung the case-knife upon the table, and began vigorously dusting the
flour from her hands.
"Where's my own bonnet? where's my shawl? I must be going--aunt
Hannah, now do guess who was in that are carriage."
"I know!" answered the old woman, in a hoarse voice.
Mary Fuller sat motionless, with her eager eyes on Salina, and her
lips gently parted. Thus she looked the question her lips refused to
utter.
"Yes, it's them, Mary. The old woman, Mr. Frederick and"--
"And Isabel, is she with them?"
"Well, I suppose it's her, by the way she put out her hand--but she's
grown as beautiful as a blooming wild rose, I can tell you. Now, good
day, don't let them pies burn or have them underdone at the bottom.
I'll try and run over to-night, but you mustn't depend on me; every
thing is uncertain where Miss Farnham is."
Away went Salina through the out-room and into the street. Long before
aunt Hannah arose from her easy-chair, or Mary Fuller could conquer
the joyous trepidation in which she had been thrown, the strong-minded
maiden had disappeared along the curving shore of the river.
After awhile aunt Hannah arose and went on with her preparation, but
in silence, and with a degree of nervous haste that Mary had never
witnessed in her before.