THE HOMESTEAD.
It stood at the end of a grassy avenue or lane a little distance from
the electric road between Worcester and Spencer, its outside chimneys
covered with woodbine and its sharp gables distinctly visible as the
cars wound up the steep Leicester hill. Just what its age was no one
knew exactly. Relic-hunters who revel in antiquities put it at one
hundred and fifty. But the oldest inhabitant in the town, who was an
authority for everything ancient, said that when he was a small boy it
was comparatively new, and considered very fine on account of its gables
and brass knocker, and, as he was ninety-five or six, the house was
probably over a hundred. It was built by a retired sea-captain from
Boston, and after his death it changed hands several times until it was
bought by the Hallams, who lived there so long and were so highly
esteemed that it came to bear their name, and was known as the Hallam
Homestead. After the death of Carter Hallam’s father it was occupied by
different parties, and finally became the property of a Mr. Leighton,
who rather late in life had married a girl from Georgia, where he had
been for a time a teacher. Naturally scholarly and fond of books, he
would have preferred teaching, but his young wife, accustomed to
plantation life, said she should be happier in the country, and so he
bought the Homestead and commenced farming, with very little knowledge
of what ought to be done and very little means with which to do it.
Under such circumstances he naturally grew poorer every year, while his
wife’s artistic tastes did not help the matter. Remembering her father’s
plantation with its handsome grounds and gardens, she instituted
numerous changes in and about the house, which made it more attractive,
but did not add to its value. The big chimney was taken down and others
built upon the outside, after the Southern style. A wide hall was put
through the centre where the chimney had been; a broad double piazza was
built in front, while the ground was terraced down to the orchard below,
where a rustic bridge was thrown across the little brook where Carter
and Jack Hallam had built their water-wheel. Other changes the ambitious
little Georgian was contemplating, when she died suddenly and was
carried back to sleep under her native pines, leaving her husband
utterly crushed at his loss, with the care of two little girls, Dorcas
and Bertha, and a mortgage of two thousand dollars upon his farm. For
some years he scrambled on as best he could with hired help, giving all
his leisure time to educating and training his daughters, who were as
unlike each other as two sisters well could be. Dorcas, the elder, was
fair and blue-eyed, and round and short and matter-of-fact, caring more
for the farm and the house than for books, while Bertha was just the
opposite, and, with her soft brown hair, bright eyes, brilliant
complexion, and graceful, slender figure, was the exact counterpart of
her beautiful Southern mother when she first came to the Homestead; but
otherwise she was like her father, caring more for books than for the
details of every-day life.
“Dorcas is to be housekeeper, and I the wage-earner, to help pay off the
mortgage which troubles father so much,” she said, and when she was
through school she became book-keeper for the firm of Swartz & Co., of
Boston, with a salary of four hundred dollars a year. Dorcas, who was
two years older, remained at home as housekeeper. And a very thrifty one
she made, seeing to everything and doing everything, from making butter
to making beds, for she kept no help. The money thus saved was put
carefully by towards paying the mortgage coming due in October. By the
closest economy it had been reduced from two thousand to one thousand,
and both Dorcas and Bertha were straining every nerve to increase the
fund which was to liquidate the debt.
It was not very often that Bertha indulged in the luxury of coming home,
for even that expense was something, and every dollar helped. But on the
Saturday following the appearance of Mrs. Hallam’s advertisement in the
New York _Herald_ she was coming to spend Sunday for the first time in
several weeks. These visits were great events at the Homestead, and
Dorcas was up as soon as the first robin chirped in his nest in the big
apple-tree which shaded the rear of the house and was now odorous and
beautiful with its clusters of pink-and-white blossoms. There was
churning to do that morning, and butter to get off to market, besides
the usual Saturday’s cleaning and baking, which included all Bertha’s
favorite dishes. There was Bertha’s room to be gone over with broom and
duster, and all the vases and handleless pitchers to be filled with
daffies and tulips and great bunches of apple-blossoms and a clump or
two of the trailing arbutus which had lingered late in the woods. But
Dorcas’s work was one of love; if she were tired she scarcely thought of
it at all, and kept steadily on until everything was done. In her
afternoon gown and white apron she sat down to rest awhile on the piazza
overlooking the valley, thinking as she did so what a lovely place it
was, with its large, sunny rooms, wide hall, and fine view, and how
dreadful it would be to lose it.
“Five hundred dollars more we must have, and where it is to come from I
do not know. Bertha always says something will turn up, but I am not so
hopeful,” she said, sadly. Then, glancing at the clock, she saw that it
was nearly time for the car which would bring her sister from the
Worcester station. “I’ll go out to the cross-road and meet her,” she
thought, just as she heard the sharp clang of the bell and saw the
trolley-pole as it came up the hill. A moment more, and Bertha alighted
and came rapidly towards her.
“You dear old Dor, I’m so glad to see you and be home again,” Bertha
said, giving up her satchel and umbrella and putting her arm caressingly
around Dorcas’s neck as she walked, for she was much the taller of the
two.
It was a lovely May afternoon, and the place was at its best in the warm
sunlight, with the fresh green grass and the early flowers and the apple
orchard full of blossoms which filled the air with perfume.
“Oh, this is delightful, and it is so good to get away from that close
office and breathe this pure air,” Bertha said, as she went from room to
room, and then out upon the piazza, where she stood taking in deep
inhalations and seeming to Dorcas to grow brighter and fresher with each
one. “Where is father?” she asked at last.
“Here, daughter,” was answered, as Mr. Leighton, who had been to the
village, came through a rear door.
He was a tall, spare man, with snowy hair and a stoop in his shoulders,
which told of many years of hard work. But the refinement in his manner
and the gentleness in his face were indicative of good breeding, and a
life somewhat different from that which he now led.
Bertha was at his side in a moment, and had him down in a rocking-chair,
and was sitting on an arm of it, brushing the thin hair back from his
forehead, while she looked anxiously into his face, which wore a more
troubled expression than usual, although he evidently tried to hide it.
“What is it, father? Are you very tired?” she asked, at last, and he
replied;
“No, daughter, not very; and if I were the sight of you would rest me.”
Catching sight of the corner of an envelope in his vest pocket, with a
woman’s quick intuition, she guessed that it had something to do with
his sadness.
“You have a letter. Is there anything in it about that hateful
mortgage?” she said.
“It is all about the mortgage. There’s a way to get rid of it,” he
answered, while his voice trembled, and something in his eyes, as he
looked into Bertha’s, made her shiver a little; but she kissed him
lovingly, and said very low:
“Yes, father. I know there is a way,” her lips quivering as she said it,
and a lump rising in her throat as if she were smothering.
“Will you read the letter?” he asked, and she answered:
“Not now; let us have supper first. I am nearly famished, and long to
get at Dor’s rolls and broiled chicken, which I smelled before I left
the car at the cross-roads.”
She was very gay all through the supper, although a close observer might
have seen a cloud cross her bright face occasionally, and a look of pain
and preoccupation in her eyes; but she laughed and chatted merrily,
asking about the neighbors and the farm, and when supper was over helped
Dorcas with her dishes and the evening work, sang snatches of the last
opera, and told her sister about the new bell skirt just coming into
fashion, and how she could cut over her old ones like it. When
everything was done she seemed to nerve herself to some great effort,
and, going to her father said:
“Now for the letter. From whom is it?”
“Gorham, the man who holds the mortgage,” Mr. Leighton replied.
“Oh-h, Gorham!” and Bertha’s voice was full of intense relief. “I
thought perhaps it was —— but no matter, that will come later. Let us
hear what Mr. Gorham has to say. He cannot foreclose till October,
anyhow.”
“And not then, if we do what he proposes. This is it,” Mr. Leighton
said, as he began to read the letter, which was as follows:
“BROOKLYN, N. Y., May —, 18—.
“MR. LEIGHTON:
“DEAR SIR,—A gentleman in New York wishes to purchase a farm in the
country, where he can spend a part of the summer and autumn, fishing
and fox-hunting and so on. From what he has heard of your place and
the woods around it, he thinks it will suit him exactly, and in the
course of a few weeks proposes to go out and see it. As he has ample
means, he will undoubtedly pay you a good price, cash down, and that
will relieve you of all trouble with the mortgage. I still think I
must have my money in October, as I have promised it elsewhere.
“Very truly,
“JOHN GORHAM.”
“Well?” Mr. Leighton said, as he finished reading the letter, and looked
inquiringly at his daughters.
Bertha, who was very pale, was the first to speak. “Do you want to leave
the old home?” she asked, and her father replied, in a choking voice,
“No, oh, no. I have lived here twenty-seven years, and know every rock
and tree and shrub, and love them all. I brought your mother here a
bride and a slip of a girl like you, who are so much like her that
sometimes when I see you flitting around and hear your voice I think for
a moment she has come back to me again. You were both born here. Your
mother died here, and here I want to die. But what is the use of
prolonging the struggle? I have raked and scraped and saved in every
possible way to pay the debt contracted so long ago, the interest of
which has eaten up all my profits, and I have got within five hundred
dollars of it, but do not see how I can get any further. I may sell a
few apples and some hay, but I’ll never borrow another dollar, and if
this New York chap offers a good price we’d better sell. Dorcas and I
can rent a few rooms somewhere in Boston, maybe, and we shall all be
together till I die, which, please God, will not be very long.”
His face was white, with a tired, discouraged look upon it pitiful to
see, while Dorcas, who cried easily, was sobbing aloud. But Bertha’s
eyes were round and bright and dry, and there was a ring in her voice as
she said, “You will _not_ die, and you will not sell the place. Horses
and dogs and fox-hunts, indeed! I’d like to see that New Yorker plunging
through the fields and farms with his horses and hounds, for that is
what fox-hunting means. He would be mobbed in no time. Who is he, I
wonder? I should like to meet him and give him a piece of my mind.”
She was getting excited, and her cheeks were scarlet as she kissed her
father again and said, “Write and tell that New Yorker to stay where he
is, and take his foxes to some other farm. He cannot have ours, nor any
one else. Micawber-like, I believe something will turn up; I am sure of
it; only give me time.”
Then, rising from her chair, she went swiftly out into the twilight,
and, crossing the road, ran down the terrace to a bit of broken wall,
where she sat down and watched the night gathering on the distant hills
and over the woods, and fought the battle which more than one unselfish
woman has fought,—a battle between inclination and what seemed to be
duty. If she chose, she could save the farm with a word and make her
father’s last days free from care. There was a handsome house in Boston
of which she might be mistress any day, with plenty of money at her
command to do with as she pleased. But the owner was old compared to
herself, forty at least, and growing bald; he called her Berthy, and was
not at all like the ideal she had in her mind of the man whom she could
love,—who was really more like one who might hunt foxes and ride his
horses through the fields, while she rode by his side, than like the
commonplace Mr. Sinclair, who had asked her twice to be his wife. At her
last refusal only a few days ago he had said he should not give her up
yet, but should write her father for his co-operation, and it was from
him she feared the New York letter had come when she saw it in her
father’s pocket. She knew he was honorable and upright and would be kind
and generous to her and her family, but she had dreamed of a different
love, and she could not listen to his suit unless it were to save the
old home for her father and Dorcas.
For a time she sat weighing in the balance her love for them and her
love for herself, while darkness deepened around her and the air grew
heavy with the scent of the apple-blossoms and the grove of pine-trees
not far away; yet she was no nearer a decision than when she first sat
down. It was strange that in the midst of her intense thinking, the
baying of hounds, the tramp of horses’ feet, and the shout of many
voices should ring in her ears so distinctly that once, as some bushes
stirred near her, she turned, half expecting to see the hunted fox
fleeing for his life, and, with an impulse to save him from his
pursuers, put out both her hands.
“This is a queer sort of hallucination, and it comes from that New York
letter,” she thought, just as from under a cloud where it had been
hidden the new moon sailed out to the right of her. Bertha was not
superstitious, but, like many others, she clung to some of the
traditions of her childhood, and the new moon seen over the right
shoulder was one of them. She always framed a wish when she saw it, and
she did so now, involuntarily repeating the words she had so often used
when a child:
“New moon, new moon, listen to me,
And grant the boon I ask of thee,”
and then, almost as seriously as if it were a prayer, she wished that
something might occur to keep the home for her father and herself from
Mr. Sinclair.
“I don’t believe much in the new moon, it has cheated me so often; but I
do believe in presentiments, and I have one that something will turn up.
I’ll wait awhile and see,” she said, as the silvery crescent was lost
again under a cloud. Beginning to feel a little chilly, she went back to
the house, where she found her father reading his evening paper.
This reminded her of a New York _Herald_ she had bought on the car of a
little newsboy, whose ragged coat and pleasant face had decided her to
refuse the chocolates offered her by a larger boy and take the paper
instead. It was lying on the table, where she had put it when she first
came in. Taking it up, she sat down and opened it. Glancing from page to
page, she finally reached the advertisements, and her eye fell upon that
of Mrs. Hallam.
“Oh, father, Dorcas, I told you something would turn up, and there has!
Listen!” and she read the advertisement aloud. “The very thing I most
desired has come. I have always wanted to go to Europe, but never
thought I could, on account of the expense, and here it is, all paid,
and five hundred dollars besides. That will save the place. I did not
wish the new moon for nothing. Something has turned up.”
“But, Bertha,” said the more practical Dorcas, “what reason have you to
think you will get the situation? There are probably more than five
hundred applicants for it,—one for each dollar.”
“I know I shall. I feel it as I have felt other things which have come
to me. Theosophic presentiments I call them.”
Dorcas went on: “And if it does come, I don’t see how it will help the
mortgage due in October. You will not get your pay in advance, and
possibly not until the end of the year.”
“I shall borrow the money and give my note,” Bertha answered, promptly.
“Anybody will trust me. Swartz & Co. will, anyway, knowing that I shall
come back and work it out if Mrs. Hallam fails me. By the way, that is
the name of the people who lived here years ago. Perhaps Mrs. Carter
belongs to the family. Do you know where they are, father?”
Mr. Leighton said he did not. He thought, however, they were all dead,
while Dorcas asked, “If you are willing to borrow money of Swartz & Co.,
why don’t you try Cousin Louie, and pay her in installments?”
“Cousin Louie!” Bertha repeated. “That would be borrowing of her proud
husband, Fred Thurston, who, since I have been a bread-winner, never
sees me in the street if he can help it. I’d take in washing before I’d
ask a favor of him. My heart is set upon Europe, if Mrs. Hallam will
have me, and you do not oppose me too strongly.”
“But I must oppose you,” her father said; and then followed a long and
earnest discussion between Mr. Leighton, Dorcas, and Bertha, the result
of which was that Bertha was to wait a few days and consider the matter
before writing to Mrs. Hallam.
That night, however, after her father had retired, she dashed off a
rough draught of what she meant to say and submitted it to Dorcas for
approval. It was as follows:
“MRS. HALLAM:
“MADAM,—I have seen your advertisement for a companion, and shall be
glad of the situation. My name is Bertha Leighton. I am twenty-two
years old, and was graduated at the Charlestown Seminary three years
ago. I am called a good reader, and ought to be a good accountant, as
for two years I have been book-keeper in the firm of Swartz & Co.,
Boston. I am not very handy with my needle, for want of practice, but
can soon learn. While in school I took lessons in French of a native
teacher, who complimented my pronunciation and quickness to
comprehend. Consequently I think I shall find no difficulty in
understanding the language after a little and making myself
understood. I enclose my photograph, which flatters me somewhat. My
address is
“BERTHA LEIGHTON,
“No. — Derring St., Boston, Mass.”
“I think it covers the whole business,” Bertha said to Dorcas, who
objected to one point. “The photograph does not flatter you,” she said,
while Bertha insisted that it did, as it represented a much more
stylish-looking young woman than Mrs. Carter Hallam’s companion ought to
be. “I wonder what sort of woman she is? I somehow fancy she is a snob,”
she said; “but, snob me all she pleases, she cannot keep me from seeing
Europe, and I don’t believe she will try to cheat me out of my wages.”