AT BEECHWOOD.
_The Author’s Story._
The great house at Beechwood was closed, and the first September
sunshine which lay so warmly on the grassy lawn and blooming
flower-garden, found no entrance through the doors and curtained windows
of what had been Margaret Russell’s home, and whither they were bringing
her lifeless form. During the past week there had been hot, passionate
tears wept in that desolate home, and touching childish prayers made
that God would spare the sick mother till her broken-hearted boy could
tell how sorry he was for the angry words spoken to her, and for the
many acts of disobedience which came thronging around him like so many
accusing spirits. Poor Johnnie’s heart was almost crushed when he heard
that his mother must die, and calling Ben and Burt to him, he bade them
kneel with him, and ask that God would give her back to them alive. And
so with concern for Johnnie on their baby faces, rather than concern for
their mother, the two little boys prayed that “God would make mamma
well, and not let her die, or anyway send home Auntie Dora.”
This was Ben’s idea, and it brought a world of comfort, making him ask
Johnnie “if it wouldn’t be nicer after all to have Auntie than mamma.”
“Perhaps it would, if I hadn’t been so _sassy_ to her that morning,
twitting her about not caring for us like Auntie, and telling her to
_dry up_. Oh, oh!” and the conscience-smitten boy rolled on the floor in
his first real sorrow.
To Ben, looking on in wonder, there came a thought fraught, as he hoped,
with comfort to his brother, and pursing up his little mouth, he said:
“Pho! I wouldn’t keel over like that ’cause I’d said _dry up_. ’Taint a
swear. It’s a real nice word, and all the boys in the street say so.”
Still Johnnie was not comforted, and in a state of terrible suspense he
waited from day to day until the fatal morning when there came a
telegram which he spelled out with Burt and Ben sitting on the doorstep
beside him, their fat hands on his knee, and their little round dirty
faces turned inquiringly towards him as he read:
“SARATOGA, August 31st.
“Your mother died at midnight. We shall be home to-morrow, on the
evening train.”
There was at first no sudden outburst, but a compressed quivering of the
lip, a paling of the cheek, a hopeless look in the eyes, which closed
tightly as Johnnie began to realize the truth. Then, with a loud, wild
cry, he threw himself upon the grass, while Ben and Burt laughed
gleefully at the contortions of body which they fancied were made for
their amusement. At last, however, they too understood it partially, and
Ben tried to imitate his brother’s method of expressing grief by also
rolling in the grass, while Burt, thinking intently for a moment, said,
with a sigh of relief:
“I’m plaguy glad Aunty isn’t dead too.”
And this was all the consolation there was in that home at Beechwood.
Dora was not dead. She was coming home and would bring sunshine with
her. With a desire to have everything done in accordance with her taste,
and also with a view to honor his mother’s memory, Johnnie, roused at
last, and without a word of consultation with any one, sought the old
colored sexton, bidding him toll the bell, and adding with a quivering
lip:
“It’s for my mother, and if you’ll toll it extra for an hour I’ll give
you half a dollar now, and a bushel of shag-barks in the fall.”
It did not occur to the negro that possibly some higher authority than
Johnnie’s was needful ere he proceeded to toll for a person dead in
Saratoga, but love of gain and shag-barks predominated over other
feelings, and for a full hour and a quarter the bell from the old
church-steeple rang out its solemn tones, tolling till the villagers
wondered if it would never stop, and repaired, some of them, to the
spot, where Johnnie sat like a second Shylock, holding the sexton’s
watch and keeping accurate note of time as the old man bent to his task,
and tolled that long requiem for Margaret Russell. This done Johnnie
wended his way to a dry-goods store, and before nightfall there were
streamers of crape hanging from the gate and from every door-knob, while
a band of the same was tied around the arms of Ben and Burt, who wore
them quietly for a time and then made what they called horse blankets
for their velocipede. Poor little babies of four and five, they knew no
better, and only acted as other children do when left wholly to
themselves. Years hence they will weep for the mother scarcely
remembered, but now her death was nothing to them, except as they saw
the deep distress of Johnnie, who, long after they were sleeping in
their cribs, sobbed passionately upon his pillow, sorrowing most of all
for the angry words spoken to the mother who would never know his grief.
How long to him were the hours of the next day, when they waited for the
dead. It was also a day of peace and quiet, for owing to Johnnie’s
continual efforts there was only a single fight between the little boys,
who otherwise comported themselves with admirable propriety, asking
often when Aunt Dora would come, and if Johnnie was sure she was not
dead too?
At last the train came screaming in, and shortly after the hearse
stopped before the gate, while the coffin was brought slowly up the walk
and placed in the darkened parlor. With a great sobbing cry Johnnie
sprang towards Dora, but suddenly checked himself, as there flashed upon
his mind that to his father belonged the first greeting of sorrow. And
who that has passed through such a scene that knows not the comfort
there is in the sympathy of a warm-hearted child! Squire Russell felt it
keenly, as he held his first-born in his arms and heard his boyish
attempts at consolation.
“We’ll love each other more, father, now our mother’s gone. Poor father,
don’t cry so hard. If you’ll stop I’ll try to do so too. We’ve got Aunt
Dora left and all the children. Benny, come and kiss poor father,
because mother is dead.”
Such were Johnnie’s words, and they fell soothingly on the father’s
heart, making him think he had not lost everything which made his life
desirable. He had his children still, and he had Dora too. She was in
the nursery now, with Ben and Burt clinging to her neck, and asking why
she cried when they were so glad to have her back, asking, too, what
made mamma so cold, and why she was sleeping in that long queer box on
the parlor table. They did not know what death meant, and continued
their questionings until their eyelids closed in slumber, and they
forgot the long box on the parlor table, with the mother sleeping in it.
The night was hot and sultry, and as Dora lay tossing restlessly, she
fancied she heard a sound from the parlor, which was just beneath her
room, and throwing on her dressing-gown she went noiselessly down the
stairs to the parlor door, which was open, and saw a little form
kneeling by the coffin and talking to the unconscious dead.
“O mother, maybe you can hear me; I’m Johnnie, and I’m so sorry I was
ever bad to you, and made your head ache so! Poor mother, I used to
think I loved Aunt Dora best, but now I know I didn’t! There’s nothing
like a mother, and I was going to tell you so when you got home, but
you’re dead and I can’t! O mother! mother! will you never know?”
“She does; she did know, Johnnie, for I told her,” Dora said, advancing
into the room and taking the child in her arms; “I told her you were
sorry, and she forgave you freely, sending you messages of love, and
bidding me cut her longest, brightest curl for you. I did so, Johnnie;
it is in my room, and to-morrow you shall have it.”
“Why not to-night?” Johnnie pleaded, and so his aunt brought him the
lock of hair cut from Margaret’s head, the mother’s last memento, which
Johnny took with him to his room, sleeping more quietly because of that
tress of hair upon his pillow.
It was a long procession which followed Margaret to her grave, and for
the sake of Johnnie the sexton again tolled for the dead, until the
husband and the sister wished the sad sounds would cease. Sadly they
returned to the house, leaving Margaret behind them, and missing her
more than one month ago they would have thought it possible. But as the
days went by the family gradually resumed its wonted cheerfulness, for
Dora was there still: their head, their blessing, and comforter. Many
lonely hours Squire Russell experienced, it is true, but there was
always a solace in knowing that Dora would welcome him home after a
brief and necessary absence; that Dora would preside at his table, and
keep his children in order; that Dora, in short, would do everything
which the most faithful of sisters could do. The children, too, clung to
Dora even more than they were wont to do; and little Daisy, taught by
Clem, the nurse-maid, called her _mamma_, a name which Ben and Burt were
quick to catch, and which Dora did not like to hear, especially if the
father chanced to be present.
At Dora’s heart there was a constant dread of some impending evil, and
when, three weeks after Margaret’s death, she stood one night alone with
Dr. West, listening to his farewell, she felt again a longing to throw
herself on his protection, and thus she might be saved from danger. But
the doctor, though treating her with the utmost tenderness, had never
broached the subject of his love since that time at Anna’s grave, where
she answered him so indifferently. Her foolish words had hurt him more
since than they did then, causing him sometimes to wonder if she did
really care for him. If not, or if the germ of her affection was as yet
very small, it was better not to press the matter, but let it take its
course; and so, trusting that absence would do all that he wished done,
he only said good-by as he would have said it to a dear sister, and
hardly so, for when he would have kissed the sister, he left Dora
unkissed, fancying she would be better pleased with such a parting. His
caresses had wearied Anna, and he would not err this way again, so he
never touched the lips which would have paid him back so gladly, but
merely pressed the little hand which trembled in his, as he said to her,
“A year is not very long, Dora. It will pass sooner than we think, and
you must not forget me.” Another pressure of the hand, and he was gone,
leaving the maiden far more desolate than he dreamed. Could he have
known how fast the tears came, when alone in her room she went over with
the parting and said to herself, “He does not love me now. My
waywardness has sickened him;” could he have seen her when in the early
dawn she watched him as he left the house for the last time, he would
have turned back, and by taking her with him, or staying himself with
her, would have saved her from the dark storm which would bear her down
with its mighty force.
But this he did not know, and he went his way to Morrisville, where his
mother waited for him, and where Jessie, just returned from Saratoga,
sparkled, and flashed, and flitted around him, asking him to write
occasionally to her father, and tell them of California.
“Why not write to _you_?” he replied, and Jessie responded at once:
“To me, then, if you like; I shall be delighted.”
Judge Verner, and Bell, and Mattie Randall all heard this conversation,
and so there could be no harm in it, Jessie thought, while the others
thought the same, knowing that the light-hearted girl was already
corresponding with at least ten gentlemen, for not one of whom did she
care in the least. She was a merry little creature, and she made the
doctor’s stay at Morrisville much pleasanter than it would otherwise
have been, and after he was fairly on the sea, she wrote to Dora a
glowing account of “the perfectly splendid time she had with Doctor
West, the best and most agreeable man in the world. We are going to
correspond, too,” she added in a postscript, “and that will make the
eleventh gentleman on my list. I want it an even dozen, and then I’ll be
satisfied.”
Dora knew Jessie was a flirt, but this did not lessen the pang with
which she read that Jessie, and not herself, was to be the recipient of
the doctor’s letters. Never had the autumn seemed so dreary to her
before; and when the first wintry snows were falling she shrank, with a
nervous dread, from the coming months, with the long, long evenings,
when there would be nothing to occupy her time, except, indeed, the
children, or the game of chess which she played nightly with her
brother.
For one who at first mourned so sorely for the dead, the squire had
recovered his spirits wonderfully, and the villagers even hinted that,
as is usual with widowers, his dress had undergone a change, being now
more youthful and stylish than in former days when Margaret was alive.
Young girls blushed when he appeared at any of the social gatherings,
while the older ones grew very conscious of themselves, and the mothers
were excessively polite and gracious to the squire. He was happier than
he used to be, notwithstanding that he went twice a week to Margaret’s
grave, and always spoke of her as “my dear wife.” It soothed his
conscience to do this, particularly as he felt how much he enjoyed going
home from Margaret’s grave, and finding order and quiet and pleasant
words, where once there had been confusion and fretful complaints. Dora
was very pretty in her mourning-garb, with the simple linen band about
her neck and wrists, for she would relieve the sombre aspect of her
dress with a show of white, even if it were not the fashion. There was
not much color in her cheeks, and her eyes were larger than usual, but
to the squire and the children she was very beautiful, moving among them
as their household goddess, and always speaking so lovingly and kind.
Once, and only once, there came a letter from Dr. West,—a friendly
letter, which any one might read, and which said that he was at
Marysville, with his mother, whose health was greatly improved.
“I like the country much,” he wrote, “and if I had with me a few of my
Eastern friends I should be willing to settle here for life; but, as it
is, I find myself looking forward eagerly to the time when I shall
return and meet you all again.”
This passage Squire John read twice, and then glanced again at the “My
Dear Dora” with which the letter commenced.
“The doctor is very affectionate,” he said, “calling you ‘Dear Dora,’
though perhaps he has a right, for I remember thinking he admired you.”
Dora was bending over Daisy, whom she was rocking to sleep, and he did
not see her blushes as she replied:
“That is a very common way of addressing people, and means nothing at
all.”
Perhaps the squire believed this, but he was quite absent-minded the
remainder of the day, and in the evening was twice checkmated by Dora,
when his usual custom had been to checkmate her.
Dora’s first intention was to answer the doctor’s letter at once, but
sickness among the children prevented her from doing so, and when she
was at last free to write, the disposition had in a measure left her,
and so the answer for which the doctor waited so anxiously was not sent.