The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.
Oh, these calm, thoughtful Sunday evenings in a New England home, where the strict, and it may be rigid rule of our forefathers, is still preserved! What a blessed memory they are, in after years, to the toil-worn and world-wearied heart! The dear circle gathered in the fire-light, one clasping a mother’s hand—the youngest nestling in a father’s arms!—the long quiet talk of pleasant and holy things—the wonderful Bible stories of Joseph and his brethren, Moses in the bulrushes, and the destruction of Pharaoh’s host—the old-fashioned hymns, led by a dear mother’s voice, in which all strive to join; the simple melodies, and the pious words sinking unconsciously into the memory! Who would exchange these recollections for the indulgence of carpeted nurseries, a servant’s twice-told tales of ghost or goblin, the muttered sleepy prayer at her knee, when another Sunday is over, a day of idle play, or marked only by a careful toilette for the dinner company who were expected, and engross the time and thoughts of worldly parents in the drawing-room? We may be mistaken, after all, about the privileges which the children of the rich enjoy.
Actually saying “good-bye,” is hardly ever as hard as we expect it will be, or the loneliness afterwards proves. The next morning found Mr. Gilman as confident as ever, and bustling around with great alacrity, to be ready in time for the stage. His wife did not allow herself to think. She had her breakfast to prepare—though Abby was the only one of the party that seemed to need it—and many things to see to at the last moment. Wherever she was, and whatever occupied her hands, her eyes and her heart followed Sam, who felt all the excitement of departure. His father had been so little comfort or company lately, that it would be easier to be accustomed to his absence. Sam she had depended on—his willing, cheerful readiness to assist her, the frank honesty that never deceived, young as he was, had filled up a great void in her heart. His very voice, and step, were music and lightness.—Do all she could the tears could not be kept back, but filled her eyes, and almost blinded her, as she went about her morning work. And then the time came—her husband kissing her hurriedly and nervously as the toiling horses came in sight, her boy not ashamed to cling to her neck, while she wrapped her arms around him, as if he had been still the baby in her bosom, and kissed him in an agony of love, and fear, and blessing. They were gone, and the house, no longer her home, was empty and desolate, and her straining eyes could not catch another glimpse of that bright boyish face.
All day long Mrs. Gilman busied herself with strange haste, and unnecessary care. It seemed as if she dreaded to have her hands unemployed for a moment. The children forgetting their tears, as children will, played, and worked, and disputed, but she scarcely seemed to notice them. It seemed to her as if death, not absence, had removed her son.
CHAPTER V.
SETTING SAIL.
Their future constant companion joined the father and son, as might be expected, at Mooney’s Tavern. He had no leave-takings to subdue the boisterous spirits in which he set out on an expedition that was to make a rich man of him. His brothers and sisters were married, and had lost all interest in him long ago. They were even glad that he would no longer be a daily disgrace to them. He was very grand with Mr. Gilman’s money, and expected, of course, to drink to their success in a parting glass at Mooney’s. He had drank to it so often already that morning, that it was doubtful whether he would be fit to start on the journey. It had the effect of making him unusually good-natured, fortunately, so that he took Mr. Gilman’s refusal with only the complacent remark, “more fool he.” The stage did not make long stoppages so early in the day; away they drove again—the tavern, the post-office, the white meeting-house on the hill, disappearing in turn, and then the young traveller felt that home was really left behind.