“Two turkies,” said Ben, “real fine, fat fellows.”
“And whole oceans of mince and punkin pies, I helped to make ’em, didn’t I, mother?” added Julia, proud of her first great attempt in the kitchen department; “besides, the biggest plum pudding!”
Mrs. Gilman only shook her head, and pulled her black hood close over her face, as she went down the hill from the meeting-house. She was afraid to speak, for fear her voice would tremble with the tears she could hardly keep down. It had been a hard day to her, one of the hardest in her life, for she knew she ought to join in the thanksgiving; and, look whichever way she could, only her troubles came up to her.
The very name of the anniversary, so full of associations to her,—the hymns of the morning service, the minister’s text—O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, and His mercy endureth for ever! had made her sad instead of rejoicing. When she came out with the congregation, families that she had known all her lifetime, all looking so happy, a feeling nearer to envy of their prosperity, and rebellion against her Heavenly Father’s choice for her, than she had ever felt through all her troubles, rose up, choking her voice, as she tried to return their friendly salutations cheerfully. She was glad the children were going home with the Deacon, they would not miss their thanksgiving dinner; but she felt it would be impossible to accept the invitation for herself.
She did not look up as the sleighs passed her on the road, though she had to stand aside for them more than once, warned by their merry bells. She was chilled by the damp new-fallen snow, and felt utterly desolate, when she unfastened the door of the little brown house. Squire Merrill’s team, with its party of young and old, was just going by the gate.
“There’s a mail in from California, I hear”—he called out; checking his horses for a moment. “I’ll go round to the post-office to-night. Fine day, Mrs. Gilman,” and then she was alone in the empty room. The promise did not raise her spirits; so many mails had arrived with nothing for her, that she had almost given up looking for them. The neighbors had not forgotten her in their own abundance, but she did not feel like eating. She had never taken a thanksgiving dinner alone, in her life, and she could not so much as taste food.
Sometimes the room, bare as it was, looked neat and comfortable to her, but not now. Every thing had the stiff, cleared-up air of a holiday, without its cheerfulness. The stove was a poor substitute for the wide, blazing fireplace, to which she had been always accustomed; and she thought of the homestead, and those who had gathered there in days gone by. If she could have taken her work, it would have been a great relief, but it would not have seemed right to sew on thanksgiving day, any more than if it had been Sunday; so she drew her chair up to the black, uninviting stove, and leaning her chin on her hand, went on with the bitter thoughts, a weary, heart-stricken woman.
The thought of her childhood,—the abundance and merriment of those thanksgiving days, when the whole house was filled with plenty, and she dreamed for weeks of the dainties and merry making to come. When she first had children of her own, she lived it all over again in their pleasure. She thought of her husband as he was then,—a liberal, kind-hearted man, loved and respected by others as well as herself. And her boy—her first-born—where was he? She had not had, since the news of his father’s death came, but one short letter, when he wrote in the anticipation of a home he might never have found. His fate might be worse than death, a wanderer in a strange land, and the pressing care of actual poverty had come upon her with all the rest.
She listened and watched through the afternoon, with a kind of sickening eagerness, for Squire Merrill’s return. But it was as she had feared—no letter; and he did not even try to comfort her. He saw by the look which came over her face, that it would be useless.