In return for all this, they sometimes gave us an old collar, a silk apron, a soiled ribbon, or broken parasol—and once, when my parents visited them, they sent us a trunk full of rubbish, among which was Fielding’s “Tom Jones!” This my grandmother cautiously took from the trunk with the tongs and threw into the fire, thereby creating in me so great a desire for a knowledge of its contents, that, on the first occasion which presented itself, I gratified my curiosity, feeling, when I had done so, that my grandmother was right in disposing of the volume as she did. Dear old lady! her aversion to everything savoring of fiction was remarkable, and when not long since a certain medium informed me that she, my grandmother, was greatly distressed to learn that I had so far degenerated as to be writing a book, I thought seriously of giving up my project at once, and should probably have done so, had not another medium of still greater power than the first received a communication, stating that, after due reflection, my grandmother had concluded that “I might continue the story called Meadow Brook, provided I showed off my Aunt Harding and her two daughters in their true character.” So, as a dutiful child, it becomes me to tell how my father, who was warmly attached to my Uncle Thomas, lent him money from time to time, and signed notes to the amount of several thousand dollars, never once dreaming that in the end he would be ruined, while my uncle, influenced by his more crafty wife, managed in some unaccountable way to maintain nearly the same style of living as formerly; and if his proud daughters ever felt the ills of poverty, it was certainly not apparent in the rich silks and costly furs which they continued to sport.
It was a terrible blow to us all, but upon no one did it fall so heavily as upon my father, crushing him to the earth, and rendering him nearly as powerless as is the giant oak when torn from its parent bed by the wrathful storm. The old homestead was endeared to him by a thousand hallowed associations. It was the home of his boyhood, and around the cheerful fires, which years ago were kindled on its spacious hearth-stone, he had played with those who long since had passed from his side, some to mingle in the great drama of life, and others to that world where they number not by years. There, too, in his early manhood had he brought his bride, my gentle mother, and on the rough bark of the towering maples, by the side of his own and his brothers’ names, were carved those of his children, all save little Jamie, who died ere his tiny fingers had learned the use of knife or hammer. No wonder, then, that his head grew dizzy and his heart sick as he thought of leaving it forever; and when at last the trying moment came, when with trembling hand he signed the deed which made him homeless, who shall deem him weak, if he laid his weary head upon the lap of his aged mother and wept like a little child?
A small house in the village was hired, and after a few weeks’ preparation, one bright June morning, when the flowers we had watched over and tended with care were in bloom, when the robins which, year after year had returned to their nests in the maple tree, were singing their sweetest songs, and when the blue sky bent gently over us, we bade adieu to the spot, looking back with wistful eye until every trace of our home had disappeared. Farewell forever to thee, dear old homestead, where now other footsteps tread and other children play than those of “auld lang syne.” The lights and shadows of years have fallen upon thee since that summer morn, and with them have come changes to thee as well as to us. The maple, whose branches swept the roof above my window, making oft sad music when tuned by the autumn wind, has been cut away, and the robins, who brought to us the first tidings of spring, have died or flown to other haunts. “The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well” has been removed; the curb, whose edges were worn by childish hands, is gone; while in place of the violets and daisies which once blossomed on the grassy lawn, the thistle and the burdock now are growing, and the white rose bush by the door, from whence they plucked the buds which strewed the coffin-bed of our baby brother, is dead. Weeds choke the garden walks, and the moss grows green and damp on the old stone wall. Even the brook which ran so merrily past our door has been stopped in its course, and its sparkling waters, bereft of freedom, now turn the wheel of a huge saw-mill, with a low and sullen roar. All is changed, and though memory still turns fondly to the spot which gave me birth, I have learned to love another home, for where my blessed mother dwells, ’tis surely home to me. By her side there is, I know, a vacant chair, and in her heart a lonely void, which naught on earth can fill; but while she lives, and I know that there is in the world for me a mother and a mother’s love, can I not feel that I have indeed a home, though it be not the spot where first she blessed me as her child?
CHAPTER XVI.
“OUT WEST.”
What a train of conflicting ideas do those two words oftentimes awaken, bringing up visions of log cabins, ladder stairs, wooden latches, fried hominy and maple sugar, to say nothing of the hobgoblins in the shape of bears, rattlesnakes, wolves, and “folks who don’t know anything;” the latter being universally considered the “staple production” of every place bearing the name of “out West.” Even western New York, with her hundreds of large and flourishing villages, her well cultivated farms, her numerous schools, her educated, intelligent people, and her vast wealth, is looked upon with distrust by some of her eastern neighbors, because, forsooth, her boundaries lie farther towards the setting sun, and because she once bore the title of “way out west in the Genesees.”
Of course I speak only from observation and personal experience; for at Meadow Brook, ten years ago, many fears were expressed lest Anna should miss the society to which she had been accustomed; and when after the sale of the homestead, she wrote, asking me to come and live with her, I hesitated, for to me it seemed much like burying myself from the world, particularly as she chanced to mention that the schoolhouse was a log one, and that there were in the neighborhood several buildings of the same material. Never having seen anything of the kind, I could not then understand that there is often in a log house far more comfort and genuine happiness than in the stateliest mansion which graces Fifth Avenue or Beacon street; and that the owners of said dwellings are frequently worth their thousands, and only wait for a convenient opportunity to build a more commodious and imposing residence.
At last, after many consultations with my parents, I concluded to go, and about the middle of November I again bade adieu to Meadow Brook; and in company with a friend of my father, who was going West, I started for Rockland, N. Y., which is in the western part of Ontario county, and about fourteen miles from Canandaigua, at which place Herbert was to meet me. I had never before been west of Springfield, and when about sunset I looked out upon the delightful prospect around Albany, I felt a thrill of delight mingled with a feeling of pain, for I began to have a vague impression that possibly Massachusetts, with all her boasted privileges, could not outrival the Empire State. It was dark, and the night lamps were already lighted when we entered the cars at Albany; for we were to ride all night. In front of us was an unoccupied seat, which I turned towards me for the better accommodation of my band-box, which contained my new bonnet; and I was about settling myself for a nap, when a gentleman and lady came in, the latter of whom stopping near us, said, “Here, Richard, is a vacant seat. These folks can’t of course expect to monopolize two;” at the same time she commenced turning the seat back, to the great peril of my bonnet, which, as it was made in Boston, I confidently expected would be the envy and fashion of all Rockland!
I was sitting with my hand over my eyes, but at the sound of that voice I started, and, looking up, saw before me Ada Montrose, and with her the “dark gentleman” who had so much interested me at the theatre. Instantly throwing my veil over my face, for I had no wish to be recognized, I watched him with a feeling akin to jealousy, while he attended to the comfort of his companion, who demeaned herself towards him much as she had done towards Herbert Langley. All thoughts of sleep had left me, and throughout the entire night I was awake, speculating upon the probable relation in which he stood to her: and once when it suddenly occurred to me that possibly they were married, the tears actually started to my eyes.
As the hours sped on, he said to her a few low spoken words, whereupon she laid her head upon his shoulder, as if that were its natural resting-place, while he threw his arm around her, bidding her “sleep if she could.” Of course she was his wife, I said, and with much of bitterness at my heart, I turned away and watched the slowly-moving lights of the canal-boats, discernible on the opposite side of the Mohawk, along whose banks we were passing. Whether Ada liked her pillow or not, she clung to it pertinaciously until it seemed to me that her neck must snap asunder, while with a martyr’s patience he supported her, dozing occasionally himself, and bending his head so low that his glossy black hair occasionally touched the white brow of the sleeping girl.
“Bride and groom,” I heard a rough-looking man mutter, as he passed them in quest of a seat, and as this confirmed my fears, I again turned towards the window, which I opened, so that the night-air might cool my burning cheeks.