Chapter LX: At the Old Homestead

An old lady hovered with unusual impatience around the front door of that low-roofed farm-house, waiting for her only child, who had never crossed its threshold without a welcome. She had seen her husband set forth, an hour back, with his farm-horses and double wagon. She had seen a long train of cars rush down the valley—had heard a bell ring, and an engine shriek. Then she went out on the door-step, shading her eyes with one hand, and saw a great, fiery-eyed monster plunge along the road, and cut through a distant piece of woodland, leaving a cloud of smoke behind. When that cleared away, she could just discern two or three persons standing in front of the station, and said, in the gladness of her heart:

“They are coming—my own, own child!”

Then she clasped her wrinkled hands softly together, and went into the house, with a quivering smile upon her face, to make sure that all was ready there.

In the house room a table was set forth with china of dainty whiteness, old-fashioned cut glass, and quaint silver, bright as sunbeams; and in the kitchen a girl was busily at work making gravy for a fricassee of chickens, which was simmering deliciously over the fire.

The old lady took the bowl gently from her.

“Thee does not understand exactly how my daughter likes it. How should thee, never having reared her? I will attend to the chicken while thee gets the dishes ready. Then step to the door, and tell me when the wagon comes in sight.”

The girl, burning with curiosity, ran to the door, heard a distant rattle of wheels, and waited till the wagon came in sight, with a man and three women in the seats.

“They are coming! they are coming! three on ’em, besides the old man!” she cried in excitement, running into the kitchen, where her mistress was busy over the stove, with the empty bowl in one hand, while with the other she stirred up the fricassee.

“Thee can take care of it now!” exclaimed the little lady, untying the snow-white apron from over her silver-gray dress; “but take care that it does not burn.”

Never had that servant seen her mistress in such haste before. Her apron had dropped on the rag carpet, and she never paused to pick it up. The great spoon she had been using stood upright in the uncovered pot, from which the simmering gravy now and then gave out a rich, bubbling sound, that made the girl’s mouth water. But she tore herself away, and gave surreptitious peeps into the house room, where a pale little lady, so like the mistress, but more delicate and younger, was lying back, as if faint from her journey, in a great rocking-chair, while her mother hovered around her in a soft flutter of delight, and Miss Bertha, who had filled the house with sunshine in the autumn, was untying her bonnet.

“Father, she has grown just a little older, don’t thee think so?” said the old lady, with a soft flutter of delight; “but like herself—very like herself. How does thee feel, my daughter? Is thee glad to get home again?”

Mrs. Canfield lifted up her arms, and laid her head on the old mother’s bosom.

“So glad, mother! But it will not be for long—remember, it cannot be for long.”

The soft moonlight joy faded out of the old woman’s face.

“We thought, dear, that perhaps, when Bertha was married, thee might like to live with us?”

“Oh, how I should like it!” cried the woman, casting a wild look around her. “But it can never, never be!”

“Mother is nervous, and worn out with our journey,” said Bertha, smoothing the soft hair from which she had removed the bonnet. “Besides, she is low-spirited. But you and grandfather will cheer her up. The old place is so beautiful! Come, mother; I know where your room is—”

Mrs. Canfield arose from her chair, and smiled faintly when the old lady came forward, offering her frail arm for support.

“Father is stronger,” she said, turning her eyes wistfully on the old man; who circled her waist with his arm, and almost carried her up-stairs.

She cast the same wistful, almost wild look around her chamber when Bertha closed the door, but said nothing. She permitted her hair to be brushed and her face bathed, in gentle silence, while she looked wistfully out of the window.

There was something pathetic in the efforts this woman made to share in the joy which her coming had given to those old people; but the piteous smiles that came to her lips were more touching than tears, and her voice was so laden with melancholy that its vibrations struck those fond old hearts with tender commiseration.

“She has not forgotten it all yet; that tender conscience will never rest. Thee must be more than a father to her now,” whispered the old lady, when she had got her husband at a safe distance from the house room, to which the servant girl was carrying dishes whose very scent was a repast.

“Everything is ready, ma’am,” called out a mellow voice, “if ye plase to walk in.”

“Yes, Bridget. Come, father. Thee will remember to say nothing that can remind our child of that day.”

“Nay, wife, thee is over anxious to think I would. There, now; let’s go in,” said the old man. “Our child is tired, and wants food. A cup of warm coffee will make her strong. When she has once looked around the old place, it will be pleasant again. Come!”

Together those old people went into the house room, and took their places at the table.

“This is thy place, daughter,” said the old man, caressingly, as he patted a chair next his own with one hand.

The poor woman, so petted and loved, made a brave effort to eat the food placed before her with such loving bounty, but it was impossible. Everything reminded her of the past, and the future was so dark, how could she ever seem cheerful, knowing all that was to come?

“She will be better to-morrow,” promised Bertha, throwing her arms around her little grandmother, that night before she went to rest. “Being here with you will make her bright again. I think she is sleeping now.”

But Mrs. Canfield was not asleep. She seldom did sleep now; and as the weeks rolled away, the tone of her mind grew more austere in its melancholy. She no longer struggled to seem cheerful.