Chapter XXVII: Deep Dell—country Tavern

Here rustic statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
_—Goldsmith._

It was far into the night when they reached Deep Dell, and put up at the large log tavern that fulfilled the manifold duties of country store, post office, smithy, meetinghouse, and hotel, and was consequently a place of great bustle, if not business. Here our emigrant pair, by special favor, were accommodated with the landlady’s own parlor, and promised a private supper. The tavern was full of people, for this was mail day, and the post-boy from Huttontown was expected every moment.

Magnus went out to put his wagon under cover, and to feed and stable his mules.

And Elsie sat to employ his absence in writing a few lines to her mother, which she inclosed and directed to Mr. Wilson, the young Methodist minister.

She had scarcely concluded when supper, consisting of fine coffee and rich cream, buckwheat cakes, fresh butter, and venison steaks with currant jelly, was brought in and neatly arranged upon the table.

Magnus came in, and Elsie, with a blush and a smile, took her seat at the head of the board. This was the first time she had “done the honors of the table,” and her half-womanly, half-childly heart was pleased at the novelty of her position.

As for Magnus, he was as gravely comfortable as if he had been used to his vis-a-vis all his life.

Very early the next morning the mules were fed and watered and put to the wagon, and a substantial breakfast prepared for our travelers.

But when Magnus went to the bar to pay his bill, the barkeeper, with the slow nonchalance of a country postmaster, handed him a letter, which he said had been brought by the Huttontown post-boy late the night previous. Magnus took the letter. It was superscribed in the handwriting of Mr. Wilson. He turned it to break it open, and found, to his dismay, that the seal was black. He tore it open. It was short, even abrupt in its annunciation.

“HUTTONTOWN, December 18, 18—.

“DR. HARDCASTLE.

“MY DEAR FRIEND: I keep the post-boy waiting while I write to announce
the painful intelligence of the death of Mrs. Garnet. She expired
suddenly about two o’clock this morning—three hours before you left
Huttontown, although we did not receive the sad news of her decease
until seven o’clock. The funeral is fixed for to-morrow afternoon at
four. Return immediately, if you would be present to pay the last
respects to the memory of the sainted dead. May Heaven grant that this
season of awful and mutual bereavement may be sanctified to the hearts
and souls of the father and daughter, of the father-in-law and the
son-in-law, and that you may be all reconciled—each to the other, and
all to God—is the prayer of

“Your brother in Christian love,
“EBENEZER WILSON.”

“Why, why was not this letter given me last night?” exclaimed Dr. Hardcastle, in strong excitement.

“Because, sir, the mail did not get in until an hour after you had gone to bed.”

“Have you any description of carriage here, lighter than my wagon? We must set off instantly, on our return to Huttontown.”

“I hope there’s no bad news, sir?”

“Yes—my wife’s mother died yesterday.”

“Good Heaven, sir; was the poor lady sick when you left?”

“No, no—it was unexpected—quite suddenly; we left her in perfect health. Is there any vehicle I can procure?”

“Why, sir—dear me, this is very shocking; I am very sorry to hear it. Yes, there’s Mrs. Barber—her old carryall.”

“Have my mules put to it on the instant,” said Magnus; and pale with trouble, he went into the little breakfast parlor where Elsie sat at the head of the breakfast table awaiting. His grave demeanor, his troubled face, and the open letter with the broken black seal, alarmed her. Starting up in haste, she rushed to his side. He threw his arms around her, and placed the letter in her hand.

Elsie read the first lines. She was too strong and full of blood to faint, but the strength and sanguinity that kept her from falling under the sudden, tremendous blow gave greater energy and passion to her grief. Breaking from her husband’s arms, with a wild shriek she gave herself up to passionate lamentations and bitter self-reproaches.

“I should not have left her—I should not have left her! Oh! I see now, it was thoughtless—it was selfish—it was cruel to leave her! If I could scarcely bear my father’s tyranny, how could she? How could she—so delicate, so sensitive! Died suddenly!—oh, yes, done to death—done to death! And to keep it secret for four or five hours—oh!”

“Elsie—dear, darling Elsie—hush! Do not say bitter and sinful things, which you will repent.”

“Oh, don’t put your arms around me, Magnus! It would be heinous for me to be loved, or comforted by your sympathy, now. I who left my gentle, fragile mother alone, to be done to death for me; my dove-like mother, in the claws of the vulture. I, who was so much stronger, and who, having your protection also, should have remained to protect her. I to leave her, defenseless, and in peril for my sake, and to come flaunting off, so happy and thoughtless, like a very matron. Oh, Magnus, I could go to a nunnery, Magnus—I could go to a nunnery, Magnus. A hundred serpents are gnawing at my heart! Oh, Magnus, I can never be happy—never make you happy in this world again. Oh, Magnus, I am sorry—so sorry for you, too! You did not deserve a sorrow-stricken, remorseful wife. Oh, mother, dear, gentle mother, what harm did your innocent life do to anyone, that it should have been trampled out?”

And then she burst into tears—such copious tears, such floods of tears, as only one of her strong and sanguine temperament could have shed.

Tears and lamentations are the natural vent of a healthful sorrow. It is only the sorrow unto death that is mute and dry.

And while she was drowned in tears, and wringing her hands, and wailing, and talking, Magnus walked up and down the floor, waiting as patiently as he would have waited for a storm of thunder, lightning, and rain to subside, except when some unfilial expression of bitter indignation against her father would escape her lips, when he would go up to her, and gently risk to stop her.

“Dear Elsie, you must not speak so. Nothing that your father can do or say to me, or to others, can affect your duty toward him. Elsie, you must speak of your father with respect, or not speak of him at all. That is what your sainted mother would have advised, and, gentle as she was, enforced. There was nothing more admirable in Alice Garnet’s blameless character and conduct than the delicate reserve with which she concealed her own sufferings, and the gentle dignity with which she constrained the respect of all her friends for General Garnet. I often compared her to the dove, folding her wing over her mortal wound, to hide it from all eyes.”

“Blessed mother!—oh, angel mother!” said Elsie, bursting into fresh floods.

“She respected the husband in General Garnet—will you not respect the father?” at last said Magnus.

“Oh, yes—yes, I will, indeed! I will never say another word about him. If I do, stop me—don’t let me, please, Magnus. I don’t wish to do wrong; but, oh, Magnus, is it not enough to try one’s faith—to kill one’s faith—when one so good as my mother is permitted to suffer and to die?” exclaimed Elsie, giving way to another extravagant burst of sorrow.

Magnus knelt by her side, and took her hands, and stroked her hair, and wiped her tears, until the fresh gush of grief had spent itself, and then he said:

“Dear Elsie, it is the great strengthener and supporter of faith—the sufferings and premature death of the good. It makes immortality, heaven, certain, because necessary; and necessary, because just. Dear Elsie, what is the life and death of Christ intended to teach? What is the resurrection and ascension intended to insure?”

“I know—oh, I know she is an angel in heaven; but heaven itself needs ‘familiarizing’ to our feelings, before it can console us for the lost—much.”

At this moment the barkeeper came in, and said that the carryall was ready. Dr. Hardcastle re-arranged the cloak around his almost helpless companion, tied her hood, and leading her out, fixed her in the back of the carryall.

Three o’clock came, and they had still fifteen miles to go. The mules went in a fast trot. Four o’clock came, and ten miles lay before them. Five o’clock came; it was nearly dark, and they were still several miles from town. At length, at a little before six, when it was quite dark and piercing cold, they entered Huttontown.

Elsie had long in silence given up the hope of getting even to the church in time for the funeral service there; and now she whispered, in a low, solemn, sorrow-fraught tone:

“Drive to the church—to the house of the sexton. We must see her again, if only in the vault.”

“It will be too much for you, oh, my Elsie!”

“No, no; I entreat, I implore you, take me to the vault.”