Chapter III: Preparations for Thanksgiving

The family-supper was over, and the Arnolds were gathered about the wide fire-place in the best room, listening to the animated conversation of their son, and forming plans of amusement for his guests during the brief term of days which was to comprise their visit.

Hannah sat in her own little nook, beside her father, half retiring behind the shelter of his chair, divided between joy at her brother’s return, and timidity at the sight of strangers. With all a woman’s tact, Laura de Montreuil drew her into conversation, and, before she was conscious of the kind object, the young girl was chatting quite gayly, though she gave a little start and blushed every time Paul addressed her; for his foreign, deferential manner,—so different from the honest bluntness of the young men who had occasionally visited at her father’s house,—seemed quite princely.

Both Mr. Arnold and his wife were persons of much more than ordinary talent; and, in spite of the retired life which they had led for so many years, possessed a range of thought and habits of refinement beyond those of the neighbors about them. Both de Montreuil and his sister were struck with the simple dignity which characterized every act and remark. Hannah’s loveliness and quaint originality atoned for any lack of worldly knowledge; and altogether young Arnold had no cause to fear that she would not do him full justice in the eyes of the visitors who had accompanied him home.

A sleigh-ride was decided upon for the next day, if the promise of snow held good; and altogether, after the first timidity wore off, Hannah decided that it was the pleasantest evening she had ever experienced, and went to bed with a happy flutter of the heart which left its flush on her cheek long after she fell into dreams.

While the evening passed on so cheerfully in the parlor, supper was under way in Hagar’s domain; and a friendly interest in the new-comer there seemed to have proceeded even more rapidly than with the guests above stairs.

Peter was in his element,—relating marvellous stories of city life, which quite took little Hagar’s breath away, and startled even Dan’s self-sufficiency.

But to-morrow would be Thanksgiving, and the important duties which devolved on Hagar soon aroused her from the pleasure of listening to the voluble Peter’s ceaseless stories.

She rose briskly and left the supper-table, from which it was Dan’s habit never to stir so long as any thing eatable remained upon it, and began bustling about, removing the dishes and putting things to rights generally.

“Gettin’ late,” said she, in her brisk way. “You Dan, thar’s all them chickens to kill and pick, to say nothin’ of the big gobbler, and that ar’ suckin’ pig what’s waitin’ impatient to have its throat cut.”

Dan looked at her, rose from the table, and seated himself by the fire,—took from his pocket a short clay-pipe, a plug of tobacco, and his clasp-knife. This he opened with slow deliberation, and began gravely chipping up the fragrant weed and rolling it over and over in his palm, preparatory to settling himself for a quiet smoke.

Now, Hagar was one of the best of colored women, and took to Dan with all her soul; but the smartest housewives are not the most patient, and Dan’s composure irritated little Hagar wonderfully.

“I say, you lazy nigger,” she exclaimed, “you’d better not wait till ole missus comes out, afore you wring the necks of them ar’ chickens,—’member, I tells ye.”

“Hagar,” said Dan, with a majestic wave of the hand which brandished the clasp-knife imposingly, “never retrude domestic affairs upon company. That’s a very ’portant rule that yer ort to follow.”

“Miss Hagar has all the little derliceous whims of her charming sect,” said Peter, determined not to be outdone in grandiloquence.

“Oh, laws!” said Hagar, tossing her head with a pleased giggle: “how you city gemmen does flatter!”

Dan was not pleased with the remark, and betrayed it by an excited sniff.

“It’s nat’ral talent does it,” said he: “it’s not obligatory to have lived in a city. Your principal male associations, Hagar, has always been of the most extinguished kind.”

Hagar was tender-hearted. She felt the reproach in Dan’s words and manner.

“I knows that,” she replied; “and I ain’t like Diany Perkins, that’s ales cracked arter every new feller that comes to meetin’.”

“It’s the way of the fair sect,” sighed Peter, with the air of a man who had thoroughly studied female nature in its different shades, from tawny cream-color to black,—“allers was, from Eve down to the fair Diany.”

“Wal, I guess they ain’t no wuss than the men,” said Hagar, ready to do battle for her sex as any modern champion of female-rights could be.

“Man was made fust,” said Dan, sententiously; “and consuquently he is more’n a notch above de fair sect; ’member, Hagar, woman was extricated from his rib.”

“You needn’t talk nonsense!” cried Hagar.

“Don’t you believe what the minister preaches?” asked the horrified Dan.

“Don’t want to hear no sich stuff,” pursued Hagar, energetically. “Women was made on their own hook as much as the men. Don’t tell me!”

“These are the objects for gemmen’s adorableness,” said Peter, blandly, remarking Dan’s discomfiture.

“That’s something like,” cried Hagar.

“Didn’t I allers say it?” asked Dan. “Isn’t it my greatest felicitation to ’tend on you, Hagar? Hain’t I watched the downfall of the snow with an anxious bussom, and rigged up the ‘goose-net’ a purpose?”

“Oh, dear!” said Hagar, in a flutter. “These men fustefy you so. Now, Dan, jest go at them chickens,—do!”

“In course,” replied Dan: “your commands is mine. I make no doubt but Mr. Peter will be most felicitated to aid me in de ’quests of beauty.”

Now, Peter would much have preferred his comfortable seat by the fire; but there was no resisting such an appeal, and he expressed his willingness in eloquent phrases.

“Set de big kettle over de fire, Hagar,” said Dan, “and have de water bilin’ to pick de chickens. I’ll keep de pig till mornin’, hung up ’gin de barn-door by a stick of kindling-wood run troo his hind-legs.”

The two men went out to the barn to sacrifice the luckless fowls; and Hagar placed the kettle over the fire, halffull of water.

While she was awaiting the return of her fellow-servant and his companion, Hannah entered the kitchen, accompanied by Laura de Montreuil. Hagar received the stranger with her best little dot of a courtesy, and began an account of her preparations for the morrow, which was cut short by the frightened cacklings of the hens.

“They are killing those poor chickens,” said Hannah. “I never can bear to hear their screams. Dear me! they are right in front of the window.”

Laura de Montreuil went to the casement and looked out. Peter and Dan were standing in front of the barn-door, each holding a fluttering chicken. With a dexterous jerk of the hand the necks of the luckless fowls were dislocated in a breath, and they fell writhing and flapping their wings upon the snow, leaving red stains behind.

Hannah crouched back, and covered her face with both hands.

“You are nervous,” said Miss de Montreuil.

“Oh, I never can look at them without a shudder! There they are bringing the poor turkey out to the log. See how the light shines over it. I have fed and petted him till it seems almost as cruel as beheading a human being.”

“It will not hurt him any the more because we are watching,” said Laura, looking out of the window again.

It was a very clear night, the snow had ceased falling for a time, and she could watch their operations quite at her ease.

The unfortunate turkey was taken out of his coop, flapping his wings desperately, and gobbling with fright and rage. But Dan quite unconcernedly dragged him to the wood-pile, seized his scarlet crest, and held him down, while Peter, with a flourish of the axe, took his head clean off, and it rolled some distance from the domestic guillotine, bathing the snow with blood.

“What! actually pale!” said Laura, turning toward Hannah again. “You are not very courageous.”

“I hate to see any thing killed. It seems as if the blow hurt me.”

“What would you do if a war sprang up, and you saw men killed instead of chickens?”

“I couldn’t. I should die. Could _you_ see a man killed?—some one you had looked upon,—loved perhaps?”

“That would depend,” replied Laura. “I can imagine circumstances when I could look on without a shudder. There are wrongs for which only death can atone, and for these a man ought to die. Such wrongs, sometimes spring only from the man one has loved.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously. She looked, for the moment, like a woman who would indeed, if necessary, take revenge into her hands, and follow it up relentlessly to the end.

Hannah was troubled by her words. Laura saw the effect they had produced, and added, with a gay laugh,

“It is not probable that either of us will be called upon to help in bloodshed. So pray don’t shiver so.”

“You could not do it,” said Hannah; “I know you could not.”

“Well, never mind! I was only jesting. You had some order to give your woman, I think.”

Hannah repeated her mother’s directions to Hagar, and they went into the parlor again; but the sight of the poor chickens had quite destroyed Hannah’s light-heartedness.

However, the bright, clear morning which succeeded was enough to cheer the most heavily-burdened spirit, and Hannah was down in the kitchen at daylight, flying about as briskly as a humming-bird.

After breakfast was well out of the way, there were preparations to make for church. De Montreuil and his sister were both amused and interested by the extreme importance attached to the day, and the odd manner in which it was celebrated in those primitive times.

When Hannah came down arrayed in her new scarlet cloak and dark-green dress, it would have been difficult to find a prettier picture than she made. Laura nodded approval to the admiration which she saw sparkling in her brother’s eyes, and greeted the lovely girl with a cordial compliment.

The church, or rather meeting-house, at which the principal congregation of Norwich worshiped in those days was a vast, wooden structure, almost square, with great barn-like doors on three sides, and a pulpit, composed of wood enough to build a modern cottage, looming up at the end. Over this pulpit a wooden canopy, or sounding-board, brooded like some mighty extinguisher; and beneath it, along the broad front, ran a long, bare pew, in which the deacons sat, grim and solemn, like a bench of judges The house was surrounded, except where the pulpit forebade it, by a long, lumbering gallery, and the body, cut into four sections by broad aisles, was crowded with square pews, so that a large portion of the congregation sat with its back to the pulpit.

Into this structure, the people of Norwich crowded on that cold thanksgiving-day. It was not altogether an ordinance of God, but an extra occasion, got up by the governor. So it was not considered indecorous to smile blandly on entering the sanctuary; and a few had ventured to kiss their wives and children, in a congratulatory way before starting, without dread of a fine.

A cheerful, happy people gathered in the meeting-house on that thanksgiving-morning, and among the gayest came young Arnold, with his dainty little mother leading the way, while he walked proudly side by side with the young French lady, whose sumptuous apparel and rich brunette beauty filled the waiting crowd with admiration. After her brother came Hannah, blushing consciously as she walked a little apart from Paul, whose quiet indifference to the crowd of curious eyes turned upon him filled her with amazement. This family group arranged themselves on the crimson cushions of a pew near the intersecting aisles, and, after a momentary flutter, the congregation settled into devotional quiet.

At last came the minister, pacing up the aisle with a slow, gentle tread, and looking benignly around upon the people who were in honest truth his spiritual children. He moved gravely up the pulpit-stairs, appeared for a moment standing high in air, swallowed, up to the shoulders, in the great pulpit, and then disappeared from view altogether. He was kneeling in meekness of heart back in the pulpit, asking aid of the God whose servant he was.

At last a thanksgiving-hymn rose and swelled through the building, followed by a long, long prayer and longer sermon with its divisions and sub-divisions, all grandly solemn and imposing.

All through the long discourse, de Montreuil’s attention was more devoted to the charming girl opposite to him, than to the good pastor’s sermon; but Arnold looked neither to the right nor the left, though there was that in his face which, to a keen observer, would have betrayed thoughts little in unison with the sacredness of the scene around.

Indeed, all the evening before, his manner had been singular, and Laura de Montreuil was almost irritated by the mixture of admiration and indifference which he exhibited. It did not seem studied, although if well acquainted with the nature of the woman with whom he had to deal, he could not have adopted a course more likely to interest her feelings; but it appeared rather as if he struggled with perplexing thoughts, from which he aroused himself with difficulty.

After the morning-service was over, there came one of the grand dinners for which Connecticut has attained a world-wide celebrity,—and Mrs. Arnold yielded the palm to no housekeeper within her parish. Upon that particular day, the presence of her son and strange guests naturally stimulated her to higher efforts than usual. The most fastidious epicure in the world would have been obliged to confess that the repast was the most perfect of its kind.

Hagar declared that no such turkey could be found within the neighborhood of Norwich; and as for the pig, “He was a reg’lar pictur with a lemon stuck in his mouth, and his tail curled up behind, and them dear little feet huddled up under him as he lay in his bed of green parsley.”

After dinner Mrs. Arnold went to meeting again, leaving the young people to their amusements.

The sleigh-ride had been determined upon, and by halfpast one the double sleigh dashed up to the door, well filled with buffalo robes. The bells, shining from the effect of Hagar’s scouring, jingled so merrily that they would have softened the heart of the sternest old Puritan that came over in the Mayflower.

“Oh, this is delightful!” exclaimed Laura. “I must sit by you, Mr. Arnold, for I am dying to drive. Paul can take care of Miss Hannah. Hurry, everybody! I am crazy to be off.”

That was a sleigh-ride to be remembered! The day was wonderfully bright, the spirits of at least three of the party unusually high; and whatever anxiety disturbed Arnold he had completely concealed it, appearing almost reckless from contrast with his manner in the morning.

The bells rung out like a whole flock of summer birds; the snow flew like showers of seed pearls; the sun lit up the white wreaths that had lodged upon the forest-trees, and flashed on brooklets that seemed ensnared by a net-work of jewels. On the merry party flew, over bill and plain, finding pleasure in every thing about them, and ready to decide that it was altogether the pleasantest day they had ever spent.

“You see, Miss Laura,” said Arnold, “that some pleasures are to be found in the country.”

“A man is idiotic who lives anywhere else,” cried de Montreuil, before his sister could answer. “I have seen more loveliness in our short stay here than in my whole life before,” he added, with a glance at Hannah, that made her cheeks glow till they rivaled the cherry trimmings of her hood.

There was no cloud to mar their enjoyment until they had nearly reached home. They had taken a long sweep of the snow-clad country, and came out near the Yantic Falls, which drifted and flashed through its embankments, covered with snow-laden trees like a rush of embodied sunlight. Miss de Montreuil pointed to a log house which stood across the road from the saw-mill they were passing.

“That cabin looks very picturesque with the saw-mill opposite it,” she said. “Who lives there?”

Arnold’s hand grasped the whip more tightly, and his face turned away as he answered,

“A Mr. Leonard,—or did, at least.”

“Oh, brother, I forgot to tell you,” said Hannah. “Amy is not well. She looks so pale and thin,—I noticed her at meeting. She never goes out of the house hardly. I do believe she is going into the consumption.”

Arnold made some trifling reply, but again there passed over his features the same anxious look, that settled at last into a hard, cruel expression that changed his whole face. But no one remarked it, save Hannah. She fell into thought and looked anxious during the rest of the ride.