University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
CONCLUSION.

Diedrich Stein outlived both his children (for the
torch of Peter's sluggish life, which had blazed up so
madly at the close, went out at last in a flash some time
during the spring succeeding Polly's death). But he did
not outlive them long, — the three gravestones in the old
church-yard all bearing the date of this same year. We
will trust that he lived long enough, however, to fulfil the
one honest aim of a dishonest career; that his one year of
repentance sufficed him for undoing the work of threescore
years and ten, and that the heart, haunted by the
demons of remorse, went to its last rest swept and garnished.

That George sped well with his suit, is placed beyond
doubt by the town records, which prove his marriage with
Angie to have taken place within three weeks from that
point in their courtship where we last left them; and
thanks to the fact that half the children of the parish
were included in the generous wedding invitation, there
are many yet living who have a distinct recollection of

that holiday event. The India muslin must have been
seasonably taken in hand and gored, fitted, ruffled, and
flounced for the occasion, since some of that remote generation
testify to the beauty of the bride, set off by a
gown of this description, while others remember having
overheard their mothers whisper to one another that they
had felt of the fabric of the wedding-dress, and that it
was as fine as a cobweb. All agree that Dominie Van
Zandt looked very imposing with his powdered hair, his
snowy bands and frills, his flowing robe, and his polished
knee-buckles, and that weddings nowadays suffer vastly
from the absence of such dignities. These quondam
young folks have not yet forgotten their fidgetiness and
impatience during the long prayer, nor their wonder at
the tears shed by their seniors during a brief address to
the young couple which succeeded; an emotional symptom
quite inexplicable to the juveniles of the party, considering
the feasting there was in prospect, and the universally
conceded fact that the occasion was one of the greatest
rejoicing that had ever been known at Stein's Plains.

That George was triumphant also in his scheme of
taking Angie with him on his approaching voyage to
Surinam, — possibly on future and more extended voyages
— is evidenced by scraps of foreign correspondence
still preserved in the family archives, by a reciprocal
friendship which is known to have existed between her
and George's friends at the South American port, by
the reputation of an experienced traveller which she to
some extent shared with her husband, and above all by

the vigorous constitution and renewed youth which must
be at least partially attributed to the change of climate
and the healthful sea-breezes which she enjoyed at this
crisis of her life.

These experiences, however, must have been compressed
into a comparatively brief period, for within a year
or two after her marriage she was figuring as the centre
and light of a domestic circle no longer domiciled within
the contracted limits of the cross-road cottage, but occupying
the wider area of the old tavern, which, together
with the Cousin property and the Rawle farm, had, partly
by the act of restitution, partly by natural inheritance,
become vested in George. Indeed, I am inclined to attribute
the scrupulous and even niggardly exactness with
which Stein weighed and adjusted other claims to his
partiality for those of his nephew, and a desire to
do ample justice to one whose wrongs at his hands could
not be mathematically computed and atoned for. It is
not probable that Hannah's life was prolonged to the
period of emigration from the cottage to the tavern, since
the senior memories of the parish can recall only one
old woman among the family group, and the picture of her
impressed on these memorial tablets is that of a diminutive
form and pinched face, united, however, with an activity
of body and retention of the faculties quite unusual at
the great age to which she lived. Add to this that her
most cheerful salutations and expressions of pleasure, as
well as her occasional utterances of anxiety and solicitude
were invariably prefaced with a “heigh-ho,” or a “dearie

me,” and we may be quite sure that this venerable figure
was no other than Margery, come back to end her days
in her ancestral home, not, as formerly, the patient
drudge, but promoted to the chief place of ease and
honor in the household.

Van Hausen's deeply-grounded prejudice against Angie
must have yielded to the influence of time and truth,
or been subdued by those thoughtful winning ways which,
in her new relation as George's wife, were more directly
brought to bear upon him. Otherwise the comfort
and independence of his bachelor home would never have
been superseded by the attractions of the tavern fireside,
where he became so thoroughly domesticated that tradition
never fails to refer to this clumsy chip of the old
Dutch block — this hearty, simple, four-square man,
who might always be seen, especially at twilight, comfortably
ensconced in an out of the way corner, his pipe
in his mouth, and himself a prey to the privileged children
— George's children, who clambered over him,
danced around him, took strange liberties with his pipe
and his pockets; or, still as mice, and safely hid in the
shadow of his bulky form, evaded the impending — “Bedtime,
children!” and listened with eagerness to his
oft-repeated stories, with the hero of which even the
youngest was familiar, — uncle Dick's tales invariably
ending with “and that boy was — who do you think?” —
to which the answer was always correctly given, with one
voice, “I know — father!”

Nor, though Van Hausen's admiring love for George

constituted the one passion of his otherwise phlegmatic
temperament, was he eccentric or singular in his preference,
for the long-lost village favorite was destined in
his new career at Stein's Plains to become more universally
and more deservedly popular than in the days when
he achieved his early successes and triumphs. Though he
is known to have made several voyages, his experience
of the sea was but a brief episode in his life compared
with the many years, when, as landlord, farmer, citizen,
and benefactor, he earned for himself the praise, the gratitude,
and the good will of all men. The town and county
records bear evidence to the various offices of usefulness
and trust which he successively filled, and as justice of
the peace he had the enviable reputation of having
hushed up or averted more quarrels in one year than his
neighbor justices had tried during their whole term of
serving.

He was a prosperous man, too; not that he, like his
predecessor, knew how to coin money out of men's weaknesses
and necessities; for though the tavern doors were
always open to the stranger and the wayfarer, George's
hospitalities were too widely extended, and of too liberal
an order, to be consistent with success as a publican: and
it was less as a landlord than as a shipmaster; less as a
shipmaster than as a farmer, that the fortune which he
had inherited from his uncle was maintained and multiplied.
Still he had, in more than one way, found his
vocation, and achieved prosperity. Better still, no one
envied him; and this, although it was universally conceded

that he had the best managed household, the
broadest acres, the fleetest colt (a foal of Nancy's), and
the handsomest wife in all the Jerseys. On the contrary,
the neighborhood, which had sympathized with the more
adventurous and afflicting experiences of his youth, felt a
joy and pride in every success and promotion that fell to
the lot of their most worthy citizen; and when the rapid
growth of the country had transformed the thinly settled
district, familiarly known as Stein's Plains, into a thriving
township, boasting a post-office, and meriting a more
honored name, they were unanimous in bestowing on
the place its modern name of Rawley.

And the old tavern, the central point whence our story
radiated, and the spot to which we have finally returned,
no longer Stein's, but Rawle's Tavern, is still the centre
and nucleus of Rawley, the centre of all the hospitalities,
the merry-makings, the social cheer traditionary in the
place, the centre, too, where most of the deeds of
public spirit, patriotism, and philanthrophy which have
distinguished the village, caught their impulse or found
their spur; the centre towards which young hearts turn,
haunted by tender associations with the spot where they
were baptized in love, reared in virtue, and consecrated
to God; — the centre to which old hearts cling, haunted
only now by grateful memories of the blessings which
have crowned their days, and by the serene and joyful
hopes which gild their sunset.