University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
What had happened at Watermelon Hill during the Author's
absence.

This intelligence was balm to my spirit and
medicine to my body; and the consequence was,
that I recovered so rapidly as to be able to leave
my bed in less than a week, and receive the visits
and congratulations of many old friends, who seemed
really glad of my return and recovery, though I
have no doubt they were moved as much by curiosity
to learn where I had been, and what adventures
had befallen me during the long period of
my exile; in which, however, I did not think it
advisable to gratify them.

And now it was that I discovered that many
changes, personally interesting to myself, had happened
during my absence. When I first got upon
my porch and looked about me, I almost doubted
whether I was really on the forty-acre. My house
had been carefully reparied, both within and without;
a new and substantial stable, with other outbuildings,
had been erected; new fences had been
put up around my fields and orchards; cattle were
lowing on my meadows, and horses whinnying in
the stable, to be let loose with them upon the early
grass. In a word, the forty-acre now looked
more prosperous and flourishing than it had ever

before looked mean and empoverished: it looked
almost as well as it had done in the days of my
father.

“How was all this change brought about?” I
demanded of my brother-in-law, who, with my sister,
had accompanied, or, indeed, rather led me to
the porch.

“By the magic of money, industry, and a little
common sense,” said Alderwood, who, although a
plain and bluff man, was a sensible one, and a
most excellent farmer. “You must know, my
dear Sheppard,” said he, “that, when we found
you were so far gone—”

“How,” said I, in surprise, “how did you know
I had gone far? I thought the general opinion was
that I was murdered.”

“Oh, yes,” said my sister, nodding at her husband;
“it was just as you say.”

With that Alderwood smiled, and nodded back
again, saying,

“Prue is right. When we discovered your
condition—that is, when we found you had been
murdered, as you say, and that there was no one to
look to the poor forty-acre except the sheriff and
the mortgagee, it was agreed between your sister
and myself that I should take the matter in hand;
for we were loath the property should go into the
possession of strangers. Besides, Prudence insisted
upon being near you—”

“That is,” said Prudence, “near to where we
supposed the murderers must have concealed your
body.”

“Exactly so,” said Alderwood. “For this reason
I left my own farm in the hands of my young
brother Robert, came down hither, bag and baggage,
applied a little of my loose cash (for I believe
I have been somewhat more prosperous than
you) to stopping the mouth of your mortgagee,
building fences, banking meadows, spreading marl,
and so on; and the consequence is, that we are
getting the forty-acre into good condition again,
so that, in a few years, it will pay the debts, and
perhaps begin to make the fortune of its owner.”

I grasped my brother-in-law's hand. I was
moved by his kindness; and remembering how,
after quarrelling with him, as related in the first
book of this history, I had refused a reconciliation,
and rejected his offers of assistance, his friendship
and generosity appeared still more worthy of my
gratitude.

“Poh!” said he, interrupting my thanks and
professions of regard, but looking well pleased that
I should be disposed to make them, “I was persuaded
you would come to some day—that is, I
mean, come back.”

“That is,” said Prudence, “we always had a
notion you were not really dead, and that we should
see you again, some time, alive and happy.”

“I trust,” said I, “you will long see me so; for I
am now a changed, I hope, a wiser man—disposed
to make the best of the lot to which Heaven has assigned
me, and to sigh no longer with envy at the
supposed superior advantages of others. I think,

brother Alderwood, I shall now be contented with
my condition, humble and even toilsome as it may
be. I have seen enough of the miseries of my
fellows—those even whom I most envied—during
the two years of my absence, to teach me that
every man has his share of them; that there is
nothing peculiarly wretched in my own lot, and
that I can be happy or not, just as I may choose
to make myself. For this reason, I shall now bid
adieu to indolence and discontent, the vile mother
and viler daughter together, and do as my father did
before me, that is, cultivate these few acres which
my folly has left me, with my own hands; nor
will I rest from my labours until I have discharged
every claim against it, your own, my dear Alderwood,
first of all; though I am sensible I can never
repay the debt of kindness I owe you.”

“And this is really your intention?” demanded
Alderwood, looking prodigiously gratified. “Your
possessions are now limited, indeed; yet you have
enough, with a little industry and care, to render
you independent for life. And if you will really
apply yourself to the farm—”

“I will,” said I. “If labour and perseverance
can do it, I will attain the independence you speak
of; I will remove every encumbrance on the forty-acre,
and then trust to pass such a life as modest
wishes and a contented temper can secure me.”

“You may begin to pass it immediately, then,”
said Alderwood, “for the forty-acre is already clear
of every encumbrance. Yes,” he continued, seeing

me look surprised, “I tell you nothing but the
truth. Aikin Jones, your old friend and overseer—”

“He is a villain!” said I, “and he defrauded
me.”

“So it is pretty commonly supposed; but, as
we have no legal proof of his dishonesty, the less
we say of it the better. He has gone to settle his
accounts at a tribunal where craft and policy can
avail him nothing. He died eight months ago, and
they say who know best, in great agony and fear of
spirit. Now, whether he was moved by old feelings
of friendship, or was struck with remorse at seeing
the condition to which he had reduced you—”

“What condition?” said I.

“Oh,” said my sister, “the ruin of your affairs;
nothing more.” And Alderwood nodded his head
by way of assent to the explanation.

“In short,” said he, “Mr. Aikin Jones, whatever
may have been his motive, thought fit to bequeath
you a legacy—”

“What!” said I; “how could he leave a legacy
to a man universally considered dead?”

“Oh,” said my sister, “he never would believe
that. There were a good many people had their
doubts on that subject.”

“Yes,” said Alderwood; “and Mr. Aikin Jones
was one of them. And so, finding himself dying,
and being seized perhaps with compunction for the
wrongs he had done you, he left you a legacy,—no
great matter, indeed, considering how much of your

estate he died possessed of. It sufficed, however,
to pay off your mortgage, principal and interest, and
to improve and stock the forty-acre just as you now
see it. So you see, my dear Sheppard, you are
not so badly off as you supposed. Your farm is
small, yet your father drew from it a fortune; and
I believe a good farmer might do the same thing a
second time. But you are not very learned in agricultural
matters. I will remain with you a while
—at least until your health is re-established—and
be your teacher. When you find yourself competent
to the management of the farm I will bid you
farewell, assured that you will lead a happier life
than you ever knew before.”

This intelligence with regard to my little homestead
was highly agreeable to me; nor was I less
pleased with my brother-in-law's resolution to remain
with me for a time, while I acquired a knowledge
of agriculture, and confirmed myself in new
habits of industrious and active application.