University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER FIRST.
THE LANDSCAPE OF THE STORY.

I SEE old Sylvester Peabody—the head of the
Peabody family—seated in the porch of his country
dwelling, like an ancient patriarch, in the calm
of the morning. His broad-brimmed hat lies on the
bench at his side, and his venerable white locks flow
down his shoulders, which time in one hundred seasons
of battle and sorrow, of harvest and drouth, of
toil and death, in all his hardy wrestlings with old
Sylvester, has not been able to bend. The old man's
form is erect and tall, and lifting up his head to its
height, he looks afar, down the country road which
leads from his rural door, towards the city. He has
kept his gaze in that direction for better than an
hour, and a mist has gradually crept upon his vision;

objects begin to lose their distinctness; they grow
dim or soften away like ghosts or spirits; the whole
landscape melts gently into a pictured dew before him.
Is old Sylvester, who has kept it clear and bright so
long, losing his sight at last, or is our common world,
already changing under the old patriarch's pure regard,
into that better, heavenly land?

It seemed indeed, on this very calm morning in
November, as if angels were busy about the Old
Homestead, (which lies on the map, in the heart of
one of the early states of our dear American Union,)
transforming all the old familiar things into something
better and purer, and touching them gently
with a music and radiance caught from the very sky
itself. As in the innocence of beauty, shrouded in
sleep, dreams come to the eyelids which are the
realities of the day, with a strange loveliness—the
fair country lay as it were in a delicious dreamy
slumber. The trees did not stand forth boldly with
every branch and leaf, but rather seemed gentle pictures
of trees; the sheep-bells from the hills tinkled
softly and as if whispering a secret to the wind; the
birds sailed slowly to and fro on the air; there was
no harshness in the low of the herds, no anger in the

heat of the sun, not a sight nor a sound, near by nor
far off, which did not partake of the holy beauty
of the morning, nor sing, nor be silent, nor stand
still, nor move, with any other than a gliding sweetness
and repose, or an under-tone which might have
been the echo here on earth, of a better sphere. There
was a tender sadness and wonder in the face of old
Sylvester, when a voice came stealing in upon the
silence. It did not in a single tone disturb the heavenly
harmony of the hour, for it was the voice of
the orphan dependent of the house, Miriam Haven,
whose dark-bright eye and graceful form glimmered,
as though she were the spirit of all the softened
beauty of the scene, from amid the broom-corn,
where she was busy in one of the duties of the season.
Well might she sing the song of lament, for her people
had gone down far away in the sea, and her
lover—where was he?

Like every other condition of the time, the voice
of Miriam too, had a change in it.

“What wonder is this?” said old Sylvester, “I
neither hear nor see as I used—are all my senses going?”

He turned, as he spoke, to a woman of small
stature, in whose features dignity and tenderness
mingled, as she now regarded him, with reverence
for the ancient head of the house. She came forward
as he addressed her, and laying her hand
gently on his arm, said—

“You forget, father; this is the Indian summer,
which is the first summer softened and soberer, and
often comes at thanksgiving-time. It always changes
the country, as you see it now.”

“Child, child, you are right. I should have known
it, for always at this season, often as it has come to
me, do I think of the absent and the dead—of times
and hours, and friends long, long passed away. Of
these whom I have known,” he continued eagerly,
“who have fallen in battle, in the toil of the field, on
the highway, on the waters, in silent chambers, by sickness,
by swords: I thank God they have all, all of
my kith and kin and people, died with their names

untouched with crime; all,” he added with energy,
planting his feet firmly on the ground and rising as
he spoke sternly, “all, save one alone, and he—”

He turned toward the female at his side, and when
he looked in her face and saw the mournful expression
which came upon it, he dropped back into his
chair and stayed his speech.

At this moment a little fellow, who, with his flaxen
locks and blue eyes, was a very cherub in plumpness
and the clearness of his brow, came toddling out of the
door of the house, struggling with a basin of yellow
corn, which, shifting about in his arms, he just managed
to keep possession of till he reached old Sylvester's
knee. This was little Sam Peabody, the youngest of
the Peabodys, and as he looked up into his grandfather's
face you could not fail to see, though they
grew so wide apart, the same story of passion and
character in each. The little fellow began throwing
the bright grain from the basin to a great strutting
turkey which went marching and gobbling up and
down the door-yard, swelling his feathers, spreading
his tail, and shaking his red neck-tie with a boundless
pretence and restlessness; like many a hero he
was proud of his uniform, although the fatal hour

which was to lay him low was not far off. It was the
thanksgiving turkey, himself, in process of fattening
under charge of Master Sam Peabody. Busy in the
act, he was regarded with smiling fondness by his
mother, the widow Margaret Peabody, and his old
grandfather, when he suddenly turned, and said—

“Grand-pa, where's brother Elbridge?”

The old man changed his countenance and struggled
a moment with himself.

“He had better know all,” he said, after a pause of
thought, in which he looked, or seemed to look afar
off from the scene about him. “Margaret, painful
though it be to you and to me, let the truth be
spoken. God knows I love your son, Elbridge, and
would have laid down my life that this thing had not
chanced, but the child asks of his brother so often,
and is so often evaded that he will be presently snared
in a net of falsehoods and deceptions if we speak not
more plainly to him.”

An inexpressible anguish overspread the countenance
of the widowed woman, and she turned aside
to breathe a brief prayer of trust and hope of strength
in the hour of trial.

The thanksgiving turkey, full of his banquet of

corn, strutted away to a slope in the sun by the roadside,
and little Sam Peabody renewed his question.

“Can't I see brother Elbridge, grand-pa?”

“Never again, I fear, my child.”

“Why not, grandfather?”

“Answer gently, father,” the widow interposed.
“Make not the case too harsh against my boy.”

“Margaret,” said the old man, lifting his countenance
upon her with dignity of look, “I shall speak
the truth. I would have the name of my race pure
of all stains and detractions, as it has been for an hundred
years, but I would not bear hardly against your
son, Margaret. This child, innocent and unswayed as
he is, shall hear it, and shall be the judge.”

Rising, old Sylvester with Margaret's help, lifted
the boy to the deep window-seat; and, standing on
either hand, the widow and the old man each at his
side, Sylvester taking one hand of the child in his,
began—

“My child, you are the youngest of this name and
household, to you God may have entrusted the continuance
of our race and name, therefore thus early
would I have you learn the lesson your brother's
errors may teach.”

“That should come last,” the widow interposed
gently. “The story itself should teach it, if the story
be true.”

“Perhaps it should, Margaret,” old Sylvester rejoined.
“I will let the story speak for itself. It is,
my child, a year ago this day, that an excellent man,
Mr. Barbary, the preacher of this neighborhood, disappeared
from among living men. He was blameless
in his life, he had no enemy on the face of the
earth. He was a simple, frugal, worthy man—the
last time alive, he was seen in company with your
brother Elbridge, by the Locust-wood, near the pond
where you go to gather huckleberries in the summer,
and hazels in the autumn. He was seen with him
and seen no more.”

“But no man saw Elbridge, father, lift hand against
him, or utter an angry word. On the contrary, they
were seen entering the wood in close companionship,
and smiling on each other.”

“Even so, Margaret,” said Sylvester, looking at
the child steadily, and waving his hand in silence
toward the widow. “But what answer gave the
young man when questioned of the whereabout of

his friend? Not a word, Margaret—not a word, my
child.”

“Is Mr. Barbary dead, grandfather?” the child inquired,
leaning forward.

“How else? He is not to be found in pulpit or
field. No man seeth his steps any more in their ancient
haunts. No man hearkens to his voice.”

“But the body, father, was never found. He may
be still living in some other quarter.”

“It was near the rock called High Point, you will
remember, and one plunge might have sent him to
the bottom. The under currents of the lake are
strong, and may have easily swept him away. There
is but one belief through all this neighborhood.
Ethan Barbary fell by the hand—Almighty God,
that I should have to say it to you, my own grandson—of
Elbridge Peabody.”

The child sat for a moment in dumb astonishment,
glancing, with distended eyes and sweat upon his
brow, fearfully from the stern face of the old man to
the downcast features of the widow, when recovering
speech he asked:—

“Why should my brother kill Mr. Barbary, if he
was his friend? Was not Elbridge always kind, mother?

I'm sure he was to me, and used to let me
ride old Sorrel before him to the mill!”

“Ever kind? He was. There was not a day he
did not make glad his poor mother's heart, with
some generous act of devotion to her. No sun set
on the day which did not cheer her lonely hearth
with a new light of gladness and peace from his
young eyes.”

“Margaret, you forget. He was soft of heart, but
proud of spirit, and haughty beyond his age; you
may not remember, even I could not always look
down his anger, or silence his loudness of speech.
Why should he kill Mr. Barbary? I will tell you,
child: the preacher, too, had discerned well your
brother's besetting sin, and, being fearless in duty,
from the Sabbath pulpit he spake of it plainly and
with such point that it could not fail to come home
directly to the bosom of the young man. This was
on the very Lord's day before Mr. Barbary disappeared
from amongst us. It rankled in your brother's
bosom like poison; his passions were wild and ungoverned,
and this was cause enough. If he had
been innocent, why did Elbridge Peabody flee this
neighborhood, like a thief in the night?”

“Why did my brother Elbridge leave us, mother?”
said the child, bending eagerly towards the widow,
who wrung her hands and was silent.

“He may come back,” said the child, shaking his
flaxen locks, and not abashed in the least by her silence.
“He may come back yet and explain all to
us.”

“Never!”

At that very moment a red rooster, who stood with
his burnished wings on the garden wall, near enough to
have heard all that had passed, lifted up his throat,
and poured forth a clear cry, which rang through the
placid air far and wide.

“He will—I know he will,” said little Sam Peabody,
leaping down from his judgment-seat in the
window. “Chanticleer knows he will, or he would
not speak in that way. He hasn't crowed once before,
you know, grandfather, since Elbridge went
away; we'll hear from brother soon, I know we shall
—I know we shall!”

The little fellow, in his glee, clapped his hands and
crowed too. The grandfather, looking on his gambols,
smiled, but was presently sad again.

“Would to Heaven he may,” he said. “If they

come who should, to-day, we may learn of him—for
to-day my children should come up from all the
quarters of the land where they are scattered—the
East, the West, the North, the South—to join with
me in the Festival of Thanksgiving which now draws
near. My head is whitened with many winters, and
I shall see them for the last time.” Sylvester continued:
“If they come—in this calm season, which,
so soft and sweet, seems the gentle dawn of the
coming world—we shall have, I feel, our last re-gathering
on earth! But they come not; my eyes are
weary with watching afar off, and I cannot yet discern
that my children bear me in remembrance, in
this grateful season of the year. Why do they not
come?”

The aged patriarch of the family bowed his head
and was silent. From the broom-corn the gentle
voice stole again:

The murmur of Miriam's musical lamenting had
scarcely died away on the dreamy air, when there

came hurrying forward from the garden—where she
had been tending the great thanksgiving pumpkin,
which was her special charge—the black servant of
the household, Mopsey by name, who, with her broad-fringed
cap flying all abroad, and her great eyes rolling,
spoke out as she approached—

“Do hear dat, massa?”

“I hear nothing, Mopsey.”

“Dere, don't you hear't now? Dey're coming!”

With faces of curiosity, and ears erect, they listened.
There was a peculiar sound in the air, and
on closer attention they discerned, in the stillness of
the morning, the jingling traces of the stage-coach,
on the cross-road, through the fields.

“They are not coming,” said old Sylvester, when
the sound had died away in the distance; “the stage
has taken the other road.”

“Dat may be, grandfather,” Mopsey spoke up,
“but for all dey may come. Ugly Davis, when he
drive, don't always turn out of his way to come up
here. Dey may be on de corner.”

As Mopsey spoke, two figures appeared on foot on
the brow of the road, which sloped down toward the
Homestead, through a feathery range of graceful locusts.

They were too far off to be distinctly made
out, but it was to be inferred that they were travellers
from a distance, for one of them held against the
light some sort of travelling bag or portmanteau;
one of them was in female dress, but this was all they
could as yet distinguish. Various conjectures were
ventured as to their special character. They were
unquestionably making for the Homestead, and it
was to be reasonably supposed they were Peabodys,
for strangers were rare upon that road, which was
a by-way, off the main thoroughfare.

The family gathered on the extreme out-look of
the balcony, and watched with eager curiosity their
approach, which was slow and somewhat irregular—
the man did not aid the woman in her progress, but
straggled on apart, nor did he seem to address her
as they came on.