 | The snow-image |  |
JOHN INGLEFIELD'S THANKSGIVING.
On the evening of Thanksgiving day, John Inglefield,
the blacksmith, sat in his elbow-chair, among those who
had been keeping festival at his board. Being the central
figure of the domestic circle, the fire threw its
strongest light on his massive and sturdy frame, reddening
his rough visage, so that it looked like the head of
an iron statue, all a-glow, from his own forge, and with
its features rudely fashioned on his own anvil. At John
Inglefield's right hand was an empty chair. The other
places round the hearth were filled by the members of
the family, who all sat quietly, while, with a semblance
of fantastic merriment, their shadows danced on the wall
behind them. One of the group was John Inglefield's
son, who had been bred at college, and was now a
student of theology at Andover. There was also a
daughter of sixteen, whom nobody could look at without
thinking of a rose-bud almost blossomed. The only other
person at the fireside was Robert Moore, formerly an
apprentice of the blacksmith, but now his journeyman,
and who seemed more like an own son of John Inglefield
than did the pale and slender student.
Only these four had kept New England's festival
beneath that roof. The vacant chair at John Inglefield's
right hand was in memory of his wife, whom
death had snatched from him since the previous Thanksgiving.
With a feeling that few would have looked for
set the chair in its place next his own; and often did his
eye glance thitherward, as if he deemed it possible that
the cold grave might send back its tenant to the cheerful
fireside, at least for that one evening. Thus did he
cherish the grief that was dear to him. But there was
another grief which he would fain have torn from his
heart; or, since that could never be, have buried it too
deep for others to behold, or for his own remembrance.
Within the past year another member of his household
had gone from him, but not to the grave. Yet they
kept no vacant chair for her.
While John Inglefield and his family were sitting
round the hearth with the shadows dancing behind them
on the wall, the outer door was opened, and a light footstep
came along the passage. The latch of the inner
door was lifted by some familiar hand, and a young girl
came in, wearing a cloak and hood, which she took off,
and laid on the table beneath the looking-glass. Then,
after gazing a moment at the fireside circle, she approached,
and took the seat at John Inglefield's right
hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her.
“Here I am, at last, father,” said she. “You ate your
Thanksgiving dinner without me, but I have come back
to spend the evening with you.”
Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield. She wore the same
neat and maidenly attire which she had been accustomed
to put on when the household work was over
for the day, and her hair was parted from her brow, in
the simple and modest fashion that became her best of
all. If her cheek might otherwise have been pale, yet
the glow of the fire suffused it with a healthful bloom.
guilt and infamy, yet they seemed to have left no traces
on her gentle aspect. She could not have looked less
altered, had she merely stepped away from her father's
fireside for half an hour, and returned while the blaze
was quivering upwards from the same brands that were
burning at her departure. And to John Inglefield she
was the very image of his buried wife, such as he
remembered her on the first Thanksgiving which they
had passed under their own roof. Therefore, though
naturally a stern and rugged man, he could not speak
unkindly to his sinful child, nor yet could he take her to
his bosom.
“You are welcome home, Prudence,” said he, glancing
sideways at her, and his voice faltered. “Your
mother would have rejoiced to see you, but she has been
gone from us these four months.”
“I know it, father, I know it,” replied Prudence,
quickly. “And yet, when I first came in, my eyes were
so dazzled by the fire-light that she seemed to be sitting
in this very chair!”
By this time, the other members of the family had
begun to recover from their surprise, and became sensible
that it was no ghost from the grave, nor vision of
their vivid recollections, but Prudence, her own self.
Her brother was the next that greeted her. He
advanced and held out his hand affectionately, as a
brother should; yet not entirely like a brother, for, with
all his kindness, he was still a clergyman, and speaking
to a child of sin.
“Sister Prudence,” said he, earnestly, “I rejoice that
a merciful Providence hath turned your steps homeward,
weeks, sister, I am to sail as a missionary to the far
islands of the Pacific. There is not one of these beloved
faces that I shall ever hope to behold again on this
earth. O, may I see all of them — yours and all —
beyond the grave!”
A shadow flitted across the girl's countenance.
“The grave is very dark, brother,” answered she,
withdrawing her hand somewhat hastily from his grasp.
“You must look your last at me by the light of this
fire.”
While this was passing, the twin-girl — the rose-bud
that had grown on the same stem with the cast-away —
stood gazing at her sister, longing to fling herself upon
her bosom, so that the tendrils of their hearts might intertwine
again. At first she was restrained by mingled
grief and shame, and by a dread that Prudence was too
much changed to respond to her affection, or that her
own purity would be felt as a reproach by the lost one.
But, as she listened to the familiar voice, while the face
grew more and more familiar, she forgot everything
save that Prudence had come back. Springing forward,
she would have clasped her in a close embrace.
At that very instant, however, Prudence started from
her chair, and held out both her hands, with a warning
gesture.
“No, Mary, — no, my sister,” cried she, “do not
you touch me. Your bosom must not be pressed to
mine!”
Mary shuddered and stood still, for she felt that something
darker than the grave was between Prudence and
herself, though they seemed so near each other in the
together. Meanwhile Prudence threw her eyes around
the room, in search of one who had not yet bidden her
welcome. He had withdrawn from his seat by the
fireside, and was standing near the door, with his face
averted, so that his features could be discerned only
by the flickering shadow of the profile upon the wall.
But Prudence called to him, in a cheerful and kindly
tone:
“Come, Robert,” said she, “won't you shake hands
with your old friend?”
Robert Moore held back for a moment, but affection
struggled powerfully, and overcame his pride and resentment;
he rushed towards Prudence, seized her hand,
and pressed it to his bosom.
“There, there, Robert!” said she, smiling sadly, as
she withdrew her hand, “you must not give me too
warm a welcome.”
And now, having exchanged greetings with each
member of the family, Prudence again seated herself in
the chair at John Inglefield's right hand. She was
naturally a girl of quick and tender sensibilities, gladsome
in her general mood, but with a bewitching pathos
interfused among her merriest words and deeds. It was
remarked of her, too, that she had a faculty, even from
childhood, of throwing her own feelings like a spell over
her companions. Such as she had been in her days of
innocence, so did she appear this evening. Her friends,
in the surprise and bewilderment of her return, almost
forgot that she had ever left them, or that she had forfeited
any of her claims to their affection. In the morning,
perhaps, they might have looked at her with altered
that their own Prudence had come back to them, and
were thankful. John Inglefield's rough visage brightened
with the glow of his heart, as it grew warm and
merry within him; once or twice, even, he laughed
till the room rang again, yet seemed startled by the
echo of his own mirth. The grave young minister
became as frolicsome as a school-boy. Mary, too, the
rose-bud, forgot that her twin-blossom had ever been
torn from the stem, and trampled in the dust. And as
for Robert Moore, he gazed at Prudence with the
bashful earnestness of love new-born, while she, with
sweet maiden coquetry, half smiled upon and half discouraged
him.
In short, it was one of those intervals when sorrow
vanishes in its own depth of shadow, and joy starts
forth in transitory brightness. When the clock struck
eight, Prudence poured out her father's customary
draught of herb tea, which had been steeping by the
fire-side ever since twilight.
“God bless you, child!” said John Inglefield, as
he took the cup from her hand; “you have made
your old father happy again. But we miss your mother
sadly, Prudence, sadly. It seems as if she ought to be
here now.”
“Now, father, or never,” replied Prudence.
It was now the hour for domestic worship. But
while the family were making preparations for this
duty, they suddenly perceived that Prudence had put
on her cloak and hood, and was lifting the latch of the
door.
“Prudence, Prudence! where are you going?” cried
they all, with one voice.
As Prudence passed out of the door, she turned
towards them, and flung back her hand with a gesture
of farewell. But her face was so changed that they
hardly recognized it. Sin and evil passions glowed
through its comeliness, and wrought a horrible deformity;
a smile gleamed in her eyes, as of triumphant
mockery, at their surprise and grief.
“Daughter,” cried John Inglefield, between wrath and
sorrow, “stay and be your father's blessing, or take his
curse with you!”
For an instant Prudence lingered and looked back
into the fire-lighted room, while her countenance wore
almost the expression as if she were struggling with a
fiend, who had power to seize his victim even within the
hallowed precincts of her father's hearth. The fiend
prevailed; and Prudence vanished into the outer darkness.
When the family rushed to the door, they could
see nothing, but heard the sound of wheels rattling over
the frozen ground.
That same night, among the painted beauties at the
theatre of a neighboring city, there was one whose
dissolute mirth seemed inconsistent with any sympathy
for pure affections, and for the joys and griefs which
are hallowed by them. Yet this was Prudence Inglefield.
Her visit to the Thanksgiving fireside was the
realization of one of those waking dreams in which the
guilty soul will sometimes stray back to its innocence.
But Sin, alas! is careful of her bond-slaves; they hear
her voice, perhaps, at the holiest moment, and are constrained
to go whither she summons them. The same
father's hearth — the same in its nature, though heightened
then to a dread necessity — would snatch a guilty
soul from the gate of heaven, and make its sin and its
punishment alike eternal.
| The snow-image | |