 | The homestead on the hillside, and other tales |  |
The Old Red House
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
1. CHAPTER I.
UNCLE AMOS AND AUNT POLLY.
Many years ago, before I was born, or you either, perchance,
gentle reader, there lived, far away among the tall
mountains of New England, a sturdy farmer, Uncle Amos
Carey, and his good wife Polly. This worthy couple,
who seemed to be every body's uncle and aunt, were
known for many miles around, and their “old red house
among the mountains” was long the rendezvous for all
the young mountaineers, who, with their rosy cheeked
lasses, congregated there on all “great days,” and on many
days which were not great.
There was some strong attraction about that low, red
building. Perhaps it was because the waters of the well
which stood in the rear were colder, or the grass in the
little yard was greener, and the elm trees and lilac bushes
taller there than elsewhere. Or it might have been because
Aunt Polly was deeply skilled in the mysteries of
fortune-telling, by means of teacups and tea-grounds.
Many a time might the good dame have been seen, surrounded
by half a dozen girls, all listening eagerly, while
Aunt Polly, with a dolefully grave expression about her
which lay a mass of tea-leaves in helter-skelter form.
Slowly and solemnly would she unfold the shining future
to some bright-eyed maiden, whose heart beat faster as
the thoughts of a rich husband, fine house, and more
dresses than she knew what to do with, were presented
to her imagination. At other times, the end of Aunt
Polly's nose would perceptibly flatten, and her voice would
become fearfully low, as, with an ominous shake of her
head, she dove into the teacup of some luckless wight,
who was known to have pilfered her grapes and plundered
her water-melon patch! On such occasions, dreadful was
the fortune given to the unfortunate offender. A broken
heart, broken leg, and most likely a broken neck, were
awarded to him for his delinquencies.
Notwithstanding these occasional ill fortunes, Aunt
Polly was a great favorite with the young folks, who, as
we have said, were frequent visitors at “the old red house
among the mountains.”
2. CHAPTER II.
ALICE.
Uncle Amos had one child, a daughter, named Alice.
At a period longer ago than I can remember, Alice was
fifteen years of age, and was as wild and shy a creature as
the timid deer, which sometimes bounded past her mountain
home, trembling at the rustle of every leaf and the
buzz of every bee. There was much doubt whether Alice
were the veritable child of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly,
or not.
Rumor said that nearly fifteen years before, a fearful
snow storm, such as the “oldest inhabitant” had never
before known, swept over the mountains, blocking up the
roads, and rendering them impassable for several days.
On the first night of the storm, about dusk, a slight female
form was seen toiling slowly up the mountain road,
which led to Uncle Amos' house. A man who was hurrying
home met her, and anxious to know who she was,
looked under her bonnet. Her face, as he afterwards described
it, was very white and crazy-like, and very beautiful.
Another person, a woman, had been with her knitting
work to one of the neighbors, and was also returning
home. Suddenly turning a corner in the road, she came
face to face with the weary traveler, who seemed anxious
to pass unnoticed. But the woman was inquisitive, and
desirous of knowing who the stranger could be; so she
asked her name, and where she was going. A glance of
anger shot from the large black eye of the strange woman,
but farther than that she deigned no reply; and as she
passed on, the questioner observed that she carried in her
arms something which might or might not be an infant.
The next day the storm raged so violently that neither
man, woman, nor child were seen outside their own yards.
For three days the storm continued with unabated fury,
and several more days passed before the process of “breaking
roads” was gone through with, sufficiently to admit
of a passage from one house to another. At the end of
that time, one night, just after sunset, a whole sled load
of folks drew up in front of Uncle Amos' dwelling They
could not wait any longer before visiting Aunt Polly,
whose smiling face appeared at the door, and called out,
“Welcome to you all. I's expecting you, and have got
a lot of mince pies and doughnuts made.”
So the dames and lasses bounded off from the ox-sled,
themselves of their warm wrappings. There was so much
talking and laughing among them, that the cloaks, shawls,
and hoods were all put away before one of them exclaimed,
“Mercy sakes! Here's a cradle! Is your cat sick, Aunt
Polly? But no,—as true as I live, it's a little bit of a
baby! Where in this world did you get it, Aunt Polly?”
But if Aunt Polly knew where she got it, she kept the
knowledge to herself, and bravely withstood the questioning
and cross-questioning of her fair guests.
“Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no lies,” said
she. “It is my child, and haven't I as good a right to have
a daughter as anybody?”
“Yes, thee has,” said Dolly Dutton, a fair, chubby little
Quakeress; “and well is it for the poor thing that it
can call thee mother.”
By this time the baby had been unceremoniously hustled
out of its snug cradle by some of the young girls, who
were all loud in their admiration of its beauty.
“What do you call it, Aunt Polly?” asked one.
“Alice,” was Aunt Polly's quiet reply.
At that moment the baby slowly unclosed its large eyes,
and fixed them on the face of the young girl who held her,
with a strange, earnest gaze. Up sprung the girl as if
stung by a serpent. “Gracious goodness!” exclaimed
she, “will somebody please take her. She's got the `evil
eye' I do believe, and looks for all the world like old
Squire Herndon.”
Aunt Polly hastily stooped down to take the child, but
she did not stoop soon enough or low enough to hide from
Dolly Dutton's keen eye the deep flush which mantled
her cheek at the mention of Squire Herndon. From that
time Dolly's mind was made up respecting Alice. She
knew something which most of her neighbors did not
for a time, at least.
Merrily sang the round tea-kettle in the bright fire
which blazed on Aunt Polly's clean hearth, and loudly
hissed the strong green tea in the old black earthen teapot,
while the long pine table, with its snowy cloth,
groaned beneath its weight of edibles. The spirits of the
company rose higher in proportion as the good cheer grew
lower. Numerous were the jokes cracked at the expense
of the little Alice, who, with her large, wild eyes, lay in
her cradle bed, wholly unconscious of the wonder and
gossip she was exciting.
“It's of no use, Richard, for thee to quiz Aunt Polly
concerning Alice, for she ain't going to tell, and most
likely has a good reason for her silence,” said Dolly Dutton
to Mr. Richard Hallidon, who had the honor of being
schoolmaster in the little village which lay snugly nestled
at the foot of the mountain.
“Neither would I give the worth of a quill pen to
know,” said Richard, “but I will stipulate with Aunt
Polly that as soon as Alice is old enough, she shall come
to my school.”
To this proposition Aunt Polly readily assented, and
after much laughing and joking, and the disappearance
of a large tin pan full of red apples, and a gallon or so of
egg nog, the little party left for home.
Ere the heavy tread of the oxen and the creaking of
the cumbrous sled had died away in the distance, Uncle
Amos was snugly ensconced in bed, and in the course of
five minutes he was sending forth sundry loud noises
which sounded like snoring; but as the good man warmly
contended that he never snored, (has the reader ever seen
a man who would confess he did snore?) we will suppose
the sounds to have been something else. Aunt Polly sat
lap. Bending down, she closely scrutinized each feature
of the small, white face, and as the infant opened its full,
dark eyes, and fixed them inquiringly upon her, she murmured,
“Yes, she does look like Squire Herndon; strange
I never thought of it before. But deary me,” she continued,
“who ever did see such awful eyes? They fairly
make me fidgety. There, shut them up,” said she, at the
same time pressing down the lids over the eyes, which
seemed to look so knowingly at her.
The offending eyes being shut, the old lady continued
her musing. “Yes,” thought she, “Alice has the Herndon
look. I wonder what the old squire would say if he
knew all. I've half a mind to tell him, just to see what
kind of a hurricane he would get up.” Then followed a
long reverie, in the midst of which stood a large, handsome
castle, of which Alice was the proud nominal mistress,
and Aunt Polly the real one.
By the time this castle was fully completed and furnished,
Aunt Polly was fast nodding assent to every improvement.
Fainter and fainter grew the fire on the
hearth, clearer and clearer ticked the old long clock in
the corner, louder and louder grew the breathings of
Uncle Amos, while lower and lower nodded Aunt Polly's
spectacles, till at last they dropped from the long, sharp
nose, and rested quietly on the floor. How long this
state of things would have continued, is not known, for
matters were soon brought to a crisis by Uncle Amos,
who gave a snore so loud and long that it woke the baby,
Alice, whose uneasy turnings soon roused her sleeping
nurse.
“Bless my stars!” said Aunt Polly, rubbing her eyes
“where's my spectacles? I must have had a nap.” A
house, and its occupants were wandering through the
misty vales of dreamland.
3. CHAPTER III.
LITTLE ITEMS.
We pass rapidly over the first ten years of Alice's life,
only pausing to say that she throve well under the kind
care of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly, whom she looked
upon as her parents, for she knew no others. As she increased
in stature and years, her personal appearance was
remarked and commented upon by the matrons of the
mountains, as well as those of the village at the foot of
the mountain.
One would say, “She and old Herndon looked as much
alike as two peas,” while another would answer, “Yes,
only Alice has got such strange, scornful eyes. They
look at you as though they could read all your thoughts.”
And now I suppose some reader will say, “How did Alice
look, and what was it about her eyes?” So here
follows a description of Alice as she was at ten years
of age.
Naturally healthy, the strength of her constitution was
greatly increased by the mountain air and exercise to
which she was daily accustomed. Still, in form she was
delicate, and Aunt Polly often expressed her fears that
the poor child would never attain her height, which was
five feet ten inches! Alice's features were tolerably regular,
and her complexion was as white and pure as the
falling snow. Indeed, there was something almost startling
did, with the blackness of her hair, which hung in short,
tangled curls about her neck, forehead, and eyes. Those
eyes we will speak of, ere long. We are not yet through
with Alice's hair, which cost her poor mother a world of
trouble. Do what she might, it would curl. Soak it in
suds as long as she chose, and as soon as it dried, it curled
more than ever! What a pest it was! Aunt Polly
couldn't spend her time in curling hair, and as Alice did
not know how, there seemed but one alternative — cut it
off; but this Alice would not suffer, so one hour every
Sunday morning was devoted to combing and curling
the really handsome hair, which during the week hung
in wild disorder about her face, becoming each day more
and more tangled and matted, until it was not strange
that Alice thought she should surely die if it were combed
more than once a week.
Now for those eyes. After all, there was nothing so
very goblin-like about them. They were merely very
large, very black, and very bright, and seemed, indeed,
to look into the recesses of one's soul, and pry out his inmost
thoughts. There was a world of pride and scorn
beneath the long silken eyelashes, which seemed so seldom
to be closed, for as one of the villagers said, “Alice's
eyes were always looking, looking at you.” On occasions
when Aunt Polly was engaged in her favorite occupation
of fortune-telling, Alice's eyes would flash forth
her utter contempt of the whole matter, and many a
young maiden, shamed by the scorn of the little wild girl,
as she was called, would conclude not to have “her fortune
told.”
It was seldom, however, that Alice honored her mother's
company by her presence. She seemed to prefer the
woods, the birds, and flowers for her companions. Sometimes
joined her mother's sitting-room, and there, unobserved,
she would watch, through a hole in the door, the countenances
and proceedings of the company around her
mother's tea-table. Often would some of the guests be
startled by the fixed gaze of those large, black eyes,
which seemed to look with such haughty pity on the
farce which always followed one of Aunt Polly's tea-drinkings.
4. CHAPTER IV.
FRANK.
One bright summer afternoon when there was no
school, Alice wandered out alone into the woods, plucking
here and there a wild flower, which she placed in the
matted curls of her hair. At last, coming to a little opening
in the trees, where a rude seat had been constructed,
she sat down, and commenced singing, in clear, musical
tones, the old familiar song, “Bonnie Doon.”
She was just finishing the first stanza, when she was
startled by the sound of another voice, chiming in with
hers. Springing up, she looked round for the intruder.
“Just cast those big eyes straight ahead, and you 'll
see me!” called out some one in a loud, merry tone.
Immediately Alice saw directly before her a roguish
looking, handsome boy, apparently twelve or thirteen
years of age. There was something in his air and dress
which told that he was above the common order of mountaineers.
Alice suddenly recollected having heard that a
pretty white cottage which stood about half a mile from
her father's, and she readily concluded that the lad before
her was Frank Seymour, whose beauty she had
heard one of her school companions extol so highly.
Her first impulse was to run, but the boy prevented her,
by saying, “I 'm Frank Seymour. I 've just moved my
mother up among these mountains. Now, who and
what are you? You are a queer looking specimen, any
way!”
Rude as this speech was, it pleased Alice, and she answered,
“I am Alice Carey, and I don't care if I am
queer looking.”
“Alice Carey, are you? That's a pretty name,” said
Frank, cracking his fingers. “Alice Carey,—oh, I know,
you are that old witch's daughter that lives in the red
house. I've heard of you. They say you are as wild as
a wild-cat,—and yet I like you.”
Alice stood for an instant as if spell-bound. Her mother
had been called an old witch, and herself a wild-cat, in
such a comical way, too, that for a time anger and mirth
strove for the mastery. The former conquered, and ere
Frank was aware of her intention, he received a blow in
his face which sent him reeling against an old tree. When
he recovered a standing posture, he observed Alice far
away in the distance, speeding it over logs and stumps,
briers and bushes, and he instantly started in pursuit. The
chase was long, for Alice ran swiftly, but gradually her
pursuer gained upon her. At length she came to a tall tree,
whose limbs grew near the ground. With a cat-like
spring she caught the lower branch, and by the time
Frank reached the tree, she was far up, near its top, cozily
sitting on one of its boughs. In her hand she held a
large worms' nest, which she had broken from the tree.
“Hallo, there, Master Frank!” said she. “Just as
sure as you climb this tree I'll shake these worms in your
face!”
If there was any living thing Frank feared, it was a
worm, so he was obliged to give up his projected ascent.
“What a little spit-fire she is! I'll fetch her down,
though,” said he. At the same time gathering up a handful
of stones, he called out, “Miss Alice Carey, if you
don't come down, instanter, I'll stone you down.”
“Hit me if you can,” was the defiant answer.
Whizz went a stone through the air, but it missed its
mark, and fell harmlessly to the ground. We must tell
the truth, however, and say that Frank was very careful
not to hit the white, unearthly face, which gleamed amid
the dense foliage of the tree.
“Come, Alice,” said he, coaxingly, “what's the use of
being perched up there like a raccoon or hyena. Come
down, and let us make up friends, for really I do like
you.”
“You called my mother an old witch,” said Alice.
“I know I did,” answered Frank, “but I'm sorry for
it. I heard she told fortunes, and I couldn't think of any
better name. But pray come down, and I won't call her
so again.”
Alice was finally persuaded, and rapidly descending the
tree, she soon stood on the green turf beside Frank, who
now eyed her from head to foot.
“I say, Alice,” continued he, “just throw away that
odious worms' nest, and act like somebody.”
“I shall do no such thing, Master Frank,” said Alice.
“I know now that you are afraid of worms, and if you
come one inch nearer me, I'll throw some on you!”
So Frank kept at a respectful distance, but he exerted
himself to conquer Alice's evident dislike of him,
her nature to withstand the handsome face, laughing eye,
and more than all, the droll humor of Frank.
The worms' nest was gradually forgotten, and when
Frank, pulling a book from his pocket, said, “See here,
look at my new history,” it was dropped, while Alice
drew so near to Frank that, ere the book was looked
through, his hand was resting on her shoulder, and one
of her snarled black curls lay amid his rich brown hair.
Before they parted that afternoon, they were sworn
friends, and Frank had won from Alice an invitation to
visit her mother the next day. “You may as well invite
me,” said he, “for I shall come, any way.”
That night Alice related her adventure to her mother,
and spoke of Frank in terms so extravagant, that the next
day, when he made his appearance, he met with a hearty
welcome from Aunt Polly, who was perfectly delighted
with the bright, handsome boy. After tea, he said,
“Come, Mrs. Carey, you must tell my fortune, and mind,
now, tell me a good one.”
“Frank, Frank!” said Alice, quickly.
“Well, what's wanted of Frank, Frank?” asked the
young gentleman.
“I thought you despised the whole affair. I shan't
like you if you don't,” answered Alice.
“And so I do,” said Frank; “but pity sakes, can't a
man have a little fun?”
“You're a funny man,” thought Alice, but she said nothing,
and her mother proceeded to read Frank's fortune
from the bottom of the cup. A handsome wife, who was
rich and a lady, too, was promised him. Frank waited
to hear no more; springing up, he struck the big blue
cup from the hand of the astonished Aunt Polly, who exclaimed,
“What ails the boy!”
“What ails me?” repeated Frank; “nobody wants a
rich lady for a wife. Why didn't you promise me Alice?
I like her best of anybody, and she's handsome, too, if
she'd only comb out that squirrel's nest of hers. I say,
Alice,” continued he, “why don't you take better care
of your hair? Come to my mother's, and she'll teach
you how to curl it beautifully. Will you let her come to-morrow,
Mrs. Carey?” said he, turning to Aunt Polly.
“If you will, I will come for her, and will bring you two
teacups to pay for the one I broke. I'm sorry I did that,
but I couldn't help it.”
Aunt Polly gave her consent to the visit, and the next
day Frank joyfully introduced Alice to his mother. From
that time she was a frequent visitor at the house of Mrs.
Seymour, who was an accomplished woman, and took
great pleasure in improving the manners and education
of little Alice. Frank studied at home with his mother,
and he begged so hard that his new friend might share
his advantages, that Mrs. Seymour finally proposed to
Aunt Polly to take Alice from school and let her study
with Frank. To this plan Aunt Polly assented, and
during the next six months Alice's improvement was as
rapid as her happiness was unbounded.
5. CHAPTER V.
WOMAN'S NATURE.
When the spring came, there was a change of teachers
in the village school. Richard Hallidon, who for twelve
years had swayed the birchen rod, was dismissed, and as
a more talented and accomplished individual was hired in
to school. Alice was his daily companion, and the intimacy
between them was a subject of much ridicule for
their companions.
Frank liked the fun of being teased about Alice, but
she always declared that her preference for him, if she had
any, arose from the fact that he was much better behaved
than the other boys. Her affection was at last put to the
test, in the following novel manner:
As she and some of her companions were one night returning
from school, they came suddenly upon a group
of boys, who were calling out, “That's it, Frank. Now
make her draw. Who-a, haw, get up, Tabby.”
Coming near, they discovered a kitten with a cord tied
round its neck. To this cord was attached Frank's dinner
basket and books. “He was tired of carrying them,”
he said, “and he meant to make kitty draw them.”
“Frank Seymour!” said Alice, indignantly, “let that
cat go, this instant.”
Frank stood irresolute. There was something in the
expression of Alice's eye which made him uncomfortable.
He thought of the worms' nest, but one of the boys called
out, “Shame, Frank; don't be afraid of her.”
So Frank again attempted to make kitty draw the basket.
In a twinkling, Alice pitched upon him. The boys
gathered round and shouted, “A fight! a fight! Now
for some fun! Give it to him, Alice! That's right, hit
him another dig!”
The contest was a hot one, and on Frank's part a bloody
one, for Alice seized his nose and wrung it until the blood
gushed out! He, however, was the strongest, and was
fast gaining the advantage. One of the girls perceived
this, and turning to her brother, said, “Bob, help Alice;
don't you see she's getting the worst of it?”
Thus importuned, Bob fell upon Frank and belabored
him so unmercifully that Frank cried for quarter. “Shall
I let him alone, Alice?” said Bob. “I will do just as
you say.”
Alice's only answer was a fierce thrust at Bob's hair,
hands full of which were soon floating on the air, like thistles
in the autumn time.
“I declare, Alice,” said Bob's sister, “I always knew
you liked Frank, but I did not think you'd fight so like a
tiger for him.”
If this speech caused Alice any emotion, it was imperceptible,
unless it were evinced by the increased brilliancy
of her eyes, which emitted such lightning flashes, that during
their walk home Frank very modestly suggested to
her the propriety of keeping her eyes shut, while going
through the woods, lest the dried leaves and shrubs should
take fire! It is needless to say that thenceforth Frank
and Alice were suffered to fight their own battles, undisturbed
by Bob or any of his companions.
6. CHAPTER VI.
SQUIRE HERNDON AND IRA.
Every village, however small, has its aristocrat, and
so had the little village at the foot of the mountain. At
the upper end of the principal street stood a large, handsome
building, whose high white walls, long green shutters,
granite steps, and huge brass knocker, seemed to
look down somewhat proudly upon their more humble
neighbors. To the casual visitor or passing traveler,
Herndon.
Squire Herndon was a man on whose head the frosts
of sixty winters had fallen so heavily that they had
bleached his once brown locks to a snowy whiteness. He
was one who seemed to have outlived all natural affections.
Long years had passed since he had laid the gentle wife
of his youth to rest beneath the green willow, whose
branches are now bent so low as almost to hide from view
the low, grassy mound. By the side of that grave was
another, the grave of Squire Herndon's only daughter.
She was fair and beautiful, but the destroyer came, and
one bright morning in autumn, just as the hoar frost was
beginning to touch the foliage with a brighter hue, she
passed away, and the old man's home was again desolate.
Some of the villagers said of him in his affliction, “It's
surely a judgment from heaven, to pay him for being so
proud, and may be it will do him good;” but Squire
Herndon was one whose morose nature adversity rendered
still more sour.
He had yet one child left, Ira, his first-born and only
son. On him his hopes were henceforth centered. Ira
should marry some wealthy heiress, and thus the family
name would not become extinct. Squire Herndon belonged
to an English family, which was probably descended
from one of those “three brothers who came
over from England” long time ago! He was proud of
his ancestors, proud of his wealth, his house, servants,
and grounds, and had been proud of his daughter, but
she was gone; and now he was proud of Ira, whom he
tried to make generally disagreeable to the villagers.
But this he could not do, for Ira possessed too many
of the social qualities of his mother to be very proud
and arrogant. At length the time came when he entered
acquainted with a beautiful and accomplished girl,
named Mary Calvert. That acquaintance soon ripened
into love, and Squire Herndon was one day startled by a
letter from Ira, saying that he was about to offer himself
to a Miss Calvert, with whom he knew his father would
be pleased.
This so enraged Squire Herndon, that, without stopping
to read more, he threw the letter aside, and for the next
half hour paced his apartment, stamping, puffing, and
foaming like a caged lion. At last it occurred to him that
he had not read all his son's letter, so catching it up, he
read it through, and found added as a postscript, the following
clause: “I forgot to tell you that Mary's father is
very wealthy, and she is his only child.”
This announcement changed the old squire at once;
his feelings underwent an entire revolution, and he now
regretted that Ira had not written that he had proposed
and was accepted. “But,” thought the squire, “of
course she 'll accept him; she cannot refuse such a boy as
Ira.”
And yet she did! With many tears she confessed her
love, but said that far away over the seas was one to
whom she had been betrothed almost from childhood; he
was kind and noble, and until she saw Ira Herndon, she
had thought she loved him. Said she, “I have given him
so many assurances that I would be his, that I cannot recall
them. I love you, Ira, far better, but I esteem Mr.
S., and respect myself so much that I cannot break my
word.” No argument of Ira's could induce her to
change her resolution, and a few days before he was
graduated, he saw his Mary, with a face white as marble,
pronounce the vows which bound her to another.
7. CHAPTER VII.
ALICE'S MOTHER.
Three years after the closing incidents of the last chapter,
Ira was practicing law near the eastern boundary of
the state of New York. From his office windows he frequently
noticed a beautiful young girl of not more than sixteen
summers, who passed and repassed every day to and
from school. Her plain calico frock, coarse linen apron,
and cambric sun-bonnet, showed that she was not a child
of wealth, and yet there was something about her face
and appearance strangely fascinating to the young lawyer.
He at length became acquainted with her, and found
that her name was Lucy Edwards, that she was the adopted
child of the family with whom she lived, and also the
half sister of the famous Aunt Polly, among the mountains.
Ira fancied that she resembled Mary Calvert, who
was now lost to him forever, and ere he was aware of it,
he was forming plans for the future, in all of which the
young Lucy played a conspicuous part. Before the summer
was over, he had asked her to be his wife. She gave
her consent willingly, for she was ambitious, and had long
sighed for something better than the humble home in
which her childhood had been passed.
When next Ira visited his father, he was accompanied
by Lucy, who was intending to spend several days with
her sister. On parting with her at the hotel, he told her
that the day following he would seek an interview with
his father, to whom he would acknowledge their engagement,
and ask him to sanction their union. Of that interview
between father and son, we will speak but little.
Suffice it to say, that Squire Herndon, in his rage, almost
girl, whose sister disgraced her sex by telling fortunes,
and finished his abuse by swearing to disinherit Ira the
moment he should hear of his marrying Lucy Edwards.
Ira knew his father too well to think of softening
him by argument, so he rushed from his presence, and
was soon on his way to the red house among the mountains,
where Lucy was anxiously watching for him.
As soon as she saw him coming up the mountain path,
she ran eagerly to meet him. At one glance she saw that
something was wrong, and urged him to tell her the
worst. In as few words as possible, he related to her
what had passed between himself and his father. When
he finished speaking, Lucy burst into tears, and said
mournfully, “And so you will leave me, Ira? I might
have known it would be so.”
Ira was touched, and laying his hand on Lucy's dark
locks, he vowed that she should be his, even at the cost
of his father's curse. When they reached the gate, Lucy
said, “I forgot to tell you that Polly has company—the
Quakeress, Dolly Dutton—but you need not mind her.”
After entering the house, Aunt Polly gradually led Ira
to speak of the interview between himself and his father.
By the time he had finished, Mrs. Carey's wrath was waxing
warmer and warmer.
“Ira Herndon,” she exclaimed, “you are cowardly if
you do not show your independence by marrying whom
you please.”
“I intend to marry Lucy at some future time,” answered
Ira.
“Fudge on some future time!” was Aunt Polly's
scornful answer; “why not marry her now? You 'll
never have a better time. We'll all keep it a secret, so
your old father will not cut you off. Amos will go for
will have the knot tied. What say you?”
Ira hesitated. He did not care about being married so
hurriedly, and could he have considered until the morrow,
he probably would have withstood all temptation;
but as it was, he was overruled, and finally gave his consent
that the ceremony should take place that night.
Parson Landon was accordingly sent for, and ere Ira had
time to think what he was doing, he was the husband of
Lucy Edwards, Mr. and Mrs. Carey and Dolly Dutton
alone witnessing the ceremony. When it was completed,
Aunt Polly said, “Now we must all keep this a secret,
for if it comes to Squire Herndon's ear, he 'll sartingly
cut 'm off.”
The minister and Dolly readily promised silence, but
Ira said “he cared not a farthing whether his father
knew it or not, and thought seriously of telling him all.”
This announcement was received by Aunt Polly with
such a burst of indignation, and by Lucy with such a
gush of tears, that Ira was glad to promise that he, too,
would say nothing on the subject; but the painful thought
entered his mind, that possibly Lucy had married him
more from a love of wealth than from love to him.
In a few days he returned to the village where they
resided, leaving Lucy with her sister for a time. At
length he decided to remove to the village of C., in the
western part of New York, where Lucy soon joined him.
Here Alice was born. When she was about six months
old, her father received a very lucrative offer, the acceptance
of which required that he should go to India. For
himself, he did not hesitate, but his wife and child needed
his protection. To take the infant Alice to that hot
clime, was to insure her death, and he had no wish that
Lucy should remain behind.
In this extremity, Lucy thought of Aunt Polly, and
proposed that Alice should be left with her. After much
consultation, Aunt Polly was written to, and, as she consented
to take the child, Lucy started with Alice to place
her under Mrs. Carey's care. When within a mile of the
village, she directed the stage driver to let her alight;
she did not wish to pass through the village, but, striking
into a circuitous path, she soon reached Uncle Amos'
house unobserved, save by the man and woman whom we
mentioned in our second chapter.
Aunt Polly regularly received remittances from Mr.
Herndon for the support of his child, of whom he always
spoke with much affection. Lucy, weak and frivolous in
her nature, felt constrained to manifest some love for her
offspring, but it was evident to Aunt Polly that she was
heartily glad to be relieved of the care of little Alice.
When Alice was five years of age, there came a letter
bearing an ominous seal of black. With a trembling hand
Aunt Polly opened it, and, as she had feared, learned that
her young and beautiful sister, at the early age of twenty-two,
was sleeping the sleep of death, far off, 'neath the
tropical skies of India. That night the motherless Alice
looked wonderingly into the face of Aunt Polly, whose
tears fell thick and fast, as she clasped the awe-stricken
child to her bosom, and said, “You are mine forever,
now.” Alice remembered this in after years, and wept
over the death of a mother whom she never knew.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
Fieteen years had flown on rapid wing since Alice became
an inmate of the old red house among the mountains.
As yet she had no suspicion that she was other
than the child of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly. Under
their guardianship, and the watchful supervision of Mrs.
Seymour, she had grown into a tall, beautiful girl of fifteen.
The childish predilection which she had early
shown for Frank, had now ripened into a stronger feeling,
and, although she would scarcely acknowledge it, even to
herself, there was not, in all the wide world, an individual
who possessed so much influence over the shrinking,
timid mountain girl, as did Frank, who was now verging
on to eighteen.
Some changes have taken place since we last looked
upon the boy and girl, but we will again introduce them
to our readers, at the respective ages of eighteen and fifteen.
It was a mild September afternoon. The long line
of mountain tops was enveloped by a blue, hazy mist,
while the dense green of the towering forest trees was
interspersed here and there by leaflets of a brighter hue,
betokening the gradual but sure approach of nature's sad
decay.
In the little vine-wreathed portico of Uncle Amos'
house, are seated our old friends, Frank and Alice. He
has changed much since we last saw him, and were it not
for the same roguish twinkle of his hazel eyes, we should
hardly recognize the mischievous school-boy, Frank, in
the tall, handsome youth before us. During the last year
he has been in college, but his vacations have all been
“three-fourths of his time was devoted to Alice.”
The afternoon of which we are speaking had been spent
by them alone, for Aunt Polly was visiting in the village.
Frank was just wishing she would delay her coming until
nine o'clock, when she was seen hurrying toward the
house at an astonishingly rapid rate for her, for she was
rather asthmatic.
As soon as she had reached home, and found breath to
speak, she said, “Alice, did you know your—did you know
Squire Herndon's son Ira had come home from the Indies?”
“Yes, I heard so to-day,” said Alice quietly, “and I'm
glad, too, for 'twill cheer up his father, who is sick, and
seems very lonely and unhappy.”
“He ought to be lonely,” said Frank. “In my opinion
he is a hard old customer; and yet I always speak to
the old gentleman when I meet him, for he is very respectful
to me. But is n't it queer, mother will never let
me say a word against the old squire. I sometimes tease
her by saying that she evidently intends, sometime, to
become Mrs. Herndon. If she does, you and I, Alice,
will be Herndons too.”
Alice was about to reply, when Aunt Polly prevented
her by saying, “I can tell you, Mr. Seymour, that Alice
will be a Herndon before your mother is.”
Alice looked wonderingly at Aunt Polly, while Frank
said, “Which will she marry, the old squire, or the returned
Indian! Let me fix it. Alice marry the squire
—my mother marry his son, and then Alice will be my
grandmother?”
He was rattling on, when Aunt Polly stopped him, and
going up to Alice, she wound her arms about her, and in
trembling tones said, “Alice, my child, my darling, you
not my child!”
“Not your child!” said Alice, wildly.
“Not your child!” echoed Frank, starting up.
“Whose child is she, then? Speak; tell us quickly!”
“Her father is Ira Herndon, and her mother was my
half sister, Lucy,” answered Aunt Polly.
Heavily the yielding form of Alice sank into the arms
of Frank, who bore the fainting girl into the house, and
placed her upon the lounge. Then turning to Aunt Polly,
he said, “Is what you have told us true? and does Mr.
Herndon own his daughter?”
“It's all true as the gospel,” answered Mrs. Carey,
and Mr. Herndon is coming this night to see her.”
Frank pressed one kiss on Alice's white lips, and then
hurried away. Bitter thoughts were crowding upon him
and choking his utterance. Why was he so affected?
Was he sorry that Alice belonged to the proud race of
Herndons,—that wealth and family distinction were suddenly
placed before her? Yes, he was sorry, for now was
he fearful that his treasure would be snatched from him.
He understood the haughty pride of Squire Herndon,
and he feared that his son, too, might be like him, and
refuse his Alice to one so obscure as Frank fancied himself
to be.
On reaching home, he rushed into the little parlor in
which his mother was sitting, and throwing himself upon
the sofa, exclaimed passionately, “Mother, I do not wish
to return to college. It is of no use for me to try to be
anything, now.”
“Why, Frank,” said his mother, in much alarm, “what
has happened to disturb you?”
“Enough has happened,” answered Frank, “Alice is
Herndon's grand-daughter!”
“Squire Herndon's grand-daughter!” repeated Mrs.
Seymour, “How can that be?”
“Why, she is Mr. Ira Herndon's daughter, and he has
come to claim her,” said Frank.
White as marble grew the cheek and forehead of Mrs.
Seymour, and her voice was thick and indistinct, as she
said, “Ira Herndon come home,—and Alice's father too?”
Frank darted to her side, exclaiming, “Why, mother,
what is the matter? You are as cold and white as Alice
was when they told her. Are you, too, Ira Herndon's
daughter?”
“No, no,” said Mrs. Seymour, “but I know Mr. Herndon
well. Do not ask me more now. Be satisfied when
I tell you that if he is the same man he used to be, you
need have no fears for Alice. Now leave me; I would
be alone.”
Frank obeyed, wondering much what had come over
his mother. Does the reader wonder, too? Have you
not suspected that Mrs. Seymour was the Mary Calvert,
who, years ago, gave her hand to one, while her heart
belonged to Ira Herndon? Her story is soon told. She
had respected her husband, and had struggled hard to
conquer her love for one whom it were a sin to think of
now. In a measure she succeeded, and when, four years
after her marriage, she stood by the open grave of her
husband, she was a sincere mourner, for now she was
alone in the world, her father having been dead some
time. He had died insolvent, and when her husband's
estate was settled, it was found that there was just
enough property left to support herself and son comfortably.
A few years after, she chanced to be traveling through
the village where she knew Squire Herndon resided.
She was pleased with the romantic situation of the place,
and learning that the neat, white cottage among the
mountains was for sale, she purchased it, and soon after
removed thither. This, then, was the history of the woman
whose frame shook with so much emotion at the mention
of Ira Herndon.
9. CHAPTER IX.
FATHER AND CHILD.
Night had settled around the old red house among the
mountains, where Alice was listening eagerly, while Aunt
Polly recounted the incidents we have already related.
Suddenly a shadow darkened the casement, through which
the moon was pouring a flood of silvery light. A heavy
footfall echoed on the little piazza, and in a moment Ira
Herndon stood within the room, transfixed with surprise
at the beautiful vision which Aunt Polly presented to him,
saying, “This is Alice, your daughter. I have loved her
as my own; but take her,—she is yours.”
Something of Alice's old timidity returned, and she
was half inclined to spring through the open door, but
when she ventured at length to lift her eyes to the face
of the tall, fine looking man before her, a thrill of joy
and pride ran through her heart, and twining her soft,
white arms around the stranger's neck, she murmured,
father?”
“God bless you, Alice, my child, my daughter,” was
the answer, as Ira folded his newly found treasure to his
bosom. At that moment Uncle Amos entered, and saw
at a glance how matters stood. Tear after tear rolled
down his sun-burnt cheek, as taking the hard hand of his
faithful old wife, he said, “Yes, Polly, she will love him
and go with him, and we shall be left alone in our old
age.”
Alice released herself from her father's embrace, and
going up to the weeping old man, fondly caressed him,
saying, “I will always love you, and call you father, too,
for a kind, devoted parent you have been to me for fifteen
years, when I knew no other.”
“Nor need you ever be separated,” said Mr. Herndon,
“if you will go with Alice. I have wealth enough for us
all, and will gladly share it with you.”
To this generous offer Mr. and Mrs. Carey made no reply,
and Ira continued: “I have to-day told my father
all, and I regret I did not do so years ago.”
“What did he say?” asked Aunt Polly, quickly.
“He said not a word, save that he wished he had
known it before,” answered Mr. Herndon. “He seems
quite ill, and I am fearful his days are numbered.”
At a late hour that night Mr. Herndon took leave of
his daughter, promising to introduce her to her grandfather
as soon as possible.
10. CHAPTER X.
THE OLD MAN'S DEATH-BED.
High up in one of the lofty chambers of the Herndon
mansion, an old man lay dying. What mattered it now,
that the bedstead on which he lay was of the costliest
mahogany, or the sheets of the finest linen! Death was
there, waiting eagerly for his expected victim. Memory
was busily at work, and far back through a long era
of by-gone years, arose a dark catalogue of sin, which
made the sick man shudder as he tossed from side to side
in his feverish delirium. “Away, away,” he would shout,
with maniacal frenzy. “I did not turn you all from my
door. I only told my servants to do it. And you, starving,
weeping women, I only did what thousands have
done when I sold your all, and imprisoned your husbands
for debt. Away! I say. Don't taunt me with it now.”
Then his manner would soften, and he would call out,
“But stay,—is it money you want? Take it;—take all
I've got, and let that atone for the past.”
At this juncture Ira entered the room, on his return
from visiting his daughter. He was greatly alarmed at
the change in his father, but learning that a physician had
been sent for, he sat down, and endeavored to soothe his
father's excitement. He succeeded, and when the physician
arrived, he found his patient sleeping quietly.
From this sleep, however, he soon awoke, fully restored
to consciousness.
Turning to his son, he said, “Ira, did n't you tell me
she was your child?”
Mr. Herndon answered in the affirmative, and the old
her quickly, for the morning will not find me here.”
Ira arose to do his father's bidding, when he added,
“And, Ira, I must make my will; send for the proper
persons, will you?”
Ira saw that his father's orders were executed, and then
returned to his bedside to await the coming of Alice.
She was aroused from a sound sleep, and told that her
grandfather was dying, and would see her. Hurriedly
dressing herself, she was soon on her way to the village.
As she entered her grandfather's house, she looked
around her in amazement at the splendor which surrounded
her.
As she advanced into the sick-room, Squire Herndon
fixed his dark, bright eye upon her, and said, “Alice,
they tell me you are my grand-daughter; I would I had
known it before; but come nearer to me now, and let me
bless you.”
Alice knelt by the bedside of the white-haired man,
whose hand was laid amid her silken curls, as he uttered
a blessing upon the fair young girl. When she arose, he
said to his son, “Now I must make my will. Call in the
lawyer.”
The words caught Alice's ear, and involuntarily she
sprang back to her grandfather, and kissing his feverish
brow, said, “Dear grandpa, I wish I could tell you something,—could
ask you something.”
“What is it, my child?” asked her grandfather. “Let
me know your request, and it shall be granted.”
Alice blushed deeply, for she felt that her father's eye
was upon her, but she unhesitatingly said, “You have
seen Frank, grandfather,—you know him?”
“Yes, yes,” said the squire. “I know him and like
him, too. I understand you, Alice; I will do right.”
Alice again kissed him, and then quitted the apartment,
in which, for the next half hour, was heard the scratchings
of the lawyer's pen, and the faint tones of the dying
one, as he dictated his will.
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE RECOGNITION.
Softly from the rosy east came the glorious king of
day, shedding light and warmth over hill and dale, river
and streamlet, tree and shrub. In the same room where
he had passed away, Squire Herndon lay in a long, eternal
sleep. The servants held their breath, and whispered
as they trod softly through the darkened rooms, as if
fearful of disturbing the deep slumbers of the dead.
The villagers met together, and their voices were subdued,
as they said, one to the other, “Squire Herndon is
dead.” Yes, Squire Herndon was dead, and little children
paused in their play as the solemn peal of the village
bell rang out on the clear autumn air, wakening the
echoes of the tall blue mountains, and dying away down
the bright green valley. The knell was repeated again
and again, and then came the strokes, louder, faster, and
the children counted until they were tired, for seventy-five
years had the old man numbered. At length the
sounds ceased, and the children went on with their noisy
sports, forgetful that death was among them.
In the Herndon mansion many whispered consultations
were held, as to how the body should be arranged for
burial. It was finally decided to send for Mrs. Seymour.
such things should be done.”
Mrs. Seymour did not refuse, for she felt it her duty to
go; and yet she would much rather have braved the
storm of battle than enter that house. She, however,
bade the messenger return, saying she would soon follow.
When alone with her thoughts, she for an instant wavered.
How could she go? How again stand face to face with
the only man she ever loved? Yet she did go, trusting
that nineteen years had so changed her that she would
not be recognized.
Under her directions, everything about the house was
done so quietly, that there was nothing to grate on the
ear of him who sat alone in the large, silent parlor. He
intuitively felt that some kindred spirit was at work there,
and calling Alice to him, he asked “who the lady was
that seemed to be superintending affairs so well.”
“Mrs. Seymour,” answered Alice.
“Mrs. Seymour,” repeated her father, as if dreamily
trying to recall some past event.
“Yes, Mrs. Seymour,” said Alice. “She is Frank's
mother, and a widow.”
In an adjoining room, Mrs. Seymour, with a beating
heart, listened to the tones of that voice which she had
never hoped to hear again. Earnestly did she wish to
see the face of one whose very voice could affect her so
powerfully. Her wish was gratified, for at that moment
Alice opened the door, and Mrs. Seymour's eyes fell upon
the features of him whose remembrance she had so long
cherished. She was somewhat disappointed, for the tropical
suns of fifteen years had embrowned his once white
forehead, and a few gray hairs mingled with the dark
locks which lay around his brow.
Alice was surprised at the wild, passionate embrace
she looked wistfully in her face, and said, “My dear
Alice, tenfold more my child than ever.”
Alarmed at the increased paleness of her friend, Alice
started forward, and said, “You are sick, faint, Mrs. Seymour.
Let me call Mr. Herndon,—I mean my father.”
But Mrs. Seymour was not faint, and she endeavored
to prevent Alice from calling her father, but in vain. Alice
called him, and he came. His daughter stood in front
of Mrs. Seymour, whose cheeks glowed and whose eyes
sparkled with the intensity of her feelings, as she met the
scarching glance of Ira Herndon.
He recognized her,—knew, as if by instinct, that he
again beheld Mary Calvert; but the fever of youth no
longer burned in his veins, so he did nothing foolish. He
merely grasped her hand, exclaiming, “Mary—Mary Calvert,
— Mrs. Seymour! God be praised, we have met
again!”
12. CHAPTER XII.
THE FUNERAL.
Two days passed. The third came, and again over hill
and valley floated a funeral knell. Groups of villagers
moved with slow and measured tread toward the late residence
of Squire Herndon. Forth from many a mountain
cottage and many a village dwelling came the inhabitants,
old and young, rich and poor, to attend the funeral.
On a marble-topped table stood the rich, mahogany
coffin, in which lay the remains of one who for many
years had excited the admiration, envy, jealousy, and hatred
halls for the first time in their lives. Near the coffin
sat Ira. At him the villagers gazed anxiously, but
their eyes soon moved on until they rested upon the fair
Alice, who had been so suddenly transformed from the
humble mountain girl into the wealthy heiress.
Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly were there, too. Ira had
kindly and thoughtfully invited them to take seats with
himself and daughter, as mourners for the deceased.
Aunt Polly appeared arrayed in a dress of costly black
silk, and shawl of the same texture. They were the gift
of Ira, and for fear of being disputed, we will not tell how
many times the good lady managed to move so that the
rustle of her garments might be heard by her neighbors,
who remarked, that “Aunt Polly seemed a plaguy sight
more stuck up than Alice;” and yet the benevolent matron
looked down complacently upon them, thinking how
kind and amiable she was, not to feel above them!
At last the funeral services were over. Down one
street and up another moved the long line of carriages and
people on foot, to the grave-yard, where was an open
grave, into which the body was lowered, “earth to earth,
ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
As the company were leaving the church-yard, Alice
suddenly found herself by the side of Frank. She had
seen him but once before since her grandfather's death,
and then she had won from him a promise that after the
funeral he would return with her to what henceforth
would be her home. She now reminded him of his promise,
at the same time introducing him to her father, whom
she observed closely, to see what impression Frank would
make. It was favorable, for no one could look at Frank
and dislike him. Rather unwillingly he consented to accompany
wanted of him, but was not long kept in doubt.
The will of Squire Herndon was soon produced and read.
The old man had intended to bequeath most of his property
to his son, but this Ira would not suffer. He had
more than he knew what to do with, already, he said, and
greatly preferred that his father should give it all to Alice,
or divide it between her and Frank, as he saw proper.
Accordingly, after bestowing twenty-five thousand dollars
in charitable purposes, the remainder of his property,
amounting to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, was
equally divided between Frank and Alice, Ira being appointed
their guardian.
Frank at first declined the wealth so unexpectedly
placed before him, but Alice and her father finally overruled
him, the latter saying, playfully, “You may as well
take as a gift from the grandfather what you would probably
sometime receive with the grand-daughter.” So
Frank was finally persuaded; but he bore his fortune
meekly, and when next he returned to college, no one
would have suspected that he was the heir of seventy-five
thousand dollars.
13. CHAPTER XIII.
“ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.”
Not long after Frank returned to college, Alice, also,
was sent to Troy, N. Y., to complete her education.
Soon after she left, her father invited Mr. and Mrs. Carey
to share with him his house, but they had good sense
enough to know that they would be far happier in their
for the remainder of their lives.
When the warm sun of an early spring had melted the
ice from the brooks and the snow from off the hillside, there
was a wedding at the little white cottage. Parson Landon
again officiated, and Ira Herndon was the bridegroom,
but the bride this time was our friend, Mrs. Seymour,
whose face, always handsome, seemed suddenly renovated
with a youthful bloom and loveliness. Aunt Polly, too,
was present, and declared that the ceremony gave her
more satisfaction than did the one which took place seventeen
years before, beneath her own roof. After the
wedding, Mrs. Seymour, now Mrs. Herndon, removed to
her husband's home in the village. The villagers hailed
her presence among them as a new era, in which they
could hope occasionally to visit at the “great house,” as
they were in the habit of calling Squire Herndon's former
residence.
We now pass rapidly over a period of little more than
three years, during which time Frank was graduated, with
honor, of course, and returning home, commenced the
study of law. We next open the scene on a bright evening
in October, in which the little village at the foot of
the mountain was in a state of great excitement. This
excitement was not manifest in the streets, but in-doors,
band-boxes were turned inside out, drawers upside down,
as daughter and mother tried the effect of caps, ribbons,
flowers, &c.
The cause of all the commotion was this: It was the
bridal night of Alice Herndon, at whose request nearly all
the villagers were invited to be present. At eight o'clock
she descended to the crowded parlors, and in a few moments
the words were spoken which transformed her
from Alice Herndon into Alice Seymour.
But little more remains to be said. Alice and Frank
resided at home, with their parents, who had gained the
respect and love of the villagers by their many unostentatious
acts of kindness and real benevolence. And now,
lest some curious reader should travel to New England
for the purpose of discovering whether this story really
be true, we will say that the events here narrated occurred
so long ago that there is probably nothing left save
the cellar and well to mark the spot where once stood
“the old red house among the mountains.”
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