Part 19 (1/2)

Never before was papa so long in walking up from the station--I suppose for the reason that he came laden with messages, notes, and telegrams.

His ”young chief” was detained in the editorial rooms by affairs of great moment; another gentleman had been summoned to the bedside of his father, who was in a dying condition; two other gentlemen had plunged rashly into the preliminary steps to matrimony, and were, I suppose, engaged in serenading their _fiancees_, while the other two had apparently been made way with, for from them we had no message of any sort.

The crowning injury was the receipt of a book from a friend who is in the habit of supplying me with the latest novels. Usually I am pleased with the books she sends me, but a glance at the t.i.tle, ”'He Cometh Not,' She Said,” made me hurl it to the farthest corner of the room; that was too much for any one to bear.

We sat down with small appet.i.tes to the elaborate dinner that Lina had prepared, and went gloomily to bed at an early hour.

CHAPTER XXI.

The Story of Mr. Greeley's Parents continued--He accompanies his Mother to New Hamps.h.i.+re--Her Sisters--Three Thanksgivings in One Year--Pickie as a Baby--His Childhood--Mrs. Greeley's Careful Training--His Playthings--His Death--A Letter from Margaret Fuller.

_August 31_.

”Mammi,” said I, waking from a deep reverie as I sat beside our bright wood-fire (for we have had two days of das.h.i.+ng rain, and fires have not been at all disagreeable), ”did grandpapa ever return to New Hamps.h.i.+re after he left it in 1821?”

”No, my dear,” was the reply; ”he never returned, nor did he manifest any desire to see his former home and his old friends again. I suppose that all of his pleasant recollections of New Hamps.h.i.+re were superseded by the thought that it was the scene of his bankruptcy, and his proud spirit shrunk from meeting those who might remember that he had left Amherst a fugitive. He was deeply attached to his forest home, and I do not think he ever had an hour of discomfort after he came there.

Father always expressed the wish that he might be buried upon his farm.

His old age was very serene and happy; he lived to see his 'hole in the forest' become an extensive farm, and the vast wilderness that had surrounded him disappear, while the little tavern and cl.u.s.ter of log-houses across the State line from us grew to be the village of Clymer.

”Father died in 1867, at the age of eighty-seven.

”As for mother, she had the happiness before her death of seeing her fondly loved relatives once more. In the autumn of 1843, mother and I went to New Hamps.h.i.+re to visit the old home and friends. Father was urged to accompany us, but he chose to cling to his Western home. For the third time I now travelled in a ca.n.a.l-boat, but this time it was a packet, and not one of the slow 'line-boats' that I described to you in speaking of our journey from Vermont to Pennsylvania.

”Brother Horace accompanied us from New York to New Hamps.h.i.+re, where we spent several weeks visiting mother's old friends and relatives. The meeting between mother and her sister, Aunt Margaret d.i.c.key, was especially tender, for they had been separated many years, and did not expect to meet again.

”Aunt Margaret is still living, although now in her ninetieth year. I remember hearing that she read your uncle's 'Recollections,' as they appeared in the _Ledger_, with the liveliest interest. She was at that time eighty-four years old.

”In her youth Aunt Margaret was a decided beauty, with luxuriant hair of the real golden shade, neither flaxen, ash-color, nor red. She was naturally refined and amiable.

”From New Hamps.h.i.+re we went to Fitchburg, Ma.s.sachusetts, where mother's half-sister, Sally, resided. Aunt Sally was doubly my aunt, having married father's brother, Dustin Greeley. She was a slender, handsome woman, with blue eyes and light hair, and possessed mother's happy temperament, which all the trials of her hard life had not been able to change.

”That year I celebrated three Thanksgivings within as many weeks.”

”Pray how did that happen, auntie?” inquired Gabrielle, who had just entered the room.

”Thanksgiving Day was not then restricted to the last Thursday in the month,” was the reply, ”but was appointed by the Governor of each State at any time that he saw fit between harvest and the holidays; therefore, being in three different States within a month, I had three Thanksgiving dinners.

”When we returned to New York, we stopped for a short visit at Turtle Bay. Pickie was then eight months old, and as sweet and poetic-looking as one of Correggio's cherubs. Your mamma was then in the first flush of her maternal enthusiasm. She and your papa were desirous that mother should remain in New York and spend the winter with them; but fondly as she loved your papa, and dear as her daughter-in-law and her little grandson were to her, she felt that her duty and her strongest love recalled her to her husband and her home in the woods. She returned to Pennsylvania, and took up again her life of daily care, but she brought back little joy with her, although no word of discontent escaped her. Her favorite seat was by the window looking east, and there we often surprised her gazing with an intent look down the road.

When we would ask her if she was expecting any one, or for whom she was looking, she would say with a startled expression, 'Oh, no one;' but we always fancied that she was thinking of her early home that she had now left forever.

”A year or two later, slowly, silently, and peacefully she pa.s.sed away.”

”I thought, auntie,” said Gabrielle, ”that you lived with mamma when Pickie was a baby. I am sure I have heard her say that you helped her to take care of him.”

”That is true, dear,” replied mamma, ”but I did not remain in New York at the time of which we are now speaking. I accompanied mother home to Pennsylvania, and the following spring, when Pickie was a year old, your mamma wrote to ask me to come back, and a.s.sist her in the care of her beautiful boy. I remained with her until my marriage, consequently Pickie became very near to me, and his death was almost as great a shock to me as it was to his parents.”

”Do tell us, mamma,” said Marguerite, ”about Pickie's childhood. I have always heard that he was brought up in a very remarkable way, but beyond the fact of Aunt Mary's great devotion to him, I know very little concerning him.”