Part 1 (2/2)

The people of that place would never have thought of calling it anything else, had it not been for Susan and Margaret Sliver, who sometimes wrote verses, and thought that Appledale sounded better in poetry than did Snag-Orchard. These ladies, (they called themselves young, but we must be truthful, even at the expense of courtesy,)--these ladies, Margaret and Susan, said that this old place was decidedly romantic; but the plain people living in that vicinity knew but little of romance. If they saved time from hard labor to read their Bible, it was certainly a subject for thankfulness. Most of them thought that Snag-Orchard was a gloomy place, and that it was a pity for so much good ground to be taken up with overgrown trees. It suited Mr. Croswell, however, who was the former proprietor. He had but little interest in the land belonging to this world, for all his relatives, nearly every one, had gone to the land that is ”very far off.” He loved the trees, and seemed to us like an old tree himself, from which kindred branch and spray had fallen, leaving him in the world's wilderness alone. Some thought him melancholy; but he was not: he was only waiting upon the sh.o.r.e of that river dividing the ”blessed land”

from ours; and one spring morning, very suddenly to his neighbors, he crossed that river, and found more, infinitely more than he had ever lost. After he was gone, the house was closed for a time; and through the bright days of the following summer, when the foliage became heavy upon the old trees, casting so deep a shadow as to make noonday but twilight there, and when the night breeze sang mournfully among the pines in the rear of that old house, people coming from the pond by the way of the plain looked stealthily over their shoulders at Snag-Orchard: but they knew not why, for nothing was there--nothing but loneliness and desertion.

There was a report among the school children that the Croswell house was haunted; and in his merry moods poor Graffam had told the boys, how many a time upon a dark night, when going from Motley's Mills to his house upon the plain, he had seen that house brilliantly illuminated, and once or twice had heard old Mr. Croswell call to him from the window, and say, ”Beware, Graffam, beware.” Little, however, was thought of these stories, for we all knew that the unhappy man often went home at night with a fire upon his brain, and had no doubt but that he got up his own illuminations; and as for the admonition, ”Beware, Graffam, beware,” it doubtless came from the frogs, and was interpreted by his own conscience. Snag-Orchard, however, was evidently dreaded until the Lindsays came to live there, when it became less gloomy: for though the old trees with their heavy foliage were still there, descending in long sentinel-like rows down the hill-slope, until the last row drooped their branches into the bright waters of the brook, yet the rank gra.s.s around the house, that had so long raised its seedy head, and looked in at the windows, was mowed down, and sociable-looking flowers had taken its place; and then at evening, the traveler returning from the pond by the way of the plain, realized what had once been but the brilliant phantasy of poor Graffam's brain--for though Mrs. Lindsay was a widow, she was neither poor nor deserted. The reason for her coming there was not at that time known among us. A gentleman who was projecting the plan of a settlement at the pond, in reference to mill and factory privileges, bargained for the Croswell place, and early in the spring this family took up a residence there.

Three months had pa.s.sed away, and they were still strangers. This was not from any want of sociability upon the part of their neighbors,--or from studied indifference upon their own part, but from the time of their first coming they had seemed fully occupied with company. Gay parties upon horse-back had frequently issued from the large gate, where in years gone by oxen had walked demurely in, bearing a three-story load of hay. The long riding-dresses and feathered caps of these gay riders, inasmuch as they were new in that old-fas.h.i.+oned place, were judged of according to the several tastes of the farmers'

wives and daughters. Some thought it pretty business for girls to be figuring about with men's hats, when there was work enough for women folks within doors: and others thought (very justly too) that the matter of this riding was no concern of theirs; and having business enough of their own, they concluded to let Mrs. Lindsay and her guests do as they pleased. This was a wise conclusion, since it daily became more and more evident that they had no intention of doing otherwise than as they pleased. Some of the family always presented themselves at church on the Lord's day, but among them Miss Emma, and an elderly woman supposed to be the housekeeper, were the only constant attendants. Thus much of the new family at Appledale. The reader will learn more as we progress in our story.

”I would see Mrs. Lindsay and the young ladies,” said Henry Boyd, as the servant opened the door. Henry was shown into the same room, where many a time he had sat and talked with old Mr. Croswell, but which now seemed to him like another place. A handsome carpet now covered the white oaken floor, and rich curtains partially concealed the windows once shaded by simple green. Where stood the old ”sideboard” was now an elegant piano, and luxurious chairs and lounges had taken the place of Mr. Croswell's high-backed, upright-looking furniture. But Henry was self-possessed; and though there were a number of young ladies in the room, dressed in handsome morning _dishabille_, he neither stammered nor turned red, but bowing easily to Mrs. Lindsay, gave Misses Martha and Emma an invitation to go with him and the young ladies to the plain. Mrs. Lindsay saw that Martha, on glancing from the window at the rustic-looking company, could scarcely suppress a smile, so she courteously thanked Henry, and was about to excuse her daughters, when Emma entered the room. Henry could not accuse either Mrs. Lindsay or Martha of impoliteness, but he felt somehow as though there was a great contrast between this courtesy and that shown him by Emma; for she offered him her hand, and said, ”It is very kind of you to call for us, and if mamma pleases, I should like to go.”

”I have no objection, my love,” said Mrs. Lindsay, ”provided you return before night.”

Henry a.s.sured her that they should, Martha respectfully declined the invitation, and Emma ran up stairs. ”I am going,” said she joyfully to the elderly woman with whom she was often seen at church. ”I am going, Dora; and that dear little Mary Palmer is there.” Dora arose, and pinned a thin shawl upon the neck of the delicate girl, and while she did so, looked affectionately into her white face.

”Of what are you thinking, Dora?” asked Emma.

”I was thinking,” said she, ”that my lily could shed her fragrance beyond her own garden to-day.”

”O, I am no lily,” said Emma, half laughing, ”only a poor blighted thing going out to steal fragrance from other flowers.”

”Well, darling,” said Dora, ”you can have it without theft, for we can make for ourselves a garden of spices anywhere, and then you know who will come in and eat our pleasant fruit.”

Emma smiled, and nodded a good-by, as she left the room.

”What a singular girl is Emma,” said one of the young ladies who looked from the keeping-room window, as she entered the wagon. ”I was glad that they had the courtesy to offer her a cus.h.i.+oned seat; but she has refused it, and is riding off upon a box. Dear Mrs. Lindsay, Emma is excessively polite.”

”_Mysteriously_ polite, I call it,” said Mrs. Lindsay. ”She seems more and more to lose sight of herself, in a desire to make others happy; yet before we left the city she often offended me by her disregard of fas.h.i.+onable etiquette.”

”Yet Emma never was offensive in her manners, mamma,” said Martha.

”She was truly beloved, I know it, dear,” replied the lady; ”but her great truthfulness kept me in constant jeopardy. Just think of her telling Madam Richards that people considered her too old to dance.”

”Well, it _was_ a shame,” answered the first speaker, ”for a lady of such excellent qualities to make herself ridiculous by a single foible.”

”So Emma thought,” said Mrs. Lindsay, ”and had the frankness to tell her so. It turned out well enough in her case, it is true; for she told me when I went to apologize, that Emma had shown so much heartfelt interest and concern in the matter of her being a public laughing-stock, that she was obliged not only to forgive, but to love her the better for what I called a rudeness. But,” continued Mrs.

Lindsay, ”singular as she is, I would give worlds to have her----”

Here the lady paused, and Martha said quickly, ”She is better, mother.

She sleeps very well now, and her night-sweats are not so profuse.”

The mother made no answer. It was not because Martha's hopeful words were unheeded, but because mournful memories were at work in her heart; and to avoid further conversation she arose and left the room.

”Mamma will look upon the dark side,” said Martha, ”but _I_ am much encouraged. Our physician says, that rambling about in the country, running in the fields and woods, climbing fences and trees, if she is disposed, will do wonders for Emma: and I believe it; for how wonderfully she has improved during these three months--so full of life, and so full of interest in everybody.”

Emma had refused the cus.h.i.+oned seat, because she saw at a glance that the young boy occupying that seat was more feeble than herself. The name of this little boy was Edwin. Emma had met him frequently in the woods, and down by the brook where he went to fish. They had thus become pretty well acquainted, and from him Emma had learned the name of the pretty girl who sat in the pew in front of their own at church--the little girl who wore a black ribbon upon her bonnet, and whose manner in the house of prayer was both quiet and devout. Edwin had told her that the name of this pretty girl was Mary Palmer; that just before their family came to Appledale she had lost a little sister; and that since then, though very quiet and kind before, Mary had been very patient, even with f.a.n.n.y Brighton. Emma, therefore, was not wholly unprepared for the off-hand greeting bestowed upon her that morning by f.a.n.n.y. On first getting into the wagon, she pressed Mary's hand without waiting for the ceremony of an introduction, for she knew her name. Mary loved to have Emma so near her; for though they had never spoken together before, a mutual affection existed between them; but the modest girl felt that Henry ought to have given Emma a seat beside some one who knew more than herself.

”f.a.n.n.y Brighton,” thought Mary, ”is so amusing when she chooses to be; Alice More is so witty; and the Misses Sliver so learned, Henry ought to have seen that Emma was where she would be pleasantly entertained; but I will make amends for this when we get to the plain--I will introduce her, and leave her with them.”

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