Chapter First.
"Weep not that the world changes--did it keep A stable, changeless course, 'twere cause to weep." --BRYANT.
A SPRING morning in 183-; winter's icy breath exchanged for gentlebreezes; a faint tinge of yellow green on the woods but now so brown andbare; violets and anemones showing their pretty modest faces by theroadside; hill and valley clothed with verdure, rivulets dancing andsinging, the river rolling onward in majestic gladness; apple, peach andcherry trees in bloom; birds building their nests; men and women busiedhere and there in field or garden, and over all
"The uncertain glory of an April day."
The sun now shining out warm and bright from a cloudless sky, nowveiling his face while a sudden shower of rain sends the busy workershurrying to the nearest shelter.
The air is full of pleasant rural sounds--the chirp of insects, thetwittering of birds, the crowing of cocks--now near at hand, now faraway, mellowed by the distance; and in the streets of the pretty villageof Lansdale, down yonder in the valley, there is the cheerful hum ofbusy life; of buying and selling, of tearing down and building up;neighbors chatting on doorsteps or over the garden fence, boys whistlingand hallooing to their mates, children conning their tasks, and motherscrooning to their babes.
Out of the side door of a substantial brick house standing far back fromthe street, in the midst of a garden where the grass is of a velvetygreen spangled with violets, and snowballs and lilacs are bursting intobloom, steps a slight girlish figure.
The face half hidden under a broad brimmed garden hat, is not regularlybeautiful, but there is a great deal of character in it; the mouth isboth firm and sweet, the lips are full and red, the eyes are large, darkand lustrous, and the complexion rich with the hues of health.
She sends a quick glance from side to side, clasps her hands togetherwith a gesture as of sudden pain, paces rapidly to and fro for a moment,seemingly striving after self-control, then turning into a path thatleads across the garden to the hedge that separates it from another,hastens down it, opens the gate and passing through looks about as if insearch of some one.
But there is no one there, and the girl trips gracefully onward to thehouse, a pretty cottage with vine-covered porches.
The parlor windows were open and within a little lady of middle age,quaintly attired in a chintz gown very short and scant, and made after apattern peculiarly her own, was busied with brush and duster.
Catching sight of the young girl as she stepped upon the porch, shecalled to her in a remarkably sweet-toned voice,
"In here, dearie! Just step through the window. I'm glad to see you."The windows opening to the floor, it was an easy matter to obey, and thegirl did so; then stood silent, her lips quivering, her eyes full.
"My child, what is it?" cried the older lady, dropping her duster totake the girl's hand and draw her to a seat upon the sofa, "is--is anyone ill?"
"No, no; not that, Aunt Wealthy!" and the girl swallowed down her tearsand spoke with a determined effort to be calm. "But something hashappened and mother delegated me to bring you the news.
"You know father has been talking for some time of leaving Lansdale, andthis morning, at breakfast, he told us--us children, I mean--he andmother had talked it over last night, and I don't believe she slept muchfor thinking of it--that he had fully made up his mind to move out toIndiana. And we're to go just as soon as we can get ready.
"There, now you know it all!" finishing with a burst of tears in spiteof herself.
For a moment her listener was dumb with surprise; but it was not inWealthy Stanhope's nature to witness distress without an effort tocomfort and relieve.
To lose the society of this family who were her nearest and dearestrelatives, would be a great grief to her. The mother, Marcia Keith, theorphan child of a sister, committed to her care in early infancy andtrained up by her to a lovely and useful womanhood, was as a daughter toher--her boys and girls as grandchildren to be loved and petted andrejoiced over after the custom of fond grandparents What a lonely oldage for her without them!
That was her first thought, the next how to assuage the sorrow of theweeping girl at her side.
"There, there, Mildred, dear," she said, softly stroking and patting thehand she held, "perhaps you will find it not so bad after all, theremust be a bright side to the picture that we shall discover if we lookfor it determinately. There will be new scenes, perhaps some adventureson the journey."
"Yes, auntie, very likely; and I've often wished I could have someadventures!" Mildred answered, dashing away her tears with a ratherhysterical little laugh.
"You're not going to school to-day?"
"No, auntie, no more school for me: that's the hard part of it, for I doso want a good education."
"Well, dear, you shall have books, and your father and mother--botheducated people--will help you; and who knows but you may in the enddistance your mates here? The knowledge we gain by our own efforts, outof school, is often the most serviceable."
The girl's face brightened.
"If I don't turn out something worth while it shall not be for want oftrying," she said, her cheek flushing, her eyes sparkling.
Then starting up. "I must hurry home; for mother and I are going to workwith might and main at the spring sewing; and then at the tearing up andpacking. Aunt Wealthy, I'm glad I'm old enough to be a help; there areso many younger ones, you know."
"Yes, Milly, and you are a great help and comfort to your mother."
"If--if I could only learn her patience; but the children are dreadfullytrying--with their untidy ways, their mischief and noise. They nearlydistract me at times and before I know it I've given somebody a shake ora slap, or if not that, a very uncomplimentary piece of my mind," sheadded half laughing, half sighing.
Then with a hasty good-bye she tripped away, her aunt calling after her,"Tell your mother I'll be in after a while."
Miss Stanhope sat where the girl had left her, the usually busy handsfolded in her lap her gaze fixed meditatively on the carpet. Presentlyshe lifted her head with a deep drawn sigh, her eye passed slowly aboutthe room resting lovingly now upon this familiar object, now upon that.
"I don't think they would sell for much," she said, musingly: "thecarpet has been in wear for thirty odd years and the colors have fadeda good deal: the chairs and tables are older still and so are thepictures on the walls, that sampler my grandmother worked when she was ayoung girl--which was many years ago; and these chair-cushionstoo"--rising and going from one to another, giving to each in turn alittle loving shake and pat--"she embroidered and filled with her ownfeathers; and so I value them more than their weight in gold. Marcia, Ithink, values them also, but--to a stranger, I suppose they would allseem old, dingy and worthless, though to me they are real treasures.I've a sincere affection for them.
"But what is that to my love for Marcia and her children! what indeed!"
She hastily picked up duster and brush, gave a finishing touch here andthere, drew down the blinds and left the room.
A few moments later she might have been seen in bonnet and shawl andarmed with a large cotton umbrella, issuing from her front gate andwalking briskly toward the business part of the town.
It was nearly two hours before she returned, with a step a trifle lessbrisk, and arms filled with brown paper parcels.
She passed her own gate and stopped at Mr. Keith's.
Mildred ran to open it.
"Why, auntie, how you are loaded! Give me your bundles."
"Yes, child, carry them in to your mother. I've been to every store intown; such beautiful remnants! couldn't help buying! make up pretty forthe children; afraid there's none big enough for you, dear. Am all outof breath with walking."
"Yes; it's too bad; don't say anything more till you've rested," saidthe girl, leading the way into the pleasant family room, hastily layingthe packages on the table, and drawing forward a large cushioned rockingchair.
"There, s
it down, auntie, and let me take your things."
"Aunt Wealthy! come at last! we've been wondering what kept you," said ahandsome, matronly, but still youthful looking lady, with a babe in herarms, coming in at that moment. "And you've been out shopping? I hopeyou were not caught in any of the showers?"
"No; I managed to dodge them; sandwiching my walks in between. So you'regoing to leave Lansdale, Marcia?"
"Yes, auntie; and you; that's the worst of it."
The cheery voice faltered over the last words, and the bright eyes grewdim.
"Not so fast, Marcia; who says that I'm to be left behind?"
"Aunt Wealthy! do you mean it? is it possible you could think of such asacrifice?" cried Mrs. Keith, starting up and nearly dropping her babein her intense, joyful surprise.
"As what?" queried the aunt between a smile and a tear. "Marcia, I can'tgive up my home, as you very well know; but I have found a tenant for it(the minister and his wife who are perfectly delighted to get it; forit's their only chance for going to housekeeping; and they'll be sure totake good care of my furniture and other belongings), and rented it justas it stands, for a year; and I'm going with you to Hoosier land.
"It'll be quite an importation of Buckeyes, won't it? All coming in onelot."
And the good affectionate old soul finished with a laugh, jumped up fromher chair and stretching out her arms to three little ones who had comerunning in while she was speaking, caught them to her bosom, kissed andcried over them, asking, "Are you glad, Cyril? are you glad, Don? andFan, too? are you glad that auntie is going with you?"
There was a chorus of shouts of delight; there were huggings andkissings, asking and answering of questions; and then things quieteddown a little and the children went back to their play, Cyril remarking,as he shut the door,
"Now I shan't cry when we go; 'cause all my friends and colations isgoin' along."
"Now to business," said Aunt Wealthy attacking the parcels. "I'm goingto help you, Marcia, in getting your tribe ready for their exodus out ofthis land of plenty into that western wilderness. Here are two or threedress patterns apiece for the little girls. These stuff ones are forthem to travel in, and I think they had better be made long necked andhigh sleeved. Don't you?"
Mrs. Keith looked up with a slightly puzzled expression; then a lightbreaking over her face, for she was used to her aunt's transpositions--"Idon't know," she answered dubiously, "wouldn't it make them look alittle old-womanish? Low necks and short sleeves are prettier forchildren, I think; and they're used to it. Summer's coming on, too, andwe must expect warm weather."
"What route shall you take?"
"Up the Ohio and Erie Canal and round Michigan by the lakes."
"It will be cool on the water."
"Yes, that's true; and I'll take your advice."
"That's right; they'll be less likely to catch cold from any littleexposure, and their necks and arms will be protected from the sun. Now,if you'll tear off a skirt, I'll get to work. I brought thimble andscissors along."
Those were not the days of sewing machines, and though garments weremade in much simpler style then than now, the sewing for such a familyas the Keiths was no small task.
It would take some weeks of very diligent work by three or four pairs ofhands to accomplish what the mother deemed necessary in the way ofpreparing their wardrobe for the contemplated journey.
Under the instruction of her mother and aunt, Mildred had already becomeas accomplished a needlewoman as either of them. A seamstress had beenengaged to assist but could not be had for a few days; so plans andprospects could be talked over freely as the three sat and workedtogether, Baby Annis asleep in her cradle or playing contentedly on thecarpet at her mother's feet.