The Old Homestead Part 77

Mrs. Farnham looked at the lawyer, who almost imperceptibly bent his head, and she rang the bell for Salina to bring her shawl and bonnet.

Directly the strong-minded one came with an oriental cashmere thrown over one arm, and a costly bonnet perched on her right hand.

"It's time for us to be a-going if we ever expect to get there, now I tell you," she said, tossing the lady's garments into her lap, and tying her own calico hood with superfluous energy; "aunt Hannah is punctual as the clock, and expects others to be so, too. Come!"

The lawyer had risen, and was quietly fitting a pair of dark gloves to his hands directly in range of Mrs. Farnham's eye who could not choose but remark the contrast between those white hands and the dark kid, while she coquetted with the folds of her shawl.

"Come!" repeated Salina, thrusting her arm through that of the lawyer, and bearing him forward in spite of all opposition. "Just a beau apiece. Mr. Farnham will take care of the old lady, and I can get along with you. Half a loaf is better than no bread, at any time. So, for want of a better, I'm content."

The lawyer would have rebelled when once out-of-doors, but young Farnham had placed himself near his mother, and was walking by her side with so stern a brow, that he resolved to submit, and, if possible, glean some intelligence from Salina about the object of their visit to the Homestead; but that exemplary female was as much puzzled as himself, and they reached the Homestead mutually discontented.

"This way--take a seat in the out-room till I go call Miss Hannah,"

cried Salina, pus.h.i.+ng open the front door that grated and groaned as if reluctant to admit such guests. "This door!"

Salina pushed the out-room door open as she spoke, and to her surprise found not only aunt Hannah, but the whole family. Mary Fuller, Joseph, Isabel Chester, the two old people, and, what was most remarkable, a clergyman of the church at which uncle Nat and his sister wors.h.i.+pped.

Judge Sharp came in a moment later.

"Sit down," said aunt Hannah formally, and in a suppressed voice, as if they had been invited to a funeral. Then as the party ranged themselves in the stiff, wooden chairs, chilled by the silence and gravity of everything they saw, aunt Hannah drew close to Joseph, who sat by Mary, and said to them both in a serious gentle way:

"Have faith in me, children."

"We have, we have!" they murmured together with a firmer clasp of the hands.

"Remember I have promised, now be ready!"

They both began to tremble, and a thrill of strange delight ran from frame to frame, kindling its way through their clasped fingers.

Aunt Hannah turned towards her guests, her upright figure took an air of dignity, her dark eyes lighted up and scanned the faces of her guests firmly, they dwelt longer upon the withered features of Mrs.

Farnham, and a cold smile crept over her lips as she said,

"We have invited you to a wedding. It is now time, Joseph, Mary!"

The young couple stood up, still holding each other by the hands. The ceremony commenced, and it was remarkable that when the clergyman came to that portion which commands any one that can make objections to render them then, or henceforth hold his peace, aunt Hannah held up her hand that he might pause, and stepping in front of Mrs. Farnham, said in a low stern voice,

"Have you any objections?"

"_Me_!" exclaimed the lady with a sneer. "What do I care about them!"

"Then you are willing that the ceremony goes on?" persisted the singular woman, without a change of voice or att.i.tude.

"What earthly objection can I have? of course the ceremony may go on, what are these people to me?"

The ceremony went on, and with a deep breath of such joy as few human beings ever know, the husband and wife sat down, almost faint with excess of emotion.

Isabel Chester had been sitting apart from the group, pa.s.sive and feeble, but now and then lifting her great mournful eyes with a look of unuttered misery to the face of young Farnham.

The first of these eloquent glances brought him to her side.

"Isabel, I will give up all, I came to renounce everything but you,"

he whispered.

She shook her head mournfully and glanced with a shudder towards Mrs.

Farnham.

"Poor or rich I cannot marry her son. It may kill me, but my oath, my oath! let me rest, let me rest"--

She drew her hand wearily across her forehead and her bright eyes filled with tears.

"But you are sorry for this oath, my Isabel?"

"Sorry, it is killing me."

He looked down upon the white folds of her muslin wrapper, brightened as they were by the crimson glow of a dressing-gown that flowed over it. He saw how thin she had grown, how like wax her delicate hand lay upon the crimson of her dress, and how mournfully large her eyes had become.

"This shall not be, it is madness!" he exclaimed aloud and pa.s.sionately. "Mother I"--

"Hus.h.!.+" said aunt Hannah, silencing him with her uplifted hand, "let _me_ speak!"

She moved a step forward, standing almost in the centre of the room, with Mrs. Farnham and her lawyer friend on the left, and the clergyman who stood near the newly married pair on her right. All had a full view of her face. Her features seemed harder than ever--the expression on them was stern as granite. Her eyes burned with a settled purpose, and her whole person was imposing.

For a moment, when all eyes were bent upon her she seemed to falter; you could see by the choking in her throat and a spasmodic gripe of her fingers, that the struggle for her first words was agony.

But she did speak, and her voice was so hoa.r.s.e that it struck those around her with amazement; nay, a look of awe stole over the faces turned so earnestly towards her.

"Twenty-one years ago last night, I committed a great wrong in the face of G.o.d and the law," she said; "that woman," here she lifted her long, boney finger and pointed it towards Mrs. Farnham, "that woman had wronged me and the being I loved better than myself, and this filled me with a heathenish thirst for vengeance upon her."

"Me! me! why, did you ever--I never wronged a creature in my whole life--you know how bland and gentle I always am!" whimpered that lady.

"Be still!" interposed aunt Hannah in the same deep voice. "The husband of that woman was betrothed to me in my youth."

"I'll never believe that, never--never!" cried Mrs. Farnham, flus.h.i.+ng up angrily.

"Peace, I say, and do not interrupt me again. My parents died leaving Anna, a little girl pretty as an angel, for Nathan and I to take care of; she was the dearest, loveliest little thing."

"I'll take my Bible oath of that," cried Salina, reddening suddenly around the eyes, "I never set eyes on anything half so purty in my life."

"I gave up all for this child, and so did Nathan; we both agreed to live single for her sake and be parents to her."

"More fools you," muttered Salina, "as if uncle Nat's wife couldn't and wouldn't have taken care of a dozen such children, that is, if he'd only had sense enough to choose a smart--but what's the use, it's all over now."

This was said in a muttered undertone, and aunt Hannah went on without heeding it.

"It was a hard struggle, for I was young then, and loved the man I expected to spend my life with--Nathan too"--

"No matter about me, Hannah, don't mention anything I did; it was hard at the time, but one gets used to almost everything," cried the old man, wiping the tears from his eyes with a cotton handkerchief that Salina handed to him, her own eyes flus.h.i.+ng redder and redder from sympathy.

"I need not speak of him," commenced aunt Hannah, with one look at her brother's face. "He did his duty; if I had done mine as well, this hour of shame would not have brought me where I am.