Chanticleer Part 4

The old patriarch leaned his head upon his hand, and the company was silent as though they had listened to a voice from the grave. He presently looked up and smiled--"Old Ethan, I call to mind now," he renewed, "had a quality which our poor Barbary inherited, and for which," he added, looking toward his son William, "and for which I greatly honor his memory. He counted the money of this world but as dross. From his manhood to the very moment of his entering on the ministry, he never would touch silver nor gold, partly, I think, because it was the true Scripture course, and partly because a dreadful murder had once happened in the Barbary family, growing out of a quarrel for the possession of a paltry sum of money."

The bread she was raising to her lips fell from the widow's hand, for she could not help but think of the history of her absent son; and the voice of Miriam, who did not present herself at the table, was heard from a distant chamber, not distinctly, but in that tone of chanting lament which had become habitual to her whether in house, garden, or field. It was an inexpressibly mournful cadence, and for the time stilled all other sounds. They were only drawn away from it by descrying Mopsey, the black servant, at a turn of the road, hurrying with great animation towards the homestead, but with a singularity in her progress which could not fail to be observed. She rushed along at great speed, for several paces, and suddenly came to a halt, during which her head disappeared, and then renewed her pace, repeating the peculiar manoeuvre once at least in every ten yards. In a word, she was shuffling on in her loose shoes, (which were on or off, one or the other of them every other minute,) at as rapid a rate as that peculiar species of locomotion allowed. Bursting with impatience and the importance of her communication, her cap flaunting from her head, she stood in the doorway and announced, "We've beat Brundage--we've beat Brundage!"

"What's this, Mopsey?" old Sylvester inquired.

"I've tried it and I've spanned it. I can't span ours!"

On further questioning it appeared that Mopsey had been on a pilgrimage to the next neighbor's, the Brundages, to inspect their thanksgiving pumpkin, and inst.i.tute a comparison with the Peabody growth of that kind, with a highly satisfactory and complacent result as regarded the home production. n.o.body was otherwise than pleased at Mopsey's innocent rejoicing, and when she had been duly complimented on her success, she went away with a broad black guffaw to set a trap in the garden for the brown mouse, the sole surviving enemy of the great Peabody thanksgiving pumpkin which must be plucked next day for use.

With the dispatch of the evening meal, old Sylvester withdrew to the other room, with a little hand lamp, to read a chapter by himself. The others remaining seated about the apartment; the Captain and Oliver presently fell into a violent discussion on the true sources of national wealth, the Captain giving it as his opinion that it solely depended on having a great number of s.h.i.+ps at sea, as carriers between different countries. Oliver was equally clear and resolute that the real wealth of a nation lay in its wheat crops. When wheat was at ten s.h.i.+llings the bushel, all went well; let it fall a quarter, and you had general bankruptcy staring you in the face. Mr. William Peabody was'nt at the pains to deliver his opinion, but he was satisfied, in his secret soul, that it lay in the increase of new houses, or the proper supply of calicoes--he had'nt made up his mind which. Presently Oliver was troubled again in reference to the supply of gold in the world--whether there was enough to do business with; he also had some things to say (which he had out of a great speech in Congress) about bullion and rates of exchange, but n.o.body understood him.

"By the way," he added, "Mrs. Carrack's son Tiffany is gone to the Gold Region. From what he writes to me I think he'll cut a very great figure in that country."

"An exceedingly fine, talented young man," said the merchant, who had, then, sundry sums on loan from his mother.

"In any point of view, in which you regard it," continued Oliver, "the gold country is an important acquisition."

"You hav'nt the letter Tiffany wrote, with you?" interrupted the Captain.

"I think I have," was the answer. "I brought it, supposing you might like to look at it. Shall I read it?"

There was no objection--the letter was read--in which Mr. Tiffany Carrack professed his weariness of civilized life--spoke keenly of misspent hours--a determination to rally and do something important, intimating that that was a great country for enterprising young men, and, in a familiar phrase, closed with a settled resolution to do or die.

"I have a letter to the same effect," said the Captain.

"And so have I," said William Peabody, "word for word."

"He means to do something very grand," said the Captain. Something very grand--the women all agreed--for Mr. Tiffany Carrack was a nice young man, and had a prospect of inheriting a hundred thousand dollars, to say nothing of the large sums he was to bring from the Gold Regions. It was evident to all that he was going into the business with a rush. They, of course, would'nt see Mr. Tiffany Carrack at this Thanksgiving gathering--he had better business on hand--Mr. Tiffany Carrack was clearly the promising young man of the family, and was carrying the fortunes of the Peabodys into the remotest quarters of the land.

"In a word," said Mr. Oliver Peabody, developing the Declaration of Independence on his pocket-handkerchief. "He is going to do wonders in every point of view. He'll carry the principles of Free Government everywhere!"

The consideration of the extraordinary talents and enterprise of the son imparted a new interest to the question of the coming of Mrs. Carrack; which was rediscussed in all its bearings; and it was almost unanimously concluded--that, one day now only intervening to Thanksgiving--it was too late to look for her. There had been a general disposition, secretly opposed only by Mrs. Jane Peabody, to yield to that fas.h.i.+onable person the best bed-chamber, which was always accounted a great prize and distinguished honor among the family. But now there was scarcely any need of reserving it longer--and who was to have it? Alas! that is a question often raised in rural households, often shakes them to the very base, and spreads through whole families a bitterness and strength and length of strife, which frequently ends only with life itself.

To bring the matter to an issue, various whispered conversations were held in the small room, lying next to the sitting-room, at first between Mrs. Margaret Peabody and Mopsey, to which one by one were summoned, Mrs. Jane Peabody, the Captain's wife, and Mrs. Hannah Peabody. The more it was discussed the farther off seemed any reasonable conclusion. When one arrangement was proposed, various faces of the group grew dark and sour; when another, other faces blackened and elongated; tongues, too, wagged faster every minute, and at length grew to such a hubbub as to call old Sylvester away from his Bible and bring him to the door to learn what turmoil it was that at this quiet hour disturbed the peace of the Peabodys. He was not long in discovering the ground of battle, and even as in old pictures Adam is shown walking calmly in Eden among the raging beasts of all degrees and kinds, the old patriarch came forward among the women of the Peabody family--"My children," he said, "should dwell in peace for the short stay allotted them on earth. Why make a difference about so small a matter as a lodging-place--they are all good and healthful rooms. I have seen the day when camping on the wet grounds and mora.s.ses I would have held any one of them to be a palace-chamber. The back chamber, my child," he continued, addressing the Captain's wife, "looks out on the orchard, where you always love to walk; the white room, Hannah, towards your father's house; and Jane, you cannot object to the front chamber which is large, well-furnished, and has the best of the sunrise. The Son of Man, my children, had not where to lay his head, and shall we who are but snails and worms, compared with his glory and goodness, presume to exalt ourselves, where he was abased."

The old patriarch wished them a good night, and with the departure of his white locks gleaming as he walked away, as though it had been the gentle radiance of the moon stilling the tumult of the waters, they each quietly retired, and without a further murmur, to the chambers a.s.signed them.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

THE CHILDREN.

There was no question where the children were to lodge, for there had been allotted to them from time immemorial, ever since children were known in the Peabody family, a great rambling upper chamber, with beds in the corners, where they were always bestowed as soon after dark as they could be convoyed thither under direction of Mopsey and the mistress of the household. This was not always--in truth it was rarely--easy of achievement, and cost the shuffling black servant at least half an hour of diligent search and struggling persuasion to bring them in from the various strayings, escapes, and lurking-places, where they s.h.i.+rked to gain an extra half-hour of freedom.

To the children, however darker humors might work and sadden among the grown people, (for whatever hue rose-favored writers may choose to throw over scenes and times of festivity, the pa.s.sions of character are always busy, in holiday and hall, as well as in the strifes of the world,) to the Peabody children this was thanksgiving time indeed--it was thanksgiving in the house, it was thanksgiving in the orchard, climbing trees; it was thanksgiving in the barn, tumbling in the hay, in the lane. It was thanksgiving, too, with the jovial Captain, a grown-up boy, heading their sports and allowing the country as he did, little rest or peace of mind wherever he lead the revel; it was not four-and-twenty hours that he had been at the quiet homestead before the mill was set a-running, the chestnut-trees shaken, the pigeons fired into, a new bell of greater compa.s.s put upon the brindle cow, the blacksmith's anvil at the corner of the road set a-dinging, fresh weather-c.o.c.ks clapped upon the barn, corn-crib, stable, and out-house, the sheep let out of the little barn, all the boats of the neighborhood launched upon the pond.

With night, darkness closed upon wild frolic; bed-time came, and thanksgiving had a pause; a pause only, for Mopsey's dark head, with its broad-bordered white cap, was no sooner withdrawn and the door firmly shut, than thanksgiving began afresh, as though there had been no such thing all day long, and they were now just setting out. For half a minute after Mopsey's disappearance they were all nicely tucked in as she had left them--straight out--with their heads each square on its pillow; then, as if by a silent understanding, all heads popped up like so many frisking fish. They darted from bed and commenced in the middle of the chamber, a great pillow-fight amicable and hurtless, but furiously waged, till the approach of a broad footstep sent them scampering back to their couches, mum as mice. Mopsey, well aware of these frisks, tarried till they were blown over, in her own chamber hard by, a dark room, mysterious to the fancy of the children, with spinning wheels, dried gourd-sh.e.l.ls hung against the wall, a lady's riding-saddle, now out of use this many a day, and all the odds and ends of an ancient farm-house stored in heaps and strings about.

It was only at last by going aloft and moving a trap in the ceiling, which was connected in tradition with the appearance of a ghost, that they were at length fairly sobered down and kept in bed, when Mopsey, looking in for the last time, knew that it was safe to go below. They had something left even then, and kept up a talk from bed to bed, for a good long hour more, at least.

"What do you think of the turkey, Bill?" began Master Robert Peabody, the flat-featured, rising from his pillow like a homely porpoise.

"I don't know," Peabody Junior answered, "I don't care for turkeys."

Little Sam Peabody, the master of the turkey, took this very much to heart.

"I think he's a very fine one," continued Master Robert, "twice as big as last year's."

"I'm very glad to hear you say that, Cousin Robert," said little Sam Peabody, turning over toward the quarter whence the voice of encouragement came.

"As fine a turkey as I've ever seen," Robert went on. "When do they kill him?"

Little Sam struggled a little with himself, and answered feebly, "To-morrow."

There was silence for several minutes, broken presently by Peabody Junior, fixing his pillow, and saying "Boys, I'm going to sleep."

Allowing some few minutes for this to take effect, Master Robert called across the chamber to little Sam, "I wonder why Aunt Hannah wears that old green shade on her face?"

"Pray don't say anything about that," little Sam answered, "Cousin don't like to hear about that!"

Master Robert--rather a blunt young gentleman--is not to be baffled so easily.

"I say, Bill, why does your mother wear that green patch over her eye?"

he called out.

There was no answer; he called again in a louder key.

"Hus.h.!.+" whispered Peabody Junior, who was not asleep, but only thinking of it, in a tone of fear, "I don't know."

"Is the eye gone?" Robert asked again, bent on satisfaction of some kind.

"I don't know," was the whispered answer again. "Don't ask me anything about it."

"I'm afraid Aunt Hannah's not happy," suggested little Sam, timidly.

"Pr'aps she is'nt, Sam," Peabody Junior answered.

"What is the reason," continued little Sam, "I always liked her."

"Don't know," was all Peabody Junior had to reply.

"Did you ever see that other eye? Bill," asked the blunt young gentleman, whose head was still running on the green shade.

"Oh, go to sleep, will you, Nosey," cried Peabody Junior. "If you don't leave me alone I'll get up and wollop you."

The flat-featured disappeared with his porpoise face under the bed-clothes and breathed hard, but kept close; and when he fell asleep he dreamed of dragons and green umbrellas all night, at a fearful rate.