The Old Stone House by Constance Fenimore Woolson (romantic story to read .TXT) 📖

them also. Since that day they had never seen it, but Hugh retained a vivid remembrance of the picture, and, as Aunt Faith looked through her desk to find the paper, something in her face recalled it to his mind, and there came across him, like a revelation, a vision of what she was at eighteen. Faith Warrington at eighteen! Faith Warrington, who had long been Mrs. Sheldon with her gray hair and pale face. Going up to his room, Hugh seated himself by the window, and opening the paper, read the following lines:—

“Far back within the cycles of the past, A train of centuries rolls, From out whose cloudy borders came the day Of memory for all souls. How long it seems, a thousand years ago! How dark and weary, if we did not know A thousand years are but as yesterday within His sight, Seeing that it is past like one brief watch within the night!

Could they have known, those men of childlike faith, Half ignorant, half sublime, The fitness of the souls’ memorial day Falling within the time Of Nature’s holy calm, her blest repose,— When all the land with loving fervor glows, And from the naked woods, the empty fields, through the soft haze, Her work well done, her garners full, she offers up her praise.

A stillness fills the consecrated air,— The blustering winds that swept The red and yellow leaves in giddy rounds, By mighty hands are kept In their four corners, while the liquid gold And purple tints over the earth unrolled, And full of mystery and heavenly peace, as though the skies Had opened, and let out the atmosphere of Paradise.

Departed souls! Their memory may come With grief in Spring’s soft hours,— With weary, lonely sadness when our hands Are gathering summer flowers,— With wild despair in winter: when the graves Are white with drifted snow, and wildly raves The wind among the stones and monuments, in accents dread, Calling in vain the sculptured names of our beloved dead.

But in this golden dream-time of the year, Our bitter murmurs cease;— We seem to feel the presence of the dead, Their shadowy touch of peace; We seem to see their faces as we gaze Longingly forth into the purple haze, And hear the distant chorus of the happy souls at rest,— And catch the well-known accents of the voice we loved the best.”

All Souls’ Day, November 2nd.

In the evening, as Aunt Faith was sitting on the piazza with Bessie, Mr. Leslie came up the walk; Sibyl was in the parlor playing soft chords on the piano, but she could hear his words as he spoke. Mr. Leslie’s voice was deep, but clear, and his pronunciation perfectly distinct without any apparent effort. He did not obtrude the alphabet unpleasantly upon his hearers; he was not so anxious to show his correct pronunciation of “Been” as to force it to rhyme with “Seen;” he was not so much concerned with “Institute,” as to te-u-ute the last syllable into undue importance; neither did he bombard his hearers with the arrogance of rolling rr’s. Although his voice was not loud, any one occupying even the last seat in the chapel could not only hear him, but was absolutely invited to listen by the pleasant distinctness of the words.

“I am pleased to be able to tell you that Margaret and the children are safe in the farm-house, Mrs. Sheldon,” he said, taking a seat on the piazza. “Poor girl, how glad she was to get there! She sent her grateful thanks to you.”

“How did the children bear the ride?” asked Aunt Faith.

“Better than I expected. Indeed, the novelty, and perhaps the pleasant country air, seemed to revive them, and lessen the fever. They even walked about the garden when we arrived there, and began to make bouquets of flowers, but before I left, the reaction had come and they looked very tired.”

“You look tired, also, Mr. Leslie,” said Aunt Faith; the light from the hall-lamp shone on the young clergyman’s face and showed its pale weariness.

“I am tired,” he replied, “but a night’s rest is all I need.” Then he leaned back in his chair and sat talking pleasantly with Bessie and Aunt Faith. “This is a charming old house,” he said, “it must have been built a long time ago.”

“Yes,” replied Aunt Faith; “for a western town it is quite venerable. The main portion was built in 1822, and the wings were added as the family increased, without much regard for architectural regularity. The stairs were originally out-doors on the back piazza, but father finally had them enclosed. You may have noticed that the west side has only two windows, and that those are singularly placed. It is amusing to think that so implicit was grandfather’s belief in the growth of Westerton, then hardly more than a pioneer village, that he built up that side without any windows so as not to interfere with the blocks of dwellings which he was sure would press up against this house as the town grew into a city. It was only after many years that father was allowed to pierce the thick wall and with great difficulty insert those two windows.”

“That is something like my old home, a little village in the interior of New York,” said Mr. Leslie. “One old man was so impressed by the growth of the town, that meeting my father he shook him by the hand and exclaimed, ‘how it do grow, Judge! Please heaven, we’ll make a seaport of it yet!’”

They all laughed at this story. Then Aunt Faith said, “I should like to think that some of the children would occupy this old house after I am gone. But in America, and especially in the Western States that is hardly possible.”

“I will live here, if I can, Aunt Faith,” said Bessie warmly. “I love every stone in the old house, and every old flower in the old garden.”

“Are flowers ever old, Miss Darrell?” said Mr. Leslie, smiling.

“Oh, yes. Flowers grow old-fashioned and out of date just like people. We have a genuine old-fashioned garden here, and all the neighbors laugh at it in comparison with their smooth lawns and choice plants. We have bachelor’s-buttons, lady-slippers, tiger-lilies, flower-de-luce, hollyhocks, and pinks, besides bushes of lilac and matrimony; then we have old cedars clipped into shape, and ever so many little paths and garden-beds edged with box. Oh, we are entirely behind the times! But for all that, I love the old garden better than the smoothest trimmed lawn, and I can pick you a bunch of violets which you cannot match in Westerton; real violets, too, not flaring pansies.”

“I too am fond of old-fashioned gardens, Miss Darrell,” said Mr. Leslie. “My mother had one, not so large as this, but resembling it in general arrangement. I remember we had a little patch of trailing arbutus; it grew wild, and I can distinctly recall its perfume as the snow melted. I have never seen it in the West.”

“No, it does not grow here,” replied Aunt Faith; “our climate is too warm for it.”

“There is a great difference between the climate of the lake country and that of New England,” said Mr. Leslie; “there is so little snow here.”

“Snow!” exclaimed Bessie. “I scarcely know what snow is; and as for stories of drifts over the fences, and tunnels cut through them, I can scarcely believe anything of the kind. They are as much like legends to me as the fairy tale of little Kay and the Robber Maiden. Once at Featherton Hall the eastern girls were talking about sleigh-riding, and I told them that snow was so scarce in Westerton that when a few snow-flakes actually fell, they were immediately fenced in and guarded by the police, and then the whole population assembled in sleighs, cutters, and pungs, to ride over them in alphabetical order. Of course, as aunt’s name began with S, there was not much left of the snow-flakes when our turn came.”

“You ridiculous child!” said Aunt Faith, laughing, “how can you invent such exaggerations?”

“Oh, Bessie can invent anything!” said Hugh, coming out from the sitting-room; “if she had charge of even the Patent-Office Reports, she would gild them into veritable romances.”

Later in the evening, Graham Marr came up the garden walk. “Good-evening, Mrs. Sheldon!” he said; “is Miss Warrington at home?”

“Yes; she is in the parlor,” said Aunt Faith. “Will you go in, Mr. Marr?”

“Thank you, yes. I came especially to see her,” replied Graham, taking off his straw hat, and passing through the group on the piazza.

“Excuse me, Miss Darrell. Is that you, Hugh? Ah!—Mr. Leslie, I believe. I did not observe you in the darkness. I hope you experienced no ill feeling after your exposure yesterday?”

“None at all, Mr. Marr. And you?”

“I took cold, as I expected; but, so far, my head has given me no severe pain,” said Graham, passing on into the parlor.

“Is Mr. Marr subject to pain in his head?” inquired Mr. Leslie, as Graham disappeared.

“Chronic inflammation of the brain, produced by intense study and seething, poetical thoughts,” said Hugh, in a dramatic whisper.

Soon afterwards, Mr. Leslie rose to take leave. “I feel very tired, so I will say good-night,” he said. “I will let you know the condition of the children some time to-morrow, Mrs. Sheldon.”

“Thank you. If it is quite convenient I shall be glad to know,” replied Aunt Faith.

Graham Marr stayed until a late hour, so late that Bessie and Hugh had gone upstairs when he took leave, and Sibyl, coming in to the sitting-room, found Aunt Faith alone.

“You look tired, my dear,” said the elder lady kindly.

“I am tired, aunt. Graham talked a long time. He had something to tell me. His uncle is dead, and he has come into the fortune.”

“Ah!—” said Aunt Faith. She made no other comment, but waited for her niece to speak.

“Graham is going to Saratoga next week,” continued Sibyl slowly. “He thinks of removing to New York for a permanent home; he likes city life, you know.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Faith again; but she said no more.

Sibyl closed the windows, replaced the chairs, and fastened the front-door; then, as she carelessly turned the leaves of a book on the table, she said at last, “Mr. Leslie was here, I believe?”

“Yes: he came to tell me that Margaret Brown and the children were safely established in the farm-house.”

“Did he ask for me?” said Sibyl, as she extinguished the hall lamps.

“No, my dear,” answered Aunt Faith, and Sibyl went to her room without another word.

Two days came and went, and Mr. Leslie did not appear.

“I say, you people!” said Tom, bursting into the dining-room at tea-time. “Did you know that Mr. Leslie was sick? Dangerously sick, Jim Morse says; not expected to live, I believe.”

“Thomas!” said Aunt Faith with unusual severity, “what do you mean? Tell the truth.”

“Well, he’s sick, any way; and Jim heard his mother say it was a dangerous fever. Hallo, Sibyl! what’s the matter? How pale you are!”

“No more pale than the rest of us,” interrupted Bessie, with a quick glance at Sibyl; “we all like Mr. Leslie, don’t we?”

“Of course we do. He’s the best man in the world,” said Gem fervently.

“I shall go and see him immediately,” said Hugh, rising.

“Oh, Hugh, it is probably the same fever the Brown children have!” said Aunt Faith anxiously. “You must not expose yourself needlessly.”

“In this call I consider it necessary, Aunt Faith,” said Hugh. “Mr. Leslie has no near relatives, and although he is loved by his congregation, dread of the fever will keep most of them away; besides, they cannot leave their work.