The Old Stone House Part 8

"It seems to me as though I had heard the beginning of it before, somewhere," answered the Boston bachelor in the same tone.

"The next contribution consists of a series of ill.u.s.trations," said Hugh, unfastening some loose sheets of drawing paper; "the following introduction is appended:--

'The hand is not only an index of character, but it has a character of its own. We may disguise or droll our features, cultivate our voices and expression, but our hands betray us; I propose to ill.u.s.trate this principle by a series of sketches. To begin: when you see an irregular hand with large, broad palm, strong wrist, but shapely, tapering fingers, you may know that hand betokens a duplex temperament, where opposite characteristics are constantly struggling for the mastery.

The palm may denote strength and industry, but the fingers may overbalance these qualities by their love of ease or generous prodigality. For instance, when you see a hand of this nature, you may know that its owner might give you half his fortune, might even give you his life, and yet would be very likely to keep the household in discomfort for months, for want of one new shingle on the roof. In short, my friends, you might know it was--'"

Here the reader paused, and held up a large drawing of two hands, so lifelike and alive with character that the whole company cried out with one voice, "Hugh!"

"Rather embarra.s.sing for the editor," said Hugh, hastening on with his task as the laughter subsided. "Here, my friends is another design.

When you see a hand proportioned in careful outlines, beautiful, but also firm; white, but also strong to the playing of a sonata, you may know the owner will be prompt, even-tempered and calm; you may know the owner will be such a one as--" here Hugh held up another design; "Sibyl!" said the audience, as the two hands appeared.

Mr. Leslie rose, and crossed the room to examine the drawing; he did not lay it aside, but carried it back to his seat, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Sibyl's color rose, but she turned with marked interest towards Graham Marr, and listened to his remarks with a bright smile.

"The next design," Hugh read, "requires no explanation. It is the strong, broad, long palm, and strong, long, shapely fingers of the well-balanced, resolute man, who will fight the battle of life with all his strength, and never give up until it is won. In short, it is--"

"Mr. Leslie!" said the audience, as the ill.u.s.tration was held up for inspection. Sibyl's eyes brightened as she saw the life-like picture, but she sat silent as the others poured forth criticisms and comments.

"Go on, Hugh!" said Mr. Leslie laughing; "this is quite an ordeal, I find."

"The next design," read Hugh, "shows all the faults of nature's worst handiwork. (No pun intended.) A scraggy little paw, brown, knotted and shapeless; of course every one will know that it is--"

"Bessie!" cried the laughing audience, as two ridiculous caricatures of Bessie's little brown hands came into view.

"Last of all, I present the fat-simile of a perfect hand. Our other designs have been youthful, but this one has borne the burden and heat of the day. Originally beautiful and shapely, it is now worn with labor for others; it has given to the poor, it has tended the sick, it has guarded the young, and soothed the afflicted. It is,--I am sure you will recognize it,--"

"Aunt Faith!"--"Mrs. Sheldon!" cried the company, as the last drawing was displayed.

"Bravo, Bessie!" said Tom; "your contribution is the best so far."

When the buzz of conversation had subsided, Hugh took another paper from the basket.

"The next contribution is poetical," he said; "it is ent.i.tled:--

'A JUNE RHAPSODY.

The lovely month of June has come, The sweetest of the year,-- (I've heard this somewhere;--never mind;) The meadows green and sear;-- Sear's not the word; there's something wrong,-- I fear my muse will drop The fire of genius' flowing song, And so I'd better stop!

ROSE SAXON.'"

A general laugh followed this effusion, and no one joined in it more heartily than the auth.o.r.ess, a bright little brunette with sparkling eyes, in whose expression merriment predominated.

"Our next ma.n.u.script seems to be of a serious nature," said Hugh; "it treats of a solemn subject, and I beg you to give it your attentive consideration:--

'BOYS.

Boys are funny sometimes, but girls are more dignified for their age.

Boys are rude, but girls are polite and lady-like. It is a pity boys are not lady-like too. Once I knew a boy, a very little boy, and he had a pair of boots. Real boots,--the first he ever had. One night when his father came home, he found Jimmy sitting on the stairs in the hall. The boots were outside the parlor door,--against the wall. "What are you doing here, Giant Grimm?" said his father. (His father called him "Giant Grimm," sometimes; for fun, I suppose.) "I'm seein' how my boots 'ud look if they was stood outside the door at a hotel to be cleaned," said Jimmy. He could not speak very plain, so I have not written it plain.

GRACE EVANS MORRIS.'"

"Very good, little girl," said Aunt Faith, drawing her youngest child to her side, and signing to Hugh to go on in order to divert attention from her; "I didn't know you could write so well."

"THE OHIO CAPTAIN,"

read Hugh.

"When the war for the Union broke out, I had just completed my studies and entered the ministry. My intention had been to enter upon my new duties in a little village not far from my home, but as the excitement spread through the country, and the young men left their fields, their workshops, and their homes, to join the army, I could not overcome my desire to go with them. I could not sleep, through many exciting weeks; in imagination I saw this one, and that one, friends that I knew, cold in death, or lying wounded alone in the night. I seemed to walk through crowded hospitals and to hear the 'ping' of the b.a.l.l.s; I felt that if ever there was a place where the gospel words were needed, it was after the battle, when men were left with the awful shadow of death hanging over them. My youth and inexperience would be obstacles in the well-regulated quiet village, but in the army might they not be overlooked, if accompanied by willing hands and heart? In the great haste, in the great excitement, in the great agony, might not the great tidings be delivered acceptably even by an inexperienced messenger? Thus I thought, and soon after the battle of Bull Run, I obtained an appointment as chaplain, joined the army, and remained with it until the close of the war.

"Part of this time I was with an Ohio volunteer regiment; the colonel belonged to the regular army, but all the other officers were volunteers. I grew to know them all, and among them I found many n.o.ble hearts, and, had I the time, I could relate many incidents of generosity and true courage, part of that unwritten history of the war which will never come into print. Among these officers there was one young captain whom I especially liked. He was quiet and reserved, and although he never talked with me as his companions sometimes did, although he told me nothing of his life and history, I still felt that, he was a Christian at heart, probably one of those who have never been drawn out of themselves, or taught the pleasure of sympathetic fellowship. Captain Worthington often came to the Sunday service, when I was able to hold one, and his voice joined in the hymns, which gave the greatest charm to those military prayer-meetings; but beyond this I could not pa.s.s. He was reserved and silent; I could not force myself upon him. Sensitive natures abhor an intruder.

"One evening in September, while pa.s.sing through the camp, I met Captain Worthington walking up and down under the trees; he spoke to me with unusual cordiality, and we continued the walk together, strolling through the forest at, random, and talking upon any subject which happened to suggest itself. The week had been hard and annoying.

The brigade had been marching and counter-marching in an apparently purposeless way, although, no doubt, there was a concealed motive in every movement; the ground was stony, and broken by deep ravines, the forage wretched, and rain had been falling almost continuously, so that deep mud alternated with sharp stones, making every mile seem two. There had, also, been no enemy in sight to keep up the ardor of the soldiers, and make them forget their discomfort; it had been, as I said before, a wretched week, and Allan Worthington, always grave, seemed this evening almost sad. We sat down upon a fallen tree, and in the still gloom of that night he first spoke of his home.

"'I have been thinking about my mother,' he said; 'I cannot explain it, but home seems very near to me to-night. I can see the house as plainly as though it stood here before me, and I see mother sitting in her arm-chair by the table, knitting. Poor mother! how lonely she looks.'

"'Has she no other children?' I asked.

"'No; I am her only child. She let me go because I would not stay; I sometimes think perhaps I was wrong to leave her. We lived alone on the hill, and when I rode into the country town and heard the latest news, I seemed to be all on fire; I would ride back over the quiet road, my blood fairly tingling with excitement. At last, as the story of the battles began to come, I could stand it no longer, and I told mother I must go. The regiments from my part of the country were all full, but I got a lieutenant's place in another county, and marched away. That was more than two years ago, and I have never felt homesick until this evening. I don't know what has come over me.'

"'In what part of Ohio does your mother live, captain?' I asked.

"'At Benton Fails, South county. I hope to get a furlough before long.

I want to go home, if only for a few days; there is one there besides mother whom I want to see; I never knew how much until now.'

"These last words were spoken in a low tone, almost as if the young soldier had forgotten my presence and was talking to himself. He was sitting on the log, with his back against a large oak-tree, resting as though he was in an arm-chair. He said no more, and I strolled away for a moment, thinking that if he resumed the subject when I returned, I would gladly pursue it, but unwilling to take advantage of what might have been an inadvertent utterance. I was absent several minutes, climbing down the bank to the spring to get a drink of water; then I returned and took my place upon the log again.

"'I suppose you often hear from your mother, captain?' I said.

"He did not answer. I repeated the question; no reply. I was perplexed. Could he have fallen into a brown study? His eyes were open, and he appeared to be looking off through the forest. At length I touched his shoulder, but he did not move. I took his hand; he was dead! Shot through the heart. The roaring of the brook, and the steep bank, had prevented my hearing the report; but, as I sat there holding the dead hand, suddenly the woods seemed to grow alive with noise and light. Our camp had evidently been surprised by the enemy, and a sharp conflict began. I took poor Allan's note-book and watch, and, remembering his mother, I managed to cut off a lock of his curly hair; but, before I had gone far, I myself was struck by a stray shot, and knew nothing more until I awoke in a border hospital two months afterwards, pale and weak, the very shadow of my former self. As memory came back, I thought of the captain. The relics had been preserved, and, as soon as I was able, I sent them to the poor mother, with a letter describing my last conversation with her boy,--his last words on earth. I supposed, of course, that she knew from other sources all the details of the attack, but I felt that I must also tell her what _I_ knew; possibly it would be some comfort to her. In about a week I received a letter written in a careful, old-fashioned handwriting. The poor mother had known nothing all that long time save this: 'Captain A. Worthington reported missing.' Our regiment had suffered severely. The camp had been abandoned, and the dead left on the field. The suspense had been dreadful, and she had prayed for relief. It had come in the inward conviction that her boy was dead; that he was not in the southern prisons or languishing in a hospital, but gone from earth forever. My letter brought her the first definite tidings, and my description of that last conversation, the first comfort. 'I shall go to him though he shall not return to me,' wrote the afflicted mother; and she gave me her blessing in such solemn, tender words, that I can never forget them. In the letter she enclosed a picture of Allan, sent home to her during the previous year; and with it another, a picture of the one of whom Allan said, 'I want to see her; I never knew how much until now.'"

As Hugh finished reading, he took the photographs from an envelope, and handed them to Aunt Faith. They were pa.s.sed from hand to hand, with gentle comments, and some tear-dimmed eyes gazed on the pictured faces,--a resolute, grave young soldier, with earnest eyes, and a little, delicate, wistful maiden, as fair and simple as a wild-flower.

"The war made many partings," said Aunt Faith, as she replaced the pictures in their envelope, and returned them to Mr. Leslie; "but the lost ones are only gone before. There are no partings there."

The gayety had subsided into a quiet thoughtfulness, by common consent the reading was abandoned, and, as it was growing late, Aunt Faith led the way into the sitting-room, where the pretty supper-table soon aroused the vivacity of the young people. Youth is buoyant, and, as for Aunt Faith, she was never saddened by the thought of death. She had lost so many loved ones, that her home seemed more there than here. In a few moments all the company were talking and laughing as merrily as ever, and in the crowd around the table no one noticed that Rose Saxon had slipped away. If they noticed anything beside themselves, it was the amount of chocolate-ice which Gideon Fish consumed!

Rose was in the parlor. The basket was still in its place, and she was looking over the remaining ma.n.u.scripts. "'Gideon Fish,'" she murmured, "no one wants to hear that; 'Lida Powers,' 'William Mount,'

'Edith Chase,'--oh, here is something! I know the handwriting, although there is no name. Let me see,--yes; this is Hugh's. It is sure to be good, and I mean to have it read." So, just before the company broke up, Rose rapped on the table with her plump little fist.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, in her merry voice, "I presume you all know Mr. Pete Trone, the distinguished terrier, whose accomplishments and sagacity are in every mouth."

"Oh, we know him!" answered the company; "we know him well." "He is the celebrated dog of republican principles,"--"who climbs trees;"--"and walks the tight-rope;"--"and dances the hornpipe!"

"I perceive that you know him," said Rose, "and therefore you will be pleased to hear an epic poem in his honor. Indeed, it is supposed that he wrote it himself. He speaks with modesty of his achievements, alludes with feeling to his fancy for digging in the garden, and begs for sympathy. With your permission, I will read the:--

'COMPLAINT OF PETE TRONE, ESQ.

I'm only a poor little terrier, Very small, black-and-tan, But a dog who is brighter or merrier Never breathed, never ran.