Book 8 — CHAPTER II.

WHAT HAD HAPPENED AT WATERMELON HILL DURING THE AUTHOR'S ABSENCE.

This intelligence was balm to my spirit and medicine to my body; and the consequence was, that I recovered so rapidly as to be able to leave my bed in less than a week, and receive the visits and congratulations of many old friends, who seemed really glad of my return and recovery, though I have no doubt they were moved as much by curiosity to learn where I had been, and what adventures had befallen me during the long period of my exile; in which, however, I did not think it advisable to gratify them.

And now it was that I discovered that many changes, personally interesting to myself, had happened during my absence. When I first got upon my porch and looked about me, I almost doubted whether I was really on the forty-acre. My house had been carefully reparied, both within and without; a new and substantial stable, with other outbuildings, had been erected; new fences had been put up around my fields and orchards; cattle were lowing on my meadows, and horses whinnying in the stable, to be let loose with them upon the early grass. In a word, the forty-acre now looked more prosperous and flourishing than it had ever before looked mean and empoverished: it looked almost as well as it had done in the days of my father.

"How was all this change brought about?" I demanded of my brother-in-law, who, with my sister, had accompanied, or, indeed, rather led me to the porch.

"By the magic of money, industry, and a little common sense," said Alderwood, who, although a plain and bluff man, was a sensible one, and a most excellent farmer. "You must know, my dear Sheppard," said he, "that, when we found you were so far gone—"

"How," said I, in surprise, "how did you know I had gone far? I thought the general opinion was that I was murdered."

"Oh, yes," said my sister, nodding at her husband; "it was just as you say."

With that Alderwood smiled, and nodded back again, saying,

"Prue is right. When we discovered your condition—that is, when we found you had been murdered, as you say, and that there was no one to look to the poor forty-acre except the sheriff and the mortgagee, it was agreed between your sister and myself that I should take the matter in hand; for we were loath the property should go into the possession of strangers. Besides, Prudence insisted upon being near you—"

"That is," said Prudence, "near to where we supposed the murderers must have concealed your body."

"Exactly so," said Alderwood. "For this reason I left my own farm in the hands of my young brother Robert, came down hither, bag and baggage, applied a little of my loose cash (for I believe I have been somewhat more prosperous than you) to stopping the mouth of your mortgagee, building fences, banking meadows, spreading marl, and so on; and the consequence is, that we are getting the forty-acre into good condition again, so that, in a few years, it will pay the debts, and perhaps begin to make the fortune of its owner."

I grasped my brother-in-law's hand. I was moved by his kindness; and remembering how, after quarrelling with him, as related in the first book of this history, I had refused a reconciliation, and rejected his offers of assistance, his friendship and generosity appeared still more worthy of my gratitude.

"Poh!" said he, interrupting my thanks and professions of regard, but looking well pleased that I should be disposed to make them, "I was persuaded you would come to some day—that is, I mean, come back."

"That is," said Prudence, "we always had a notion you were not really dead, and that we should see you again, some time, alive and happy."

"I trust," said I, "you will long see me so; for I am now a changed, I hope, a wiser man—disposed to make the best of the lot to which Heaven has assigned me, and to sigh no longer with envy at the supposed superior advantages of others. I think, brother Alderwood, I shall now be contented with my condition, humble and even toilsome as it may be. I have seen enough of the miseries of my fellows—those even whom I most envied—during the two years of my absence, to teach me that every man has his share of them; that there is nothing peculiarly wretched in my own lot, and that I can be happy or not, just as I may choose to make myself. For this reason, I shall now bid adieu to indolence and discontent, the vile mother and viler daughter together, and do as my father did before me, that is, cultivate these few acres which my folly has left me, with my own hands; nor will I rest from my labours until I have discharged every claim against it, your own, my dear Alderwood, first of all; though I am sensible I can never repay the debt of kindness I owe you." "And this is really your intention?" demanded Alderwood, looking prodigiously gratified. "Your possessions are now limited, indeed; yet you have enough, with a little industry and care, to render you independent for life. And if you will really apply yourself to the farm—"

"I will," said I. "If labour and perseverance can do it, I will attain the independence you speak of; I will remove every encumbrance on the forty-acre, and then trust to pass such a life as modest wishes and a contented temper can secure me."

"You may begin to pass it immediately, then," said Alderwood, "for the forty-acre is already clear of every encumbrance. Yes," he continued, seeing me look surprised, "I tell you nothing but the truth. Aikin Jones, your old friend and overseer—"

"He is a villain!" said I, "and he defrauded me."

"So it is pretty commonly supposed; but, as we have no legal proof of his dishonesty, the less we say of it the better. He has gone to settle his accounts at a tribunal where craft and policy can avail him nothing. He died eight months ago, and they say who know best, in great agony and fear of spirit. Now, whether he was moved by old feelings of friendship, or was struck with remorse at seeing the condition to which he had reduced you—"

"What condition?" said I.

"Oh," said my sister, "the ruin of your affairs; nothing more." And Alderwood nodded his head by way of assent to the explanation.

"In short," said he, "Mr. Aikin Jones, whatever may have been his motive, thought fit to bequeath you a legacy—"

"What!" said I; "how could he leave a legacy to a man universally considered dead?"

"Oh," said my sister, "he never would believe that. There were a good many people had their doubts on that subject."

"Yes," said Alderwood; "and Mr. Aikin Jones was one of them. And so, finding himself dying, and being seized perhaps with compunction for the wrongs he had done you, he left you a legacy,—no great matter, indeed, considering how much of your estate he died possessed of. It sufficed, however, to pay off your mortgage, principal and interest, and to improve and stock the forty-acre just as you now see it. So you see, my dear Sheppard, you are not so badly off as you supposed. Your farm is small, yet your father drew from it a fortune; and I believe a good farmer might do the same thing a second time. But you are not very learned in agricultural matters. I will remain with you a while—at least until your health is re-established—and be your teacher. When you find yourself competent to the management of the farm I will bid you farewell, assured that you will lead a happier life than you ever knew before."

This intelligence with regard to my little homestead was highly agreeable to me; nor was I less pleased with my brother-in-law's resolution to remain with me for a time, while I acquired a knowledge of agriculture, and confirmed myself in new habits of industrious and active application.