Chapter IX. The Last Evening at Home

by Horatio Alger

　　Three weeks passed quickly. October had already reached itsmiddle point. The glory of the Indian summer was close at hand.Too quickly the days fled for the little family at the farm, forthey knew that each brought nearer the parting of which theycould not bear to think.Jacob Carter, who had been sent for to do the heavy work on thefarm, had arrived. He was a man of forty, stout and able to work,but had enjoyed few opportunities of cultivating his mind. Thougha faithful laborer, he was destitute of the energy and ambitionwhich might ere this have placed him in charge of a farm of hisown. In New England few arrive at his age without achieving someposition more desirable and independent than that of farmlaborer. However, he looked pleasant and good-natured, and Mr.Frost accounted himself fortunate in securing his services.The harvest had been got in, and during the winter months therewould not be so much to do as before. Jacob, therefore, "hiredout" for a smaller compensation, to be increased when the springwork came in.Frank had not been idle. He had accompanied his father about thefarm, and received as much practical instruction in the art offarming as the time would admit. He was naturally a quicklearner, and now felt impelled by a double motive to preparehimself as well as possible to assume his new responsibilities.His first motive was, of course, to make up his father's loss tothe family, as far as it was possible for him to do so, but hewas also desirous of showing Mrs. Roxana Mason and otherill-boding prophets that they had underrated his abilities.The time came when Mr. Frost felt that he must leave his family.He had enlisted from preference in an old regiment, already inVirginia, some members of which had gone from Rossville. A numberof recruits were to be forwarded to the camp on a certain day,and that day was now close at hand.Let me introduce the reader to the farmhouse on the last eveningfor many months when they would be able to be together. They wereall assembled about the fireplace. Mr. Frost sat in an armchair,holding Charlie in his lap--the privileged place of the youngest.Alice, with the air of a young woman, sat demurely by herfather's side on a cricket, while Maggie stood beside him, withone hand resting on his knee. Frank sat quietly beside hismother, as if already occupying the place which he was in futureto hold as her counselor and protector.Frank and his mother looked sober. They had not realized fullyuntil this evening what it would be to part with the husband andfather--how constantly they would miss him at the family meal andin the evening circle. Then there was the dreadful uncertainty ofwar. He might never return, or, if spared for that, it might bewith broken constitution or the loss of a limb."If it hadn't been for me," Frank could not help thinking,"father would not now be going away. He would have stayed athome, and I could still go to school. It would have made a greatdifference to us, and the loss of one man could not affect thegeneral result."A moment after his conscience rebuked him for harboring soselfish a thought."The country needs him more even than we do," he said to himself."It will be a hard trial to have him go, but it is our duty.""Will my little Charlie miss me when I am gone?" asked Mr. Frostof the chubby-faced boy who sat with great, round eyes peeringinto the fire, as if he were deeply engaged in thought."Won't you take me with you, papa?" asked Charlie."What could you do if you were out there, my little boy?" askedthe father, smiling."I'd shoot great big rebel with my gun," said Charlie, waxingvaliant."Your gun's only a wooden one," said Maggie, with an air ofsuperior knowledge. "You couldn't kill a rebel with that.""I'd kill 'em some," persisted Charlie earnestly, evidentlybelieving that a wooden gun differed from others not in kind, butin degree."But suppose the rebels should fire at you," said Frank, amused."What would you do then, Charlie?"Charlie looked into the fire thoughtfully for a moment, as ifthis contingency had not presented itself to his mind until now.Suddenly his face brightened up, and he answered. "I'd run awayjust as fast as I could."All laughed at this, and Frank said: "But that wouldn't be actinglike a brave soldier, Charlie. You ought to stay and make theenemy run.""I wouldn't want to stay and be shooted," said Charlieingenuously."There are many older than Charlie," said Mr. Frost, smiling,"who would doubtless sympathize entirely with him in hisobjection to being shooted, though they might not be quite soready to make confession as he has shown himself. I suppose youhave heard the couplet:" 'He who fights and runs awayMay live to fight another day.' ""Pray don't speak about shooting," said Mrs. Frost, with ashudder. "It makes me feel nervous.""And to-night we should only admit pleasant thoughts," said herhusband. "Who is going to write me letters when I am gone?""I'll write to you, father," said Alice."And so will I," said Maggie."I, too," chimed in Charlie."Then, if you have so many correspondents already engaged, youwill hardly want to hear from Frank and myself," said his wife,smiling."The more the better. I suspect I shall find letters more welcomethan anything else. You must also send me papers regularly. Ishall have many hours that will pass heavily unless I havesomething to read.""I'll mail you Harper's Weekly regularly, shall I, father?" askedFrank."Yes, I shall be glad enough to see it. Then, there is one goodthing about papers--after enjoying them myself, I can pass themround to others. There are many privations that I must make up mymind to, but I shall endeavor to make camp-life as pleasant aspossible to myself and others.""I wish you were going out as an officer," said Mrs. Frost. "Youwould have more indulgences.""Very probably I should. But I don't feel inclined to wish myselfbetter off than others. I am: willing to serve my country in anycapacity in which I can be of use. Thank Heaven, I am prettystrong and healthy, and better fitted than many to encounter thefatigues and exposures which are the lot of the private.""How early must you start to-morrow, father?" inquired Frank."By daylight. I must be in Boston by nine o'clock, and you knowit is a five-mile ride to the depot. I shall want you to carry meover.""Will there be room for me?" asked Mrs. Frost. "I want to see thelast of you.""I hope you won't do that for a long time to come," said Mr.Frost, smiling."You know what I mean, Henry.""Oh, yes, there will be room. At any rate, we will make room foryou. And now it seems to me it is time for these little folks togo to bed. Charlie finds it hard work to keep his eyes open.""Oh, papa, papa, not yet, not yet," pleaded the children; andwith the thought that it might be many a long day before he sawtheir sweet young faces again, the father suffered them to havetheir way.After the children had gone to bed Frank and his father andmother sat up for a long time. Each felt that there was much tobe said, but no one of them felt like saying much then. Thoughtsof the approaching separation swallowed up all others. Thethought kept recurring that to-morrow would see them many milesapart, and that many a long to-morrow must pass before they wouldagain be gathered around the fire."Frank," said his father, at length, "I have deposited in theBrandon Bank four hundred dollars, about half of which I haverealized from crops sold this season. This you will draw upon asyou have need, for grocery bills, to pay Jacob, etc. For presentpurposes I will hand you fifty dollars, which I advise you to putunder your mother's care."As he finished speaking, Mr. Frost drew from his pocketbook aroll of bills and handed them to Frank.Frank opened his portemonnaie and deposited the money therein.He had never before so large a sum of money in his possession,and although he knew it was not to be spent for his ownbenefit--at least, no considerable part of it--he felt a sense ofimportance and even wealth in being the custodian of so muchmoney. He felt that his father had confidence in him, and that hewas in truth going to be his representative."A part of the money which I have in the bank," continued hisfather, "has been saved up toward the payment of the mortgage onthe farm.""When does it come due, father?""On the first of July of next year.""But you won't be prepared to meet it at that time?""No, but undoubtedly Squire Haynes will be willing to renew it. Ialways pay the interest promptly, and he knows it is secured bythe farm, and therefore a safe investment. By the way, I hadnearly forgotten to say that there will be some interest due onthe first of January. Of course, you are authorized to pay itjust as if you were myself.""How much will it be?""Twenty-four dollars--that is, six months' interest at six percent. on eight hundred dollars.""I wish the farm were free from encumbrance," said Frank."So do I; and if Providence favors me it shall be before manyyears are past. But in farming one can't expect to lay by moneyquite as fast as in some other employments."The old clock in the corner here struck eleven."We mustn't keep you up too late the last night, Henry," saidMrs. Frost. "You will need a good night's sleep to carry youthrough to-morrow."Neither of the three closed their eyes early that night. Thoughtsof the morrow were naturally in their minds. At last all wasstill. Sleep--God's beneficent messenger--wrapped their senses inoblivion, and the cares and anxieties of the morrow were for atime forgotten.