A Winter in Retirement: Scattered Leaves
9781465686633
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
“And this is the end of all our plans and anticipations for the winter? Oh, Mary, what shall we do through this long dreary season of nearly six months? No balls, no parties, indeed, no society, shut up in my aunt’s lonely house, with nothing to amuse us but the sound of the dismal waves, dashing against the rocks, the mournful wind, whistling through that forest of apple trees, and not a man to be seen but old Philip”—and here the voice of the speaker was stopped by her tears which were, however, soon soothed by the mild and gentle voice of her sister. “Do look on the bright side of things, dear Susan,” said she, “you forget, how, when we were little girls, we used to love that orchard, how many merry plays we have had among those trees, and how many stories old Phillip would tell us; then, the beautiful shells we picked up upon the little beach, at the foot of the rocks,”—“But that was in the summer, Mary, when you know it is pleasant out doors, and that was when we were so young, and so easily amused, but now it is so very different, and then Aunt Wilson is so very, very pious—Oh; she will not let us read anything but sermons, or sing anything but psalm tunes.” This was, indeed, but a gloomy prospect for a gay young girl of seventeen, and it required more stoicism than Susan Morton possessed to view it with indifference. The illness of their father, the necessity of his seeking a warmer climate through the winter, and his wish that his wife should accompany him, were the reasons which had induced him to trust his daughters, during his absence, to the care of his sister, a widow lady of much respectability, who resided near the sea-coast, and, who, since the death of her husband, had devoted her time and talents to the education of her children, two sons and a daughter; and, it was after bidding a sorrowful adieu to their parents, and finding themselves shut up in the carriage, which was to convey them to their winter home, that this conversation commenced. Susan was the youngest of the two sisters, a lively beautiful girl, very fond of society, and always the life and animation of every circle. She had formed many gay schemes of pleasure for the coming winter, the winter after she entered her seventeenth year, which had been all dispersed by the gradual but increasing illness of her father, and she had listened to the arrangement which had consigned her to the care of her aunt through that season which she had anticipated with so much delight with a dissatisfaction and gloom, which prevented her from seeing anything pleasant in their winter abode, or seizing upon any circumstances to soften her disappointment. Not so with Mary; with as lively a disposition as her sister, she still possessed the happy talent of extracting pleasure from any situation, and enjoying herself under almost any circumstances, and now endeavored, with earnest kindness, to bring to her remembrance many little events of their early youth, connected with their aunt and her family, which would aid in restoring her tranquility, and she succeeded, for before their arrival at their destined home, Susan had joined in many a merry laugh at some pleasant recollection. The evening of a dull November day closed in before they arrived at the end of their journey, the monotonous dashing of the waves against the beach sounded drearily, and the chilly air, and the gloomy appearance of the sky made them welcome the bright light, which they knew, streamed from the retired dwelling of their aunt. The carriage now turned into the lane which led to the house, and they were greeted at the porch by the kind old Philip, whose hair seemed not a shade whiter, nor his face a whit more wrinkled than when, five years before, two lively little girls, they bade him “good-bye,” at that very door.
