On the evening of Thanksgiving day, John Inglefield, the blacksmith, sat in hiselbow-chair, among those who had been keeping festival at his board. Being thecentral figure of the domestic circle, the fire threw its strongest light onhis massive and sturdy frame, reddening his rough visage, so that it lookedlike the head of an iron statue, all aglow, from his own forge, and with itsfeatures rudely fashioned on his own anvil. At John Inglefield’s righthand was an empty chair. The other places round the hearth were filled by themembers of the family, who all sat quietly, while, with a semblance offantastic merriment, their shadows danced on the wall behind then. One of thegroup was John Inglefield’s son, who had been bred at college, and wasnow a student of theology at Andover. There was also a daughter of sixteen,whom nobody could look at without thinking of a rosebud almost blossomed. Theonly other person at the fireside was Robert Moore, formerly an apprentice ofthe blacksmith, but now his journeyman, and who seemed more like an own son ofJohn Inglefield than did the pale and slender student.
Only these four had kept New England’s festival beneath that roof. Thevacant chair at John Inglefield’s right hand was in memory of his wife,whom death had snatched from him since the previous Thanksgiving. With afeeling that few would have looked for in his rough nature, the bereavedhusband had himself set the chair in its place next his own; and often did hiseye glance thitherward, as if he deemed it possible that the cold grave mightsend back its tenant to the cheerful fireside, at least for that one evening.Thus did he cherish the grief that was dear to him. But there was another griefwhich he would fain have torn from his heart; or, since that could never be,have buried it too deep for others to behold, or for his own remembrance.Within the past year another member of his household had gone from him, but notto the grave. Yet they kept no vacant chair for her.
While John Inglefield and his family were sitting round the hearth with theshadows dancing behind them on the wall, the outer door was opened, and a lightfootstep came along the passage. The latch of the inner door was lifted by somefamiliar hand, and a young girl came in, wearing a cloak and hood, which shetook off, and laid on the table beneath the looking-glass. Then, after gazing amoment at the fireside circle, she approached, and took the seat at JohnInglefield’s right hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her.
“Here I am, at last, father,” said she. “You ate yourThanksgiving dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening withyou.”
Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield. She wore the same neat and maidenly attirewhich she had been accustomed to put on when the household work was over forthe day, and her hair was parted from her brow, in the simple and modestfashion that became her best of all. If her cheek might otherwise have beenpale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it with a healthful bloom. If she hadspent the many months of her absence in guilt and infamy, yet they seemed tohave left no traces on her gentle aspect. She could not have looked lessaltered, had she merely stepped away from her father’s fireside for halfan hour, and returned while the blaze was quivering upwards from the samebrands that were burning at her departure. And to John Inglefield she was thevery image of his buried wife, such as he remembered her on the firstThanksgiving which they had passed under their own roof. Therefore, thoughnaturally a stern and rugged man, he could not speak unkindly to his sinfulchild, nor yet could he take her to his bosom.
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