Chapter IV

We go tack to look a little at the fortunes of the Meeker family. Twenty-three years have passed since we introduced it to the reader, on the occasion of Hiram's birth. Time has produced his usual tokens. Mr. Meeker is already an old man of seventy, but by no means infirm. His days have been cheerful and serene, and his countenance exhibits that contented expression which a happy old age produces.

A happy old age--how few of the few who reach the period enjoy _that_! Mr. Meeker's life has been unselfish and genuine; already he reaps his reward.

Mrs. Meeker, too, is twenty-three years older than when we first made her acquaintance. She is now over sixty. She still possesses her fair proportions; indeed, she has grown somewhat stouter with advancing years. Her face is sleek and comely, but the expression has not improved. When she wishes to appear amiable, she greets you with the same pleasing smile as ever; but if you watch her features as they relapse into their natural repose, you will discover a discontented, dissatisfied air, which has become habitual. Why? Mrs. Meeker has met with no reverses or serious disappointments in the daily routine of her life. But, alas! its sum total presents no satisfactory consequences. She has become, though unconscious of it, weary of the changeless formality of her religious duties, performed as a ceaseless task, without any real spirit or true devotion. Year after year has run its course and carried her along, through early womanhood into mature life, on to the confines of age. What has she for all those years? Nothing but disquiet and solicitude, and a vague anxiety, without apparent cause or satisfactory object.

As they advance in age, Mr. and Mrs. Meeker exhibit less sympathy in each other's thoughts and views and feelings. By degrees and instinctively the gulf widens between them--until it becomes impassable. Everything goes on quietly and decorously, but there is no sense of united destiny, no pleasurable desire for a union beyond the grave.

The children are scattered; the daughters are all married. Jane and Laura have gone 'West,' and Mary is living in Hartford. Doctor Frank we will give an account of presently. George is a practical engineer, and is employed on the Erie canal. William, who was to remain at home and manage the farm, is married, and lives in a small house not far off. His mother would permit no 'daughter-in-law' with her. She did not like the match. William had fallen in love with a very superior girl, fine-looking and amiable, but not possessed of a penny. Besides, she belonged to the Methodist church, a set who believed in falling from grace! Mrs. Meeker had peremptorily forbid her son marrying 'the girl,' but after a year's delay, and considerable private conversation with his father, William _had_ married her, and a small house which stood on the premises had been put in order for him. What was worse, William soon joined the same church with his wife, and then the happiness of the young couple seemed complete. Mrs. Meeker undertook, as she said, to 'make the best of a bad bargain,' so the two families were on terms of friendly intercourse, but they continued to remain separated.

Dr. Frank, as he was called, had taken his medical degree, and, by the indulgence of his father, whose heart yearned sympathetically toward his firstborn, opportunity was afforded him to spend a year in Paris. Mrs. Meeker groaned over this unnecessary expense. When she saw that on this occasion she was not to have her own way, she insisted that the money her husband was wasting on Frank should be charged against his 'portion.' She never for a moment forgot Hiram's interest. She had schemed for years so to arrange affairs that the homestead proper would fall to him, notwithstanding George was to be the farmer. Mrs. Meeker calculated on surviving her husband for a long, indefinite period. She was several years younger, and, as she was accustomed to remark, came of a long-lived race. 'Mr. Meeker was failing fast' (she had said so for the last fifteen years)--'at his age he could not be expected to hold out long. He ought to make his will, and do justice to Hiram, poor boy. All the rest had received more than their share. _He_ was treated like an outcast.'

This was the burden of Mrs. Meeker's thoughts, the latter portion of which found expression in strong and forcible language. For she calculated, by the aid of her 'thirds' as widow, to so arrange it as to give her favorite the most valuable part of the real estate.

There was a fixedness and a tenacity about this woman's regard for her youngest child that was, in a certain sense, very touching. It could not be termed parental affection--that is blind and indiscriminating; it was rather a sympathetic feeling toward a younger second self, with which, doubtless, was mingled the maternal interest. Whatever touched Hiram affected her; she understood his plans without his explaining them; she foresaw his career; she was anxious, hopeful, trembling, rejoicing, as she thought of what he must pass through before he emerged rich and powerful.

Hiram visited home but seldom. Even when at Burnsville, he came over scarcely once in three months. Often, when expecting him, his mother would sit by the window the whole afternoon, watching for her son to arrive. Many a time was supper kept hot for him till late into the night, while she sat up alone to greet him; but he did not come. I hardly know how to record it, but I am forced to say that Hiram cared very little about his mother. Could he have possibly cared much for anybody, he would probably for her, for he knew how her heart was bound up in him. He knew it, and, I think, rather pitied the old lady for her weakness. His manner toward her was all that could be desired--very dutiful, very respectful. So it was to his father. For Hiram did not forget the statement of his Sunday-school teacher, which was made when he was a very young child, about the 'commandment _with promise_.' Thus his conduct toward his parents was, like his conduct generally, unexceptionable.

For Frank, the eldest, however, Hiram felt a peculiar aversion. It was a long time before the former entertained any other feeling for his 'little brother' than one of the most affectionate regard. By many years the youngest of the family, Hiram, while a child, was the pet and plaything of the older ones, and especially of Frank, who in his college vacations took pleasure in training the little fellow, who was just learning his letters, and in teaching him smart sayings and cunning expressions. As Hiram grew up and began to display the characteristics I have already so fully described, Frank, who was quick and sensitive in his appreciation of qualities, could not, or at least did not, conceal the disgust he felt for these exhibitions. He took occasion on his visits home to lecture the youngster soundly. Hiram was not demonstrative in return, but Mrs. Meeker gave way to undue warmth and excitement in taking his part. This was when Hiram was at the village academy. From that time, there was coolness between the brothers, increased by the total difference of their notions, which ripened in time to settled aversion. After Hiram went to Burnsville, they did not meet. Dr. Frank, after spending his year abroad, had returned and accepted the appointment of demonstrator of anatomy in a medical school in Vermont. Thence he was called to a chair, in what was then the only medical college in the city. He was at the time about thirty-six years old, and a splendid fellow. Enthusiastically devoted to his profession, Dr. Frank had looked to the metropolis as the field of his ultimate labors. But he knew the difficulties of getting established, and it was not till he was assured of a respectable foothold through his appointment that he ventured on the change. Doubtless the fact of his having a wife and children made him cautious. Now, however, we behold him settled in town, zealously engaged with his class at lecture hours, and making his way gradually in public favor.

It was with some surprise that, one evening, while making a short call at Mr. Bennett's, he encountered Hiram, who had just removed to the city. The brothers had not met for four years. On this occasion they shook hands with a species of cordiality--at least on the Doctor's part--while Hiram preserved a bearing of humility and injured innocence. The Doctor asked his brother many questions. Was he living in town--how long since he had come to New York--was he engaged with Mr. Bennett--what was he doing? Hiram returned short answers to these queries--very short--acting the while as if he were in pain under a certain infliction. He looked up, as much as to say, 'Now, let me alone; please don't persecute me.' But the Doctor did not give the matter up. He invited Hiram to come and see him, and told him, with a smile, to be sure and let him know if he should be taken sick. Hiram wriggled in his seat, and looked more persecuted than ever; he replied that his health was very good, and likely to continue so. The words were scarcely out of his mouth, before it struck him that such an observation was a direct tempting of Providence, to trip his heels and lay him on a sickbed for his boast. So, after a slight hesitation, he added, 'But the race is not to the swift, brother, and I am wrong to indulge in vainglory about anything. Life and death are uncertain; none realize it, I trust, more deeply than I do.'

'I was in hopes, Hiram, you had quit talking cant,' said Dr. Frank, in a tone of disgust. 'Take my advice, and stop it, that is, if it is not too late.'

He did not wait for a response, but, much to Hiram's satisfaction, rose, and saying to Mrs. Bennett that he had overstayed his time, bade a rapid 'good evening' to all, and left the room.

'It is dreadful to feel so toward a brother. It is of no use. I won't attempt to resist it. The least we see of each other the better--but, good God, what's to become of him!' Such was the Doctor's soliloquy as he walked rapidly on. Other thoughts soon occupied his mind, and Hiram was forgotten. The latter, however, did not forget. The Doctor's rebuke filled his heart with rage; still he consoled himself with the thought that his brother was an infidel, and would unquestionably be damned. Meantime he was forced to hear various encomiums on him from Mrs. Bennett and her daughters--[Doctor Frank, as we have intimated, was a brilliant fellow, and in the very prime of life]--and was still further annoyed by a remark of Mr. Bennett, that 'the Doctor was doing very well; gaining ground fast; getting some of our best families.' Hiram departed from the house in an uncomfortable state of mind. All the way home he indulged in the bitterest feelings: so strong were these that they found expression in ominous mutterings to himself, among which were, 'Conceited fool,' 'I hate him,' and the like.

Suddenly Hiram's thoughts appeared to take a new direction. He stopped short, and exclaimed aloud: 'What have I done? O God, have mercy on me. God forgive me!'

When he reached his room he hastily struck a light and seized his Bible. Turning the leaves rapidly in search of something, his eyes were at length fastened on a verse, and he trembled from head to foot, and his breath nearly failed him, while he read as follows:

_'But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother
without a cause, shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever
shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council:
but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell
fire.'_

'The very word; oh, the very, very word!' he exclaimed. 'I have said it--said that word--said 'fool,' and I am in danger of hell fire, if I do belong to the church. Yes, hell fire--oh-oh--oh, hell fire. I wish mother was here. I know what I will do. I will write a confession, and send it to my brother to-morrow. I will abase myself before him. Yes, I will. Oh, oh, hell fire! What _will_ become of me!' Hiram prayed, a good portion of the night, for a remission of the awful sentence; the bare possibility of its being carried out filled him with terror.

At last, overcome by weariness and exhaustion, he fell asleep.

He awoke early. He lay several minutes, revolving the last night's scene. Presently his countenance brightened. He sprang from the bed, and again turned to the dreaded text, but not with his previous alarm. On the contrary, he was hopeful. He read the verse over carefully, and said to him self: 'I am all right, after all. It means whosoever shall say the word _to_ his brother. I did not make any reply to Frank, much as he irritated me. I restrained my anger, and suffered humiliation before him. I may have been too violent in giving utterance to these expressions, but it is doubtful if I have even incurred _any_ penalty, for I surely was not angry _without a cause_. God has heard my prayers, and has relieved my mind in answer thereto. I shan't have to make a confession either. Glad of that. How he would have triumphed over me!'

So Hiram went forth to his usual 'duties,' his complacency fully restored, and his faith confirmed that he was one of the 'elect.'