"Where have you been, Winthrop?" said his mother in a lower tone of inquiry.
"I have been over the mountain, mamma, — to Mr. Upshur's."
"Dressing flax?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you have come over the mountain to-night?"
"Yes, mother."
She stooped in silence to the fire to take up her tea-pot; but
Asahel exclaimed,
"It ain't right, mamma, is it, for Winthrop to be dressing flax for anybody else?"
"What's the wrong?" said his brother.
"Is it, mamma?"
But mamma was silent.
"What's the wrong?" repeated Winthrop.
"Because you ought to be doing your own business."
"Never did, if I didn't to-day," Winthrop remarked as he came to the table.
"For shame Asahel!" put in little Winifred with her childish voice; — "you don't know. Governor always is right."
It was a very cold February, and it was a very bleak walk over the mountain; but Winthrop took it many a time. His mother now and then said when she saw him come in or go out, "Don't overtry yourself, my son! —" but he answered her always with his usual composure, or with one of those deep breaking-up looks which acknowledged only her care — not the need for it. As Karen said, "he had a pretty strength to begin with;" and it was so well begun that all the exposure and hardship served rather to its development and maturing.
The snow melted from off the hills, and the winter blasts came more fitfully, and were changed for soft south airs between times. There was an end to dressing flax. The spring work was opening; and Winthrop had enough to do without working on his own score. Then Mr. Landholm came home; and the energies of both the one and the other were fully taxed, at the plough and the harrow, in the barnyard and in the forest, where in all the want of Rufus made a great gap. Mrs. Landholm had more reason now to distress herself, and distressed herself accordingly, but it was of no use. Winthrop wrought early and late, and threw himself into the gap with a desperate ardour that meant — his mother knew what.
They all wrought cheerfully and with good heart, for they were together again; and the missing one was only thought of as a stimulus to exertion, or its reward. Letters came from Rufus, which were read and read, and though not much talked about, secretly served the whole family for dessert at their dinner and for sweetmeats to their tea. Letters which shewed that the father's end was gaining, that the son's purpose was accomplishing; Rufus would be a man! They were not very frequent, for they avoided the post-office to save expense, and came by a chance hand now and then; — "Favoured by Mr. Upshur," — or, "By Uncle Absalom." They were written on great uncouth sheets of letter-paper, yellow and coarse; but the handwriting grew bold and firm, and the words and the thoughts were changing faster yet, from the rude and narrow mind of the boy, to the polish and the spread of knowledge. Perhaps the letters might be boyish yet, in another contrast; but the home circle could not see it; and if they could, certainly the change already made was so swift as shewed a great readiness for more. Mr. Landholm said little about these letters; read them sometimes to Mr. Upshur, read them many times to himself; and for his family, his face at those times was comment enough.
"Well! —" he said one day, as he folded up one of the uncouth great sheets and laid it on the table, — "the man that could write that, was never made to hoe corn — that's certain."
Winthrop heard it.
At midsummer Rufus came home for a little. He brought news. He had got into the good graces of an uncle, a brother of his father's, who lived at Little River, a town in the interior, forty miles off. This gentleman, himself a farmer extremely well to do in the world, and with a small family, had invited Rufus to come to his house and carry on his studies there. The invitation was pressed, and accepted, as it would be the means of a great saving of outlay; and Rufus came home in the interval to see them all, and refit himself for the winter campaign.
No doubt he was changed and improved, like his letters; and fond eyes said that fond hopes had not been mistaken. If they looked on him once with pride, they did now with a sort of insensible wonder. His whole air was that of a different nature, not at all from affectation, but by the necessity of the case; and as noble and graceful as nature intended him to be, they delightedly confessed that he was. Perhaps by the same necessity, his view of things was altered a little, as their view of him; a little unconscious change, it might be; that nobody quarrelled with except the children; but certain it is that Winifred did not draw up to him, and Asahel stood in great doubt.
"Mamma," said he one day, "I wish Rufus would pull off his fine clothes and help Winthrop."
"Fine clothes, my dear!" said his mother; "I don't think your brother's clothes are very fine; I wish they were finer. Do you call patches fine?"
"But anyhow they are better than Winthrop's?"
"Certainly — when Winthrop is at his work."
"Well, the other day he said they were too good for him to help Winthrop load the cart; and I think he should pull them off!"
"Did Winthrop ask him?"
"No; but he knew he was going to do it."
"Rufus must take care of his clothes, or he wouldn't be fit to go to Little River, you know."
"Then he ought to take them off," said Asahel.
"He did cut wood with Winthrop all yesterday."
Asahel sat still in the corner, looking uncomfortable.
"Where are they now, mamma?"
"Here they are," said Mrs. Landholm, as Rufus and Winthrop opened the door.
The former met both pair of eyes directed to him, and instantly asked,
"What are you talking of?"
"Asahel don't understand why you are not more of a farmer, when you are in a farmhouse."
"Asahel had better mind his own business," was the somewhat sharp retort; and Rufus pulled a lock of the little boy's hair in a manner to convey a very decided notion of his judgment. Asahel, resenting this handling, or touched by it, slipped off his chair and took himself out of the room.
"He thinks you ought to take off your fine clothes and help Winthrop more than you do," said his mother, going on with a shirt she was ironing.
"Fine clothes!" said the other with a very expressive breath, — "I shall feel fine when I get that on, mother. Is that mine?"
"Yes."
"Couldn't Karen do that?"
"No," said Mrs. Landholm, as she put down her iron and took a hot one. The tone said, "Yes — but not well enough."
He stood watching her neat work.
"I am ashamed of myself, mother, when I look at you."
"Why?"
"Because I don't deserve to have you do this for me."
She looked up and gave him one of her grave clear glances, and said,
"Will you deserve it, Will?"
He stood with full eyes and hushed tongue by her table, for the space of five minutes. Then spoke with a change of tone.
"Well, I'm going down to help Winthrop catch some fish for supper; and you sha'n't cook 'em, mamma, nor Karen neither. Karen's cooking is not perfection. By the by, there's one thing more I do want, — and confoundedly too, — a pair of boots; — I really don't know how to do without them."
"Boots?" — said his mother, in an accent that sounded a little dismayful.
"Yes. — I can get capital ones at Asphodel — really stylish ones — for five dollars; — boots that would last me handsome a great while; and that's a third less than I should have to give anywhere else, — for such boots. You see I shall want them at Little River — I shall be thrown more in the way of seeing people — there's a great deal of society there. I don't see that I can get along without them."
His mother was going on with her ironing.
"I don't know," she said, as her iron made passes up and down,
— "I don't know whether you can have them or not."
"I know," said Winthrop. "But I don't see the sense of getting them at Asphodel."
"Because I tell you they are two dollars and a half cheaper."
"And how much more will it cost you to go round by the way of
Asphodel than to go straight to Little River?"
"I don't know," said the other, half careless, half displeased; — "I really haven't calculated."
"Well, if you can get them for five dollars," said Winthrop, "you shall have them. I can lend you so much as that."
"How did you come by it?" said his brother looking at him curiously.
"I didn't come by it at all."
"Where did it come from?"
"Made it."
"How?"
"What do you want to know for? I beat it out of some raw flax."
"And carried it over the mountain, through the snow, winter nights," added his mother.
"You didn't know you were doing it for me," Rufus said laughing as he took the money his brother handed him. But it was a laugh assumed to hide some feeling. "Well, it shall get back to you again somehow, Winthrop. Come — are we ready for this piscatory excursion?"
"For what?" said his mother.
"A Latin word, my dear mother, which I lately picked up somewhere."
"Why not use English?" said his mother.
A general little laugh, to which many an unexpressed thought and feeling went, broke up the conference; and the two fishers set forth on their errand; Rufus carrying the basket and fishing-poles, and Winthrop's shoulder bearing the oars. As they went down in front of the house, little Winifred ran out.
"Governor, mayn't I go?"
"No!" said Rufus.
"We are going to Point Bluff, Winnie," said Winthrop stopping to kiss her, — "and I am afraid you would roll off on one side while I was pulling up a fish on the other."
She stood still, and looked after her two brothers as they went down to the water.
The house stood in a tiny little valley, a little basin in the rocks, girdled about on all sides with low craggy heights covered with evergreens. On all sides but one. To the south the view opened full upon the river, a sharp angle of which lay there in a nook like a mountain lake; its further course hid behind a headland of the western shore; and only the bend and a little bit before the bend could be seen from the valley. The level spot about the house gave perhaps half an acre of good garden ground; from the very edge of that, the grey rising ledges of granite and rank greensward between held their undisputed domain. There the wild roses planted themselves; there many a flourishing sweet-briar flaunted in native gracefulness, or climbed up and hung about an old cedar as if like a wilful child determined that only itself should be seen. Nature grew them and nature trained them; and sweet wreaths, fluttering in the wind, gently warned the passer-by that nature alone had to do there. Cedars, as soon as the bottom land was cleared, stood the denizens of the soil on every side, lifting their soft heads into the sky. Little else was to be seen. Here and there, a little further off, the lighter green of an oak shewed itself, or the tufts of a yellow pine; but near at hand the cedars held the ground, thick pyramids or cones of green, from the very soil, smooth and tapered as if a shears had been there; but only nature had managed it. They hid all else that they could; but the grey rocks peeped under, and peeped through, and here and there broke their ranks with a huge wall or ledge of granite, where no tree could stand. The cedars had climbed round to the top and went on again above the ledge, more mingled there with deciduous trees, and losing the exceeding beauty of their supremacy in the valley. In the valley it was not unshared; for the Virginia creeper and cat-briar mounted and flung their arms about them, and the wild grape-vines took wild possession; and in the day of their glory they challenged the bystander to admire anything without them. But the day of their glory was not now; it came when Autumn called them to shew themselves; and Autumn's messenger was far off. The cedars had it, and the roses, and the eglantine, under Summer's rule.
It was in the prime of summer when the two fishers went down to their boat. The valley level was but a few feet above the river; on that side, with a more scattering growth of cedars, the rocks and the greensward gently let themselves down to the edge of the water. The little dory was moored between two uprising heads of granite just off the shore. Stepping from rock to rock the brothers reached her. Rufus placed himself in the stern with the fishing tackle, and Winthrop pushed off.
There was not a stir in the air; there was not a ripple on the water, except those which the oars made, and the long widening mark of disturbance the little boat left behind it. Still — still, — surely it was Summer's siesta; the very birds were still; but it was not the oppressive rest before a thunderstorm, only the pleasant hush of a summer's day. The very air seemed blue — blue against the mountains, and kept back the sun's fierceness with its light shield; and even the eye was bid to rest, the distant landscape was so hidden under the same blue.
No distant landscape was to be seen, until they had rowed for several minutes. Winthrop had turned to the north and was coasting the promontory edge, which in that direction stretched along for more than a quarter of a mile. It stretched west as well as north, and the river's course beyond it was in a north-easterly line; so that keeping close under the shore as they were, the up view could not be had till the point was turned. First they passed the rock-bound shore which fenced in the home valley; then for a space the rocks and the heights fell back and several acres of arable ground edged the river, cut in two by a small belt of woods. These acres were not used except for grazing cattle; the first field was occupied with a grove of cylindrical cedars; in the second a soft growth of young pines sloped up towards the height; the ground there rising fast to a very bluff and precipitous range which ended the promontory, and pushed the river boldly into a curve, as abrupt almost as the one it took in an opposite direction a quarter of a mile below. Here the shore was bold and beautiful. The sheer rock sprang up two hundred feet from the very bosom of the river, a smooth perpendicular wall; sometimes broken with a fissure and an out-jutting ledge, in other parts only roughened with lichens; then breaking away into a more irregular and wood-lined shore; but with this variety keeping its bold front to the river for many an oar's length. Probably as bold and more deep below the surface, for in this place was the strength of the channel. The down tides rushed by here furiously; but it was still water now, and the little boat went smoothly and quietly on, the sound of the oars echoing back in sharp quick return from the rock. It was all that was heard; the silence had made those in the boat silent; nothing but the dip of the oars and that quick mockery of the rowlocks from the wall said that anything was moving.
But as they crept thus along the foot of the precipice, the other shore was unfolding itself. One huge mountain had been all along in sight, over against them, raising its towering head straight up some fourteen hundred feet from the water's edge; green, in the thick luxuriance of summer's clothing, except where here and there a blank precipice of many hundred feet shewed the solid stone. Now the fellow mountain, close beyond, came rapidly in view, and, as the point of the promontory was gained, the whole broad north scene opened upon the eye. Two hills of equal height on the east shore looked over the river at their neighbours. Above them, on both shores, the land fell, and at the distance of about eight miles curved round to the east in an amphitheatre of low hills. There the river formed a sort of inland sea, and from thence swept down queen-like between its royal handmaids on the right hand and on the left, till it reached the promontory point. This low distant shore and water was now masked with blue, and only the nearer highlands shewed under the mask their fine outlines, and the Shatemuc its smooth face.
At the point of the promontory the rocky wall broke down to a low easy shore, which stretched off easterly in a straight line for half a mile, to the bottom of what was called the north bay. Just beyond the point, a rounded mass of granite pushed itself into the water out of reach of the trees and shewed itself summer and winter barefacedly. This rock was known at certain states of the tide to be in the way of the white mackerel. Winthrop made fast his little skiff between it and the shore, and climbing upon the rock, he and Rufus sat down and fell to work; for to play they had not come hither, but to catch their supper.
The spirit of silence seemed to have possessed them both, for with very few words they left the boat and took their places, and with no words at all for some time the hooks were baited and the lines thrown. Profound stillness — and then the flutter of a poor little fish as he struggled out of his element, or the stir made by one of the fishers in reaching after the bait-basket — and then all was still again. The lines drooped motionless in the water; the eyes of the fishers wandered off to the distant blue, and then came back to their bobbing corks. Thinking, both the young men undoubtedly were, for it could not have been the mackerel that called such grave contemplation into their faces.
"It's confoundedly hot!" said Rufus at length very expressively.
His brother seemed amused.
"What are you laughing at?" said Rufus a little sharply.
"Nothing — I was thinking you had been in the shade lately.
We've got 'most enough, I guess."
"Shade! — I wish there was such a thing. This is a pretty place though, if it wasn't August, — and if one was doing anything but sitting on a rock fishing."
"Isn't it better than Asphodel?" said Winthrop.
"Asphodel! — When are you going to get away from here,
Winthrop?"
"I don't know."
"Has anything been done about it?"
"No."
"It is time, Winthrop."
Winthrop was silent.
"We must manage it somehow. You ought not to be fishing here any longer. I want you to get on the way."
"Ay — I must wait awhile," said the other with a sigh. "I shall go — that's all I know, but I can't see a bit ahead. I'm round there under the point now, and there's a big headland in the way that hides the up view."
Again the eyes of the fishers were fixed on their corks, gravely, and in the case of Rufus with a somewhat disturbed look.
"I wish I was clear of the headlands too," said he after a short silence; "and there's one standing right across my way now."
"What's that?"
"Books."
"Books?" said Winthrop.
"Yes — books which I haven't got."
"Books!" said his brother in astonishment.
"Yes —why?"
"I thought you said boots," the other remarked simply, as he disengaged a fish from the hook.
"Well," said Rufus sharply, "what then? what if I did? Can't a man want to furnish both ends of his house at once?"
"I have heard of a man in his sleep getting himself turned about with his head in the place of his feet. I thought he was dreaming."
"You may have your five dollars again, if you think them ill- bestowed," said the other putting his hand in his pocket; — "There they are! — I don't want them — I will find a way to stand on my own legs — with boots or without, as the case may be."
"I don't know who has better legs," said Winthrop. "I can't pity you."
"But seriously, Winthrop," said Rufus, smiling in spite of himself, — "a man may go empty-headed, but he cannot go bare- footed into a library, nor into society."
"Did you go much into society at Asphodel?" asked Winthrop.
"Not near so much as I shall — and that's the very thing. I can't do without these things, you see. They are necessary to me. Even at Asphodel — but that was nothing. Asphodel will be a very good place for you to go to in the first instance. You won't find yourself a stranger."
"Will you be ready for college next year?"
"Hum — don't know — it depends. I am not anxious about it — I shall be all the better prepared if I wait longer, and I should like to have you with me. It will make no difference in the end, for I can enter higher, and that will save expense. Seriously Winthrop, you must get away."
"I must catch that fish," said Winthrop, — "if I can —"
"You won't —"
"I've got him."
"There's one place at Asphodel where I've been a good deal — Mr. Haye's — he's an old friend of my father's and thinks a world of him. You'll like him — he's been very kind to me."
"What shall I like him for — besides that?" said Winthrop.
"O he's a man of great wealth, and has a beautiful place there, and keeps a very fine house, and he's very hospitable. He's always very glad to see me; and it's rather a pleasant change from Glanbally's vis-à-vis and underdone apple-pies. He is one of the rich, rich Mannahatta merchants, but he has a taste for better things too. Father knows him — they met some years ago in the Legislature, and father has done him some service or other since. He has no family — except one or two children not grown up — his wife is dead — so I suppose he was glad of somebody to help him eat his fine dinners. He said some very handsome things to encourage me. He might have offered me the use of his library — but he did not."
"Perhaps he hasn't one."
"Yes he has — a good one."
"It's got into the wrong hands, I'm afraid," said Winthrop.
"He has a little the character of being hard-fisted. At least I think so. He has a rich ward that he is bringing up with his daughter, — a niece of his wife's — and people say he will take his commission out of her property; and there is nobody to look after it."
"Well I shan't take the office," said Winthrop, getting up. "If the thought of Mr. Haye's fine dinner hasn't taken away your appetite, suppose we get home and see how these mackerel will look fried."
"It's just getting pleasant now," said Rufus as he rose to his feet. "There might be a worse office to take, for she will have a pretty penny, they say."
"Do you think of it yourself?"
"There's two of them," said Rufus smiling.
"Well, you take one and I'll take the other," said Winthrop. gravely. "That's settled. And here is something you had better put in your pocket as we go — it may be useful in the meanwhile."
He quietly gathered up the five dollars from the rock and slipped them into the pocket of Rufus's jacket as he spoke; then slipped himself off the rock, took the fishing tackle and baskets into the boat, and then his brother, and pushed out into the tide. There was a strong ebb, and they ran swiftly down past rock and mountain and valley, all in a cooler and fairer beauty than a few hours before when they had gone up. Rufus took off his hat and declared there was no place like home; and Winthrop sometimes pulled a few strong strokes and then rested on his oars and let the boat drop down with the tide.
"Winthrop," — said Rufus, as he sat paddling his hands in the water over the side of the boat, — "you're a tremendous fine fellow!"
"Thank you. — I wish you'd sit a little more in the middle."
"This is better than Asphodel just now," Rufus remarked as he took his hands out and straightened himself.
"How do you like Mr. Glanbally?"
"Well enough — he's a very good man — not too bright; but he's a very good man. He does very well. I must get you there, Winthrop."
Winthrop shook his head and turned the conversation; and Rufus in fact went away from home without finding a due opportunity to speak on the matter. But perhaps other agency was at work.
The summer was passed, and the fall nearly; swallowed up in farm duty as the months before had been. The cornstalks were harvested and part of the grain threshed out. November was on its way.
"Governor," said his father one night, when Winthrop was playing "even or odd" with Winifred and Asahel, a great handful of chestnuts being the game, — "Governor, have you a mind to take Rufus's place at Asphodel for a while this fall?"
The blood rushed to Winthrop's face; but he only forgot his chestnuts and said, "Yes, sir."
"You may go, if you've a mind to, and as soon as you like. — It's better travelling now than it will be by and by. I can get along without you for a spell, I guess."
"Thank you, father."
But Winthrop's eyes sought his mother's face. In vain little Winifred hammered upon his hand with her little doubled up fist, and repeated, "even or odd?" He threw down the chestnuts and quitted the room hastily.
CHAPTER V.
The wind blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the sun's departing beam
Looked on the fading yellow woods
That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream.
BURNS.
He five dollars were gone. No matter — they could be wanted. They must be. Winthrop had no books either. What had he? A wardrobe large enough to be tied up in a pocket-handkerchief; his father's smile; his mother's tremulous blessing; and the tears of his little brother and sister.
He set out with his wardrobe in his hand, and a dollar in his pocket, to walk to Asphodel. It was a walk of thirteen miles. The afternoon was chill, misty and lowering; November's sad- colour in the sky, and Winter's desolating heralds all over the ground. If the sun shone anywhere, there was no sign of it; and there was no sign of it either in the traveller's heart. If fortune had asked him to play "even or odd," he could hardly have answered her.
He was leaving home. They did not know it, but he did. It was the first step over home's threshold. This little walk was the beginning of a long race, of which as yet he knew only the starting-point; and for love of that starting-point and for straitness of heart at turning his back upon it, he could have sat down under the fence and cried. How long this absence from home might be, he did not know. But it was the snapping of the tie, — that he knew. He was setting his face to the world; and the world's face did not answer him very cheerfully. And that poor little pocket-handkerchief of things, which his mother's hands had tied up, he hardly dared glance at it; it said so pitifully how much they would, how little they had the power to do for him; she and his father; how little way that heart of love could reach, when once he had set out on the cold journey of life. He had set out now, and he felt alone, — alone; — his best company was the remembrance of that whispered blessing; and that, he knew, would abide with him. If the heart could have coined the treasure it sent back, his mother would have been poor no more.
He did not sit down, nor stop, nor shed a tear. It would have gone hard with him if he had been obliged to speak to anybody; but there was nobody to speak to. Few were abroad, at that late season and unlovely time. Comfort had probably retreated to the barns and farmhouses — to the homesteads, — for it was a desolate road that he travelled; the very wagons and horses that he met were going home, or would be. It was a long road, and mile after mile was plodded over, and evening began to say there was nothing so dark it might not be darker. No Asphodel yet.
It was by the lights that he saw it at length and guessed he was near the end of his journey. It took some plodding then to reach it. Then a few inquiries brought him where he might see Mr. Glanbally.
It was a corner house, flush upon the road, bare as a poverty of boards could make it, and brown with the weather. In the twilight he could see that. Winthrop thought nothing of it; he was used to it; his own house at home was brown and bare; but alas! this looked very little like his own house at home. There wasn't penthouse enough to keep the rain from the knocker. He knocked.
"Is Mr. Glanbally at home?"
"Yes — I 'spect he is — he come in from school half an hour ago. You go in there, and I guess you'll find him."
'There,' indicated a door at right angles with the front and about a yard behind it. The woman opened the door, and left Winthrop to shut it for himself.
In a bare room, at a bare table, by an ill-to-do dip candle, sat Mr. Glanbally and his book. The book on the table, and Mr. Glanbally's face on the book, as near as possible; and both as near as possible under the candle. Reason enough for that, when the very blaze of a candle looked so little like giving light. Was that why Mr. Glanbally's eyes almost touched the letters? Winthrop wondered he could see them at all; but probably he did, for he did not look up to see anything else. He had taken the opening and shutting of the door to be by some wonted hand. Winthrop stood still a minute. There was nothing remarkable about his future preceptor, except his position. He was a little, oldish man — that was all.
Winthrop moved a step or two, and then looking hastily up, the little man pushed the candle one way and the book another, and peered at his visitor.
"Ah! — Do you wish to see me, sir?"
"I wish to see Mr. Glanbally."
"That's my name, sir, — that's right."
Winthrop came a step nearer and laid a letter on the table. The old gentleman took it up, examined the outside, and then went on to scan what was within, holding the lines in the same fearful proximity to his face; so near indeed, that to Winthrop's astonishment when he got to the bottom of the page he made no scruple of turning over the leaf with his nose. The letter was folded, and then Mr. Glanbally rose to his feet.
"Well, sir, and so you have come to take a place in our
Academy for a spell — I am glad to see you — sit down."
Which Winthrop did; and Mr. Glanbally sat looking at him, a little business-like, a little curious, a little benevolent.
"What have you studied?"
"Very little, sir, — of anything."
"Your father says, his second son — What was the name of the other?"
"William, sir."
"William what?"
"Landholm."
"William Landholm — yes, I recollect — I couldn't make out exactly whether it was Sandball or Lardner — Mr. Landholm — Where is your brother now, sir?"
"He is at Little River, sir, going on with his studies."
"He made very good progress — very good indeed — he's a young man of talent, your brother. He's a smart fellow. He's going on to fit himself to enter college, ain't he?"
"Yes sir."
"He'll do well — he can do what he's a mind. Well, Mr.
Landholm — what are you going to turn your hand to?"
"I have hardly determined, sir, yet."
"You'll see your brother — something, I don't know what, one of these days, and you'll always be his brother, you know. Now what are you going to make of yourself? — merchant or farmer?"
"Neither, sir."
"No?" — said Mr. Glanbally. He looked a little surprised, for
Mr. Landholm's letter had spoken of "a few weeks."
"Well, what then?"
"I don't know what I shall like best, sir," said Winthrop.
"No, not yet; perhaps not yet. You'll be a happy man if ever you do, sir. I never knew what I liked best, till I couldn't have it. Well sir — what do you calculate to begin upon? — a little arithmetic, I suppose, won't be out of the way."
"I should like — Latin, if you please, sir."
"Latin! Then you're following your brother's steps? I am glad of it! It does me good to see boys studying Latin. That's right. Latin. And Algebra, perhaps."
"Yes sir."
"I'll put you into Algebra, as soon as you like."
"I shall want books, I suppose, sir. Can I get them here?"
"No; you can't get 'em, I'm afraid, this side of Deerford."
"Deerford?"
"That's six miles off, or so."
"I can't walk there to-night," said Winthrop; "but I'll go to- morrow."
"Walk there to-night! no, — but we'll see. I think you've got the stuff in you. To-night! — Maybe we can find some old books that will do to begin with; and you can walk over there some waste afternoon. How far have you come to-day?"
"About thirteen miles, sir, from home."
"On foot?"
"Yes sir."
"And you want half a dozen more to-night?"
"No sir," said Winthrop, smiling, — "not if I might choose."
"You'll find a day. Your father spoke to me about your lodgings. You can lodge here, where I do; only twelve shillings a week. I'll speak to Mrs. Nelson about it; and you can just make yourself at home. I'm very glad to see you."
'Make himself at home'! Winthrop's heart gave an emphatic answer, as he drew up a chair the opposite side of the fireplace. Make himself at home. That might only be done by a swift transport of thirteen miles. He could not do it, if he would. Would he, if he could? Nay, he had set his face up the mountain of learning, and not all the luring voices that might sound behind and beside him could tempt him to turn back. He must have the Golden Water that was at the top.
It was necessary to stuff cotton into his ears. Fancy had obstinately a mind to bring his mother's gentle tread about him, and to ring the sweet tones of home, and to shew him pictures of the summer light on the hills, and of the little snow-spread valley of winter. Nay, by the side of that cold fireplace, with Mr. Glanbally at one corner and himself at the other, she set the bright hearth of home, girdled with warm hearts and hands; a sad break in them now for his being away. Mr. Glanbally had returned to his book and was turning over the leaves of it with his nose; and Winthrop was left alone to his contemplations. How alone the turning over of those leaves did make him feel. If Mr. Glanbally would have held up his head and used his fingers, like a Christian man, it would not have been so dreary; but that nose said emphatically, "You never saw me before."
It was a help to him when somebody came in to spread that bare table with supper. Fried pork, and cheese; and bread that was not his mother's sweet baking, and tea that was very "herbaceous." It was the fare he must expect up the mountain. He did not mind that. He would have lived on bread and water. The company were not fellow-travellers either, to judge by their looks. No matter for that; he did not want company. He would sing, "My mind to me a kingdom is;" but the kingdom had to be conquered first; enough to do. He was thinking all supper-time what waste ground it was. And after supper he was taken to his very spare room. It was doubtful how the epithet could possibly have been better deserved. That mattered not; the temple of Learning should cover his head by and by; it signified little what shelter it took in the mean while. But though he cared nothing for each of these things separately, they all together told him he was a traveller; and Winthrop's heart owned itself overcome, whatever his head said to it.
His was not a head to be ashamed of his heart; and it was with no self-reproach that he let tears come, and then wiped them away. He slept at last; and the sleep of a tired man should be sweet. But "as he slept he dreamed." He fell to his journeyings again. He thought himself back on the wearisome road he had come that day, and it seemed that night and darkness overtook him; such night that his way was lost. And he was sitting by the roadside, with his little bundle, stayed that he could not go on, when his mother suddenly came, with a light, and offered to lead him forward. But the way by which she would lead him was not one he had ever travelled, for the dream ended there. He awoke and knew it was a dream; yet somewhat in the sweet image, or in the thoughts and associations it brought back, touched him strangely; and he wept upon his pillow with the convulsive weeping of a little child. And prayed, that night, for the first time in his life, that in the journey before him his mother's God might be his God. He slept at last.
He awoke to new thoughts and to fresh exertion. Action, action, was the business of the day; to get up the hill of learning, the present aim of life; and to that he bent himself. Whether or not Winthrop fancied this opportunity might be a short one, it is certain he made the most of it. Mr. Glanbally had for once his heart's desire of a pupil.
It was a week or two before the walk was taken to Deerford and the books bought. At the end of those weeks the waste afternoon fell out, and Mr. Glanbally got Winthrop a ride in a wagon for one half the way. Deerford was quite a place; but to Winthrop its great attraction was — a Latin dictionary! He found the right bookstore, and his dollar was duly exchanged for a second-hand Virgil, a good deal worn, and a dictionary, which had likewise seen its best days; and that was not saying much; for it was of very bad paper and in most miserable little type. But it was a precious treasure to Winthrop. His heart yearned after some Greek books, but his hand was stayed; there was nothing more in it. He had only got the Virgil and dictionary by favour eking out his eight shillings, for the books were declared to be worth ten. So he trudged off home again with his purchases under his arm, well content. That Virgil and dictionary were a guide of the way for a good piece of the mountain. Now to get up it.
He had got home and was turning the books over with Mr. Glanbally, just in the edge of the evening, when the door opened quick and a little female figure came in. She came close up to the table with the air of one quite at home.
"Good evening, Mr. Glanbally — father told me to give you this letter."
Winthrop looked at her, and Mr. Glanbally looked at the letter. She was a slight little figure, a child, not more than thirteen or fourteen at the outside, perhaps not so much, but tall of her age. A face not like those of the Asphodel children. She did not once look towards him.
"Why I thought you were in Mannahatta, Miss Elizabeth."
"Just going there — we have just come from Little River on our way."
"This letter is for you, Winthrop," said Mr. Glanbally, handing it over. "And Mr. Haye was kind enough to bring it from Little River?"
"Yes sir — he said it was for somebody here."
"And now you are going to Mannahatta?"
"Yes sir — to-morrow. Good bye, Mr. Glanbally."
"Are you alone, Miss Elizabeth?"
"Yes sir."
"Where is Miss Cadwallader?"
"She's at home. I've just been down to see nurse."
"But it's too late for you," said Mr. Glanbally, getting up, — "it's too dark — it's too late for you to go home alone."
"O no sir, I'm not afraid."
"Stop, I'll go with you," said Mr. Glanbally, — "but I've been riding till I'm as stiff as the tongs — Winthrop, are you too tired to walk home with this young lady? — as her father has brought you a letter you might do so much."
"Certainly, sir, — I am not tired."
"I don't want anybody. I'm not in the least afraid, Mr. Glanbally," said the little lady rather impatiently, and still not glancing at her promised escort.
"But it's better, Miss Elizabeth" —
"No sir, it isn't."
"Your father will like it better, I know. This is Mr. Landholm — the brother of the Mr. Landholm you used to see last summer, — you remember."
Elizabeth looked at her guard, as if she had no mind to remember anybody of the name, and without more ado left the room. Winthrop understanding that he was to follow, did so, and with some difficulty brought himself up alongside of the little lady, for she had not tarried for him and was moving on at a smart pace. Her way led them presently out of the village and along a lonely country road. Winthrop thought he was not a needless convenience at that hour; but it was doubtful what his little charge thought. She took no manner of notice of him. Winthrop thought he would try to bring her out, for he was playing the part of a shadow too literally.
"You are a good walker, Miss Elizabeth."
A slight glance at him, and no answer.
"Do you often go out alone so late?"
"Whenever I want to."
"How do you like living in the city?"
"I? — I don't know. I have never lived there."
"Have you lived here?"
"Yes."
The tone was perfectly self-possessed and equally dry. He tried her again.
"My brother says you have a very pleasant place."
There was no answer at all this time. Winthrop gave it up as a bad business.
It had grown nearly dark. She hurried on, as much as was consistent with a pace perfectly steady. About half a mile from the village she came to a full stop, and looked towards him, almost for the first time.
"You can leave me now. I can see the light in the windows."
"Not yet," said Winthrop smiling — "Mr. Glanbally would hardly think I had done my duty."
"Mr. Glanbally needn't trouble himself about me! He has nothing to do with it. This is far enough."
"I must go a little further."
She started forward again, and a moment after hardly made her own words good. They encountered a large drove of cattle, that spread all over the road. Little independence plainly faltered here and was glad to walk behind her guard, till they had passed quite through. They came then to the iron gate of her grounds.
"You needn't come any further," she said. "Thank you."
And as she spoke she opened and shut the gate in his face. Winthrop turned about and retraced his steps homeward, to read his brother's letter. It was read by his little end of candle after he went up to bed at night.
"Little River, Nov. 1807.
"My dear governor,
"For I expect you will be all that, one of these days, (a literal "governor," I mean,) or in some other way assert your supremacy over nineteen twentieths of the rest of the human race. Methinks even now from afar I see Joseph's dream enacting, in your favour, only you will perforce lack something of his baker's dozen of homages in your own family. Unless — but nobody can tell what may happen. For my part I am sincerely willing to be surpassed, so it be only by you; and will swing my cap and hurrah for you louder than anybody, the first time you are elected. Do not think I am more than half mad. In truth I expect great things from you, and I expect without any fear of disappointment. You have an obstinacy of perseverance, under that calm face of yours, that will be more than a match for all obstacles in your way; indeed obstacles only make the rush of the stream the greater, if once it get by them; the very things which this minute threatened to check it, the next are but trophies in the foaming triumph of its onward course. You can do what you will; and you will aim high. Aim at the highest.
"I am aiming as hard as I can, and so fast that I can't see whether my arrows hit. Not at the capture of any pretty face, — though there are a few here that would be prizes worth capturing; but really I am not skilled in that kind of archery and on the whole am not quite ready for it. An archer needs to be better equipped, to enter those lists with any chance of success, than alas! I am at present. I am aiming hard at the dressing up of my mind, in the sincere hope that the dressing up of my person may have some place in the after-piece. In other words, I am so busy that I don't know what I am doing. Asphodel was a miserable place (though I am very glad you are in it) — my chances of success at Little River are much better. Indeed I am very much to my mind here; were I, as I said, a little better equipped outwardly, and if my aunt Landholm only had mamma's recipe for making pumpkin pies; or, as an alternative, had the pumpkin crop this season but failed. But alas! the huge number of the copper-coloured tribe that lurked among the corn forests a few weeks ago, forbid me to hope for any respite till St. Nicholas jogs my aunt L.'s elbow.
"I have left myself no room to say with how much delight I received your letter, nor with what satisfaction I think of you as having fairly started in the race. You have entered your plough, now, Governor, — quick, quick, for the other side.
"Thine in the dearest rivalry,
"Will. Rufus Landholm
"All manner of love to mamma, papa, and the little ones, from
Will."
In another corner, — "I am sorry Mr. Haye makes so little stay at Asphodel at this time — you will not see anything of him, nor of his place."
"I can bear that," thought Winthrop.
He was much too busy to see men or places. One fortnight was given to the diligent study of Algebra; two other little fortnights to Latin; and then his father came and took him home, sooner than he expected. But he had "entered his plough."
Yet it was hard to leave it there just entered; and the ride home was rather a thoughtful one. Little his father knew what he had been about. He thought his son had been "getting a little schooling;" he had no notion he had begun to fit himself for College!
Just as they reached the river, at a little hamlet under the hill at the foot of the north bay, where the road branched off to skirt the face of the tableland towards the home promontory, the wagon was stopped by Mr. Underhill. He came forward and unceremoniously rested both arms upon the tire of the fore wheel.
"Mornin'. Where' you been?"
"A little way back. 'Been to Asphodel, to fetch my son
Winthrop home."
"Asphodel? — that's a good way back, ain't it?"
"Well, a dozen miles or so," said Mr. Landholm laughing.
"Has he been to the 'cademy too?"
"Yes — for a little while back, he has."
"What are you going to make of your sons, neighbour Landholm?"
"Ah! — I don't know," said Mr. Landholm, touching his whip gently first on one side and then on the other side of his off horse; — "I can't make much of 'em — they've got to make themselves."
Neighbour Underhill gave a sharp glance at Winthrop and then came back again.
"What do you reckon's the use of all this edication, farmer?"
"O — I guess it has its uses," said Mr. Landholm, smiling a little bit.
"Well, do you s'pose these boys are goin' to be smarter men than you and I be?"
"I hope so."
"You do! Well, drive on! —" said he, taking his arms from the top of the wheel. But then replacing them before the wagon had time to move —
"Where's Will?"
"Will? he's at Little River —doing well, as I hear."
"Doing what? getting himself ready for College yet?"
"Yes — he isn't ready yet."
"I say, neighbour, — it takes a power of time to get these fellows ready to begin, don't it?"
"Yes," said Mr. Landholm with a sigh.
"After they're gone you calculate to do all the work yourself,
I s'pose?"
"O I've only lost one yet," said Mr. Landholm shaking the reins; "and he'll help take care of me by and by, I expect. — Come!"
Again the other's hands slipped off the wheel, and again were put back.
"We're goin' to do without larnin' here," said he. "Lost our schoolmaster."
"That fellow Dolts gone?"
"Last week."
"What's the matter?"
"The place and him didn't fit somewheres, I s'pose; at least I don't know what 'twas if 'twa'n't that."
"What are you going to do?"
"Play marbles, I guess, — till some one comes along."
"Well, my hands 'll be too cold to play marbles, if I sit here much longer," said Mr. Landholm laughing. "Good day to ye!"
And the wheel unclogged, they drove on.
CHAPTER VI.
To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
Little could be done in the winter. The days were short and full of employment; all the more for Will's absence. What with threshing wheat and oats, foddering cattle, and dressing flax, driving to mill, cutting wood, and clearing snow, there was no time for Virgil during the few hours of daylight; hardly time to repeat a Latin verb. The evenings were long and bright, and the kitchen cosy. But there were axe-helves to dress out, and oars, and ox-yokes; and corn to shell, and hemp to hackle; and at which ever corner of the fireplace Winthrop might set himself down, a pair of little feet would come pattering round him, and petitions, soft but strong, to cut an apple, or to play jackstraws, or to crack hickory nuts, or to roast chestnuts, were sure to be preferred; and if none of these, or if these were put off, there was still too much of that sweet companionship to suit with the rough road to learning. Winnie was rarely put off, and never rejected. And the little garret room used by Winthrop and Will when the latter was at home, and now by Winthrop alone, was too freezing cold when he went up to bed to allow him more than a snatch at his longed-for work. A few words, a line or two, were all that could be managed with safety to life; and the books had to be shut up again, with bitter mortification that it must be so soon. The winter passed and Virgil was not read. The spring brought longer days, and more to do in them.
"Father," said Winthrop one night, "they have got no one yet in Mr. Dolts' place."
"What, at Mountain Spring? I know they haven't. The foolish man thought twelve dollars a month wa'n't enough for him, I suppose."
"Why was he foolish, Mr. Landholm?"
"Because he greatly misstated his own value — which it isn't the part of a wise man to do. I know he wasn't worth twelve dollars."
"Do you think I am worth more than that, sir?"
"I don't know what you're worth," said his father good- humouredly. "I should be sorry to put a price upon you."
"Why, Winthrop?" — his mother said more anxiously.
"Will you let me take Mr. Dolts' place, father?"
"His place? What, in the schoolhouse?"
"Yes, sir. If I can get it, I mean."
"What for?"
"The twelve dollars a month would hire a man to do my work on the farm."
"Yes, and I say, what for? What do you want it for?"
"I think perhaps I might get more time to myself."
"Time? — for what?"
"Time to study, sir."
"To study! — Teach others that you may teach yourself, eh?" said Mr. Landholm, with a breath that was drawn very much like a sigh; and he was silent and looked grave.
"I am afraid you wouldn't like it, Winthrop," said his mother seriously.
"I should like the time, mamma."
"I wish I were a little richer," said Mr. Landholm, drawing his breath, — "and my sons should have a better chance. I am willing to work both my hands off — if that would be of any avail. You may do as you please, my dear, about the school. I'll not stand in your way."
"The twelve dollars would pay a man who would do as much work as I could, father."
"Yes, yes, — that's all straight enough."
"Is Winthrop going to teach school?" exclaimed Asahel.
"Perhaps so."
"Then I should go to school to Winthrop," said the little boy clapping his hands, — "shouldn't I, mamma? Wouldn't it be funny?"
"I too?" cried Winifred.
"Hush, hush. Hear what your father says."
"I am only sorry you should have to resort to such expedients."
"Do you think they would take me, father?"
"Take you? yes! If they don't, I'll make them."
"Thank you, sir."
Winthrop presently went with the children, who drew him out into the kitchen. Mr. Landholm sat a few moments in silent and seemingly disturbed thought.
"That boy'll be off to College too," he said, — "after his brother."
"He'll not be likely to go after anything wrong," said Mrs.
Landholm.
"No —that's pretty certain. Well, I'll do all I can for him!"
"Whatever he undertakes I think he'll succeed in," the mother went on remarking.
"I think so too. He always did, from a child. It's his character. There's a sharp edge to Rufus's metal, — but I think Winthrop's is the best stuff. Well I ain't ashamed of either one on 'em!"
Winthrop took the school. He found it numbering some thirty heads or more. That is, it would count so many, though in some instances the heads were merely nominal. There were all sorts, from boys of fifteen and sixteen that wanted to learn the Multiplication table, down to little bits of girls that did not know A, B, and C. Rough heads, with thoughts as matted as their hair; lank heads, that reminded one irresistibly of blocks; and one fiery red shock, all of whose ideas seemed to be standing on end and ready to fly away, so little hold had they upon either knowledge, wit, or experience. And every one of these wanted different handling, and every one called for diligent study and patient painstaking. There were often fine parts to be found under that rough and untrained state of nature; there were blocks that could be waked into life by a little skill and kind management and a good deal of time; and even the fly-away shock could be brought down to order and reason by a long course of patience and firmness. But the younger heads that had no thoughts at all, — the minds that were blank of intelligence, — the eyes that opened but to stare at the new teacher! What amount of culture, what distance of days and months, would bring something out of nothing!
It was hard, hard work. There was nobody to help the new teacher; he wrought alone; that the teacher always did. The days were days of constant, unintermitted labour; the nights were jaded and spiritless. After spelling a great deal in the course of the day, and making up an indefinite number of sums in addition and multiplication, Winthrop found his stomach was gone for Latin and Virgil. Ears and eyes and mind were sick of the din of repetitions, wearied with confusions of thought not his own; he was fain to let his own rest. The children "got on," the parents said, "first-rate;" but the poor teacher was standing still. Week passed after week, and each Saturday night found him where he was the last. He had less time than on the farm. Fresh from the plough, he could now and then snatch a half hour of study to some purpose; there was no "fresh from the school." Besides all which, he still found himself or fancied himself needed by his father, and whenever a pinch of work called for it he could not hold back his hand.
"How does it go, Winthrop?" said his mother when she saw him wearily sitting down one summer night.
"It doesn't go at all, mother."
"I was afraid that it would be so."
"How does what go?" said Asahel.
"The school."
"How does it go?"
"Upon my head; and I am tired of carrying it."
"Don't you like being school-teacher?"
"No."
"I do," said Asahel.
"I wouldn't stay in it, Winthrop," said his mother.
"I will not mamma, — only till winter. I'll manage it so long."
Eight months this experiment was tried, and then Winthrop came back to the farm. Eight months thrown away! he sadly said to himself. He was doubly needed at home now, for Mr. Landholm had again been elected to the Legislature; and one of the first uses of Winthrop's freedom was to go with his father to Vantassel and drive the wagon home again.
One thing was gained by this journey. In Vantassel, Winthrop contrived to possess himself of a Greek lexicon and a Graeca Majora, and also a Greek grammar, though the only one he could get that suited his purse was the Westminster grammar, in which the alternatives of Greek were all Latin. That did not stagger him. He came home rich in his classical library, and very resolved to do something for himself this winter.
The day after his return from Vantassel, just as they had done supper, there was a knock at the front door. Winthrop went to open it. There he found a man, tall and personable, well- dressed though like a traveller, with a little leathern valise in his hand. Winthrop had hardly time to think he did not look like an American, when his speech confirmed it.
"How-do-you-do?" he said, using each word with a ceremony which shewed they were not denizens of his tongue. "I am wanting to make some résèrche in dis country, and I was directet here."
Winthrop asked him in, and then when he was seated, asked him what he wanted.
"I am wishing to know if you could let me live wiz you a few days — I am wanting to be busy in your mountains, about my affairs, and I just want to know if you can let me have a bed to sleep on at night, and a little somet'ing to eat — I would be very much obliged and I would pay you whatever you please — "
"Mother," said Winthrop, "can you let this gentleman stay here a few days? he has business in the mountains, he says, and wants to stop here?"
"I do not wish to be no trouble to no person," he said blandly. "I was at a little house on de ozer side of de river, but I was told dere was no room for me, and I come to an ozer place and dey told me to come to dis place. I will not trouble no person — I only want a place to put my head while my feet are going all over."
A moment's hesitation, and Mrs. Landholm agreed to this very moderate request; and Mr. Herder, as he gave his name, and his valise, were accommodated in the 'big bedroom.' This was the best room, occupying one corner of the front of the house, while the 'keeping-room' was at the other; a tiny entry-way, of hardly two square yards, lying between, with a door in each of three sides and a steep staircase in the fourth.
Winthrop presently came to ask if the stranger had had supper.
"I have not! But I will take anysing, what you please to give me."
Mr. Herder did not belie his beginning. He made himself much liked, both by the children and the grown people; and as he said, he gave as little trouble as possible. He seemed a hearty, genial nature, excessively devoted to his pursuits, which were those of a naturalist and kept him out of doors from morning till night; and in the house he shewed a particular simplicity both of politeness and kind feeling; in part springing perhaps from his German nature, and in part from the honest truthful acquaintance he was holding with the world of nature at large. "He acted like a great boy," old Karen said in wondering ridicule, — "to be bringing in leaves, and sticks, and stones, as he was every night, and making his room such a mess she never saw!"
He had soon a marked liking and even marked respect for his young host. With his usual good-humour Winthrop helped him in his quest; now and then offered to go with him on his expeditions; tracked up the streams of brooks, shewed the paths of the mountains, rowed up the river and down the river; and often and often made his uncommon strength and agility avail for something which the more burly frame of the naturalist could not have attained. He was always ready; he was never wearied; and Mr. Herder found him an assistant as acute as he was willing.
"You do know your own woods — better than I do!" — he remarked one day when Winthrop had helped him out of a botanical difficulty.
"It's only the knowledge of the eye," Winthrop replied, with a profound feeling of the difference.
"But you do seem to love knowledge — of every kind," said the naturalist, — "and that is what I like."
"I have very little," said Winthrop. "I ought to love what I can get."
"That is goot," said Mr. Herder; — "that is de right way. Ven I hear a man say, 'I have much knowledge,' — I know he never will have much more; but ven I hear one say, 'I have a little,' — I expect great things."
Winthrop was silent, and presently Mr. Herder went on.
"What kind of learning do you love de best?"
"I don't know, sir, really."
"What have you studied?"
Winthrop hesitated.
"A little Latin, sir."
"Latin! — How much Latin have you read?"
"The Gospel of John, and nearly the first book of the Aeneid.
But I have very little time."
"The Evangel of St. John, and the Aeneid. Are you going on to study it now?"
"Yes sir, — as much as I can find time."
"Greek too?"
"No sir. I am only beginning."
"I ask, because I saw some Greek books on de table de ozer night and I wondered — excuse me — who was reading them. You do not know nothing of German?"
"No sir."
"Ah, you must learn de German — dat is my language."
"I don't know my own language yet," said Winthrop.
"Vat is dat?"
"English."
"English! — But how do you do, here amongst de hills — is there somebody to learn you?"
"No sir."
"And you go by yourself? — Vell, I believe you will climb anything," said Mr. Herder, with a little smile; "only it is goot to know what place to begin, — as I have found."