The brothers walked home in silence, till they had near reached their own door.
"How easily you make a straight way for yourself anywhere!"
Rufus said suddenly and with half a breath of a sigh.
"What do you mean?" said Winthrop starting.
"You always did."
"What?"
"What you pleased."
"Well?" said Winthrop smiling.
"You may do it now. And will to the end of your life."
"Which seems to afford you somehow a gloomy prospect of contemplation," said his brother.
"Well — it does — and it should."
"I should like to hear you state your premises and draw your conclusion."
Rufus was silent and very sober for a little while. At last he said,
"Your success and mine have always been very different, in everything we undertook."
"Not in everything," said Winthrop.
"Well — in almost everything."
"You say I do whatever I please. The difficulty with you sometimes, Will, is that you do not 'please' hard enough."
"It would be difficult for anybody to rival you in that," Rufus said with a mingling of expression, half ironical and half bitter. "You please so 'hard' that nobody else has a chance."
To which Winthrop made no answer.
"I am not sorry for it, Governor," Rufus said just as they reached their door, and with a very changed and quiet tone.
To which also Winthrop made no answer except by a look.
CHAPTER XXIV.
I watch thee from the quiet shore;
Thy spirit up to mine can reach;
But in dear words of human speech
We two communicate no more.
TENNYSON.
Mrs. Nettley was putting the finishing touches to her breakfast — that is, to her breakfast in prospect. A dish of fish and the coffee-pot stood keeping each other cheerful on one side the hearth; and Mrs. Nettley was just, with some trouble, hanging a large round griddle over the blazing fire. Her brother stood by, with his hands on his sides, and a rather complacent face.
"What's that flap-jack going on for?"
"For something I like, if you don't," said his sister. "George —"
Mrs Nettley stopped while her iron ladle was carefully bestowing large spoonfuls of batter all round the griddle.
"What?" said Mr. Inchbald, when it was done.
"Somebody up-stairs likes 'em. Don't you suppose you could get Mr. Landholm to come down. He likes 'em, and he don't get 'em now-a-days — nor too much of anything that's good. I don't know what he does live on, up there."
"Anything is better than those things," said her brother.
"Other people are more wise than you. Do go up and ask him, will you, George? I hope he gets good dinners somewhere, for it's very little of anything he cooks at that smoky little fireplace of his. Do you ever see him bring anything in?"
"Nothing. I don't see him bring himself in, you know. But he'll do. He'll have enough by and by, Dame Nettley. I know what stuff he's of."
"Yes, but no stuff'll last without help," said Mrs. Nettley, taking her cakes off the griddle and piling them up carefully. "Now I'm all ready, George, and you're standing there — it's always the way — and before you can mount those three pair of stairs and down again, these'll be cold. Do go, George; Mr. Landholm likes his cakes hot — I'll have another plateful ready before you'll be here; and then they're good for nothing but to throw away."
"That's what I think," said Mr. Inchbald; "but I'll bring him down if I can, to do what you like with 'em — only I must see first what this knocking wants at the front door."
"And left this one open too!" — said Mrs. Nettley, — "and now the whole house'll be full of smoke and everything — Well! — I might as well not ha' put this griddleful on." —
But the door having refused to latch, gave Mrs. Nettley a chance to hear what was going on. She stood, slice in hand, listening. Some unaccustomed tones came to her ear — then Mr. Inchbald's round hearty voice, saying,
"Yes sir — he is here — he is at home."
"I'd like to see him —"
And then the sounds of scraping feet entering the house.
"I'd like to go somewheres that I could see a fire, too," said the strange voice. "Ben ridin' all night, and got to set off again, you see, directly."
And Mrs. Nettley turned her cakes in a great hurry, as her brother pushed open the door and let the intruder in.
He took off his hat as he came, shewing a head that had seen some sixty winters, thinly dressed with yellow hair but not at all grey. The face was strong and Yankee-marked with shrewdness and reserve. His hat was wet and his shoulders, which had no protection of an overcoat.
"Do you wish to see Mr. Landholm in his room?" said Mr.
Inchbald. "He's just coming down to breakfast."
"That'll do as well," said the stranger nodding. "And stop — you may give him this — maybe he'd as lieve have it up there."
Mr. Inchbald looked at the letter handed him, the outside of which at least told no tales; but his sister with a woman's quick instinct had already asked,
"Is anything the matter?"
"Matter?" — said the stranger, — "well, yes. — He's wanted to hum."
Both brother and sister stood now forgetting everything, both saying in a breath,
"Wanted, what for?"
"Well — there's sickness —"
"His father?"
"No, his mother."
Mrs. Nettley threw down her slice and ran out of the room. Mr. Inchbald turned away slowly in the other direction. The stranger, left alone, took a knife from the table and dished the neglected cakes, and sat down to dry himself between them and the coffee.
Mr. Inchbald slowly mounted the stairs to Winthrop's door, met the pleasant face that met him there, and gave the letter.
"I was coming to ask you down to breakfast with us, Mr. Landholm; but somebody has just come with that for you, and wishes you to have it at once."
The pleasant face grew grave, and the seal was broken, and the letter unfolded. It was a folio half sheet, of coarse yellowish paper, near the upper end of which a very few lines were irregularly written.
"My dear son
"It is with great pain I write to tell you that you must leave all and hasten home if you would see your mother. Friend Underhill will take this to you, and your shortest way will be, probably, to hire a horse in M. and travel night and day; as the time of the boat is uncertain and the stage does not make very good time — Her illness has been so short that we did not know it was necessary to alarm you before. My dear son, come without delay —
"Your father,
"W. Landholm."
Mr. Inchbald watched the face and manner of his friend as he read, and after he read, these few words, — but the one expressed only gravity, the other, action. Mr. Inchbald felt he could do nothing, and slowly went down stairs again to Mr. Underhill. He found him still over the fire between the cakes and the coffee. But Mr. Inchbald totally forgot to be hospitable, and not a word was said till Winthrop came in and he and the letter-bringer had wrung each other's hand, with a brief 'how d' ye do.'
"How did you leave them, Mr. Underhill?"
"Well — they were wantin' you pretty bad —"
"Did she send for me?"
"Well — no — I guess not," said the other with something of hesitancy, or of consideration, in his speech. Winthrop stood silent a moment.
"I shall take horse immediately. You will go — how?"
"May as well ride along with you," said Mr. Underhill, settling his coat. "I'm wet — a trifle — but may as well ride it off as any way. Start now?"
"Have you breakfasted?"
"Well — no, I hain't had time, you see — I come straight to you."
"Mr. Inchbald, I must go to the office a few minutes — will you give my friend a mouthful?"
"But yourself, Mr. Landholm?"
"I have had breakfast."
Mr. Inchbald did his duty as host then; but though his guest used despatch, the 'mouthful' was hardly a hungry man's breakfast when Winthrop was back again. In a few minutes more the two were mounted and on their way up the right bank of the river.
They rode silently. At least if Mr. Underhill's wonted talkativeness found vent at all, it was more than Winthrop was able ever to recollect. He could remember nothing of the ride but his own thoughts; and it seemed to him afterwards that they must have been stunning as well as deafening; so vague and so blended was the impression of them mixed up with the impression of everything else. It was what Mr. Underhill called 'falling weather'; the rain dropped lightly, or by turns changing to mist hung over the river and wreathed itself about the hills, and often stood across his path; as if to bid the eye turn inward, for space to range without it might not have. And passing all the other journeys he had made up and down that road, some of them on horseback as he was now, Winthrop's thoughts went back to that first one, when through ill weather and discouragement he had left the home he was now seeking, to enter upon his great-world career. Why did they so? He had been that road in the rain since; he had been there in all weathers; he had been there often with as desponding a heart as brought him down that first time; which indeed did not despond at all then, though it felt the weight of life's undertakings and drawbacks. And the warm rain, and yellow, sun-coloured mist of this April day, had no likeness to the cold, pitiless, pelting December storm. Yet passing all the times between, his mind went back constantly to that first one. He felt over again, though as in a dream, its steps of loneliness and heart-sinking — its misty looking forward — and most especially that Bible word 'Now' — which his little sister's finger had pointed out to him. He remembered how constantly that day it came back to him in everything he looked at, — from the hills, from the river, from the beat of the horses' hoofs, from the falling rain. 'Now' — 'now' — he remembered how he had felt it that day; he had almost forgotten it since; but now it came up again to his mind as if that day had been but yesterday. What brought it there? Was it the unrecognized, unallowed sense, that the one of all the world who most longed to have him obey that word, might be to- day beyond seeing him obey it — for ever? Was it possibly, that passing over the bridge of Mirza's vision he suddenly saw himself by the side of one of the open trap-doors, and felt that some stay, some security he needed, before his own foot should open one for itself? He did not ask; he did not try to order the confused sweep of feeling which for the time passed over him; one dread idea for the time held mastery of all others, and kept that day's ride all on the edge of that open trap-door. Whose foot had gone down there? — And under that thought, — woven in with the various tapestry of shower and sunshine, meadow and hillside, that clothed his day's journey to the sense, — were the images of that day in December — that final leaving of home and his mother, that rainy cold ride on the stage-coach, Winnie's open Bible, and the 'Now,' to which her finger, his mother's prayers, and his own conscience, had pointed all the day long.
It made no difference, that as they went on, this April day changed from rain and mist to the most brilliant sunshine. The mists rolled away, down the river and along the gulleys of the mountains; the clouds scattered from off the blue sky, which looked down clear, fair, and soft, as if Mirza's bridge were never under it. The little puddles of water sparkled in the sunshine and reflected the blue; the roads made haste to dry; the softest of spring airs wafted down from the hill-sides a spicy remembrance of budding shoots and the drawn-out sweetness of pine and fir and hemlock and cedar. The day grew sultrily warm. But though sunlight and spring winds carried their tokens to memory's gates and left them there, they were taken no note of at the time, by one traveller, and the other had no mental apparatus fine enough to gather them up.
He had feeling or delicacy enough of another kind, however, to keep him quiet. He sometimes looked at Winthrop; never spoke to him. Almost never; if he spoke at all, it was in some aside or counsel-taking with himself about the weather, the way, or the prospect and management of the farming along the river. They stopped only to bait or to rest their horses; even at those times Mr. Underhill restrained himself not only from talking to Winthrop but from talking before him; and except when his companion was at a distance, kept as quiet as he. Winthrop asked no questions.
The road grew hilly, and in some places rough, trying to the horses; and by the time they were fairly among the mountain land that stood down far south from Wut-a-qut-o, the sun was nearing the fair broken horizon line of the western shore. The miles were long now, when they were no longer many; the road was more and more steep and difficult; the horses weary. The sun travelled faster than they did. A gentler sunlight never lay in spring-time upon those hills and river; it made the bitter turmoil and dread of the way seem the more harsh and ungentle. Their last stopping-place was at Cowslip's Mill — on the spot where seven years before, Winthrop had met the stage- coach and its consignment of ladies.
"The horses must have a minute here — and a bite," said Mr. Underhill letting himself slowly down from his beast; — "lose no time by it."
For a change of posture Winthrop threw himself off, and stood leaning on the saddle, while his travelling companion and Mr. Cowslip came up the rise bringing water and food to the horses. No more than a grave nod was exchanged between Winthrop and his old neighbour; neither said one word; and as soon as the buckets were empty the travellers were on their way again.
It was but a little way now. The sun had gone behind the mountain, the wind had died, the perfect stillness and loveliness of evening light was over hill and river and the home land, as the riders came out from the woods upon the foot of the bay and saw it all before them. A cloudless sky, — the white clear western light where the sun had been, — the bright sleeping water, — the sweet lights and shades on Wut-a-qut-o and its neighbour hills, the lower and darker promontory throwing itself across the landscape; and from one spot, that half-seen centre of the picture, the little brown speck on Shah-wee-tah, — a thin, thin wreath of smoke slowly went up. Winthrop for one moment looked, and then rode on sharply and Mr. Underhill was fain to bear him company. They had rounded the bay — they had ridden over the promontory neck — they were within a little of home, — when Winthrop suddenly drew bridle. Mr. Underhill stopped. Winthrop turned towards him, and asked the question not asked till then.
"How is it at home, Mr. Underhill?"
And Mr. Underhill without looking at him, answered in the same tones, a moment of pause between,
"She's gone."
Winthrop's horse carried him slowly forward; Mr. Underhill's was seen no more that night — unless by Mr. Cowslip and his son.
Slowly Winthrop's horse carried him forward — but little time then was needed to bring him round to the back of the house, at the kitchen door, whither the horse-path led. It was twilight now; the air was full of the perfume of cedars and pines, — the clear white light shone in the west yet. Winthrop did not see it. He only saw that there was no light in the windows. And that curl of thin smoke was the only thing he had seen stirring about the house. He got off his horse and went into the kitchen.
There was light enough to see who met him there. It was his father. There was hardly light to see faces; but Mr. Landholm laid both hands on his son's shoulders, saying,
"My dear boy! — it's all over! —"
And Winthrop laid his face on his father's breast, and for a few breaths, sobbed, as he had not done since — since his childish eyes had found hiding-place on that other breast that could rest them no more.
It was but a few minutes; — and manly sorrow had given way and taken again its quiet self-control; once and for ever. The father and son wrung each other's hands, the mute speech of hand to hand telling of mutual suffering and endurance, and affection, — all that could be told; and then after the pause of a minute; Winthrop moved on towards the family room, asking softly, "Is she here?" — But his father led him through, to the seldom-used east-room.
Asahel was there; but he neither spoke nor stirred. And old Karen was there, moving about on some trifling errand of duty; but her quick nature was under less government; it did not bear the sight of Winthrop. Dropping or forgetting what she was about, she came towards him with a bursting cry of feeling, half for herself, half sympathetic; and with the freedom of old acquaintance and affection and common grief, laid her shrivelled black hand on his shoulder and looked up into his face, saying, almost as his father had done, but with streaming eyes and quivering lips,
"My dear son! — she has gone! —"
Winthrop took the hand in his and gave it a moment's pressure, and then saying very gently but in a way that was obeyed, "Be quiet Karen," — he passed her and stood at his mother's bedside.
She was there — lying quietly in her last sleep. Herself and not another. All of her that could write and leave its character on features of clay, was shewn there still — in its beauty. The brow yet spoke the calm good sense which had always reigned beneath it; the lines of toil were on the cheek; the mouth had its old mingling of patience and hope and firm dignity — the dignity of meek assurance which looked both to the present and the future. It was there now, unchanged, unlessened; Winthrop read it; that as she had lived, so she had died, in sure expectation of 'the rest that remaineth.' Herself and no other! — ay! that came home too in another sense, with its hard stern reality, pressing home upon the heart and brain, till it would have seemed that nature could not bear it and must give way. But it did not. Winthrop stood and looked, fixedly and long, so fixedly that no one cared to interrupt him, but so calmly in his deep gravity that the standers-by were rather awed than distressed. And at last when he turned away and Asahel threw himself forward upon his neck, Winthrop's manner was as firm as it was kind; though he left them all then and forbade Asahel to follow him.
"The Lord bless him!" said Karen, loosing her tongue then and giving her tears leave at the same time. "And surely the Lord has blessed him, or he wouldn't ha' borne up so. She won't lose that one of her childr'n — she won't, no she won't! — I know she won't! —"
"Where is Winnie, Karen?" said Asahel suddenly.
"Poor soul! — I dun know," said Karen; — "she was afeard to see the Governor come home, and dursn't stop nowheres — I dun know where she's hid. — The Lord bless him! nobody needn't ha' feared him. He's her own boy — aint he her own boy! —"
Asahel went out to seek for his little sister, but his search was in vain. She was not to be seen nor heard of. Neither did Winthrop come to the sorrowful gathering which the remnant of the family made round the supper-table. In the house he was not; and wherever he was out of the house, he was beyond reach.
"Could they have gone away together?" said Asahel.
"No!" said his father.
"They didn't," said Clam. "I see him go off by himself."
"Which way?"
"Off among the trees," said Clam.
"Which way?" said Mr. Landholm.
"His back was to the house, and he was goin' off towards the river some place — I guess he didn't want no one to foller him."
"There aint no wet nor cold to hurt him," said Karen.
There was not; but they missed him.
And the house had been quiet, very quiet, for long after supper-time, when softly and cautiously one of the missing ones opened the door of the east-room and half came in. Only Karen sat there at the foot of the bed. Winnie came in and came up to her.
"He's not here, darlin'," said the old woman, — "and ye needn't ha' started from him. — O cold face, and white face! — what ha' you done with yourself, Winnie, to run away from him so? Ye needn't ha' feared him. Poor lamb! — poor white lamb! —"
The girl sat down on the floor and laid her face on Karen's lap, where the still tears ran very fast.
"Poor white lamb!" said the old woman, tenderly laying her wrinkled hand on Winnie's fair hair, — "Ye haven't eat a crumb — Karen'll fetch you a bit? — ye'll faint by the way —"
Winnie shook her head. "No — no."
"What did you run away for?" Karen went on. "Ye run away from your best comfort — but the Lord's help, Winnie; — he's the strongest of us all."
But something in that speech, Karen could not divine what, made Winnie sob convulsively; and she thought best to give up her attempts at counsel or comforting.
The wearied and weakened child must have needed both, for she wept unceasingly on Karen's knees till late in the night; and then in sheer weariness the heavy eyelids closed upon the tears that were yet ready to come. She slumbered, with her head still on Karen's lap.
"Poor lamb!" said Karen when she found it out, bending over to
look at her, — "poor lamb! — she'll die of this if the
Governor can't help her, — and she the Lord's child too. —
Maybe best, poor child! — maybe best! — 'Little traveller
Zion-ward' — I wish we were all up at those gates, O Lord! —"
The last words were spoken with a heavy sigh, and then the old woman changed her tone.
"Winnie! — Winnie! — go to bed — go to bed! Your mother'd say it if she was here."
Winnie raised her head and opened her eyes, and Karen repeating her admonition in the same key, the child got up and went mechanically out of the room, as if to obey it.
It was by this time very late in the night; the rest of the inmates of the house had long been asleep. No lights were burning except in the room she had left. But opening the door of the kitchen, through which her way lay to her own room, Winnie found there was a glimmer from the fire, which usually was covered up close; and coming further into the room, she saw some one stretched at full length upon the floor at the fireside. Another step, and Winnie knew it was Winthrop. He was asleep, his head resting on a rolled-up cloak against the jamb. Winnie's tears sprang forth again, but she would not waken him. She kneeled down by his side, to look at him, as well as the faint fireglow would let her, and to weep over him; but her strength was worn out. It refused even weeping; and after a few minutes, nestling down as close to him as she could get, she laid one arm and her head upon his breast and went to sleep too. More peacefully and quietly than she had slept for several nights.
The glimmer from the fire-light died quite away, and only the bright stars kept watch over them. The moon was not where she could look in at those north or east kitchen windows. But by degrees the fair April night changed. Clouds gathered themselves up from all quarters of the horizon, till they covered the sky; the faces of the stars were hid; thunder began to roll along among the hills, and bright incessant flashes of white lightning kept the room in a glare. The violence of the storm did not come over Shah-wee-tah, but it was more than enough to rouse Winthrop, whose sleep was not so deep as his little sister's. And when Winnie did come to her consciousness she found herself lifted from the floor and on her brother's lap; he half sitting up; his arms round her, and her head still on his breast. Her first movement of awakening was to change her position and throw her arms around his neck.
"Winnie —" he said gently.
The flood-gates burst then, and her heart poured itself out, her head alternately nestling in his neck and raised up to kiss his face, and her arms straining him with nervous eagerness.
"O Winthrop! — O Winthrop! — O dear Winthrop! —" was the cry, as fast as sobs and kisses would let her.
"Winnie —" said her brother again.
"O Winthrop! — why didn't you come!"
He did not answer that, except by the heaving breast which poor Winnie could not feel.
"I am here now, dear Winnie."
"O Winthrop! —" Winnie hesitated, and the burden of her heart would burst forth, — "why aren't you a Christian! —"
It was said with a most bitter rush of tears, as if she felt that the most precious thing she had, lacked of preciousness; that her most sure support needed a foundation. But when a minute had stilled the tears, and she could hear, she heard him say, very calmly,
"I am one, Winnie."
Her tears ceased absolutely on his shoulder, and Winnie was for a moment motionless. Then as he did not speak again, she unclasped her arms and drew back her head to look at him. The constant flashes of light gave her chance enough.
"You heard me right," he said.
"Are you?" — she said wistfully.
"By God's help — this night and for ever."
Winnie brought her hands together, half clapping, half clasping them, and then threw them to their former position around his neck, exclaiming, —
"Oh if she had known it before —!"
There was no answer to that, of words; and Winnie could not see the sudden paleness which witnessed to the answer within. But it came, keen as those lightning flashes, home-thrust as the thunderbolts they witnessed to, that his 'now' had come too late for her.
The lightnings grew fainter, and failed — the thunder muttered off in the distance, and ceased to be heard — the clouds rolled down the river and scattered away, just as the dawn was breaking on Wut-a-qut-o. There had been nothing spoken in the farmhouse kitchen since Winnie's last words. Winthrop was busy with his own thoughts, which he did not tell; and Winnie had been giving hers all the expression they could bear, in tears and kisses and the strong clasp of her weak arm, and the envious resting, trusting, lay of her head upon Winthrop's shoulder and breast. When the glare of the lightning had all gone, and the grey light was beginning to walk in at the windows, her brother spoke to her.
"Winnie, — you would be better in bed."
"Oh no, — I wouldn't. — Do you want me to go, Governor?" she added presently.
"Not if you could rest as well here, but you want rest,
Winnie."
"I couldn't rest so well anywhere!" — said Winifred energetically.
"Then let me take the big chair and give you a chance."
He took it, and took her in his arms again, where she nestled herself down as if she had been a child; with an action that touchingly told him anew that she could rest so well nowhere else.
"Governor —" she said, when her head had found its place — "you haven't kissed me."
"I did, Winnie, — it must have been before you were awake."
But he kissed her again; and drawing one or two long breaths, of heart-weariness and heart-rest, Winnie went to sleep.
The grey dawn brightened rapidly; and a while after, Karen came in. It was fair morning then. She stood by the hearth, opposite the two, looking at them.
"Has she been here all night?" she whispered.
Winthrop nodded.
"Poor lamb! — Ye're come in good time, Master Winthrop."
She turned and began to address herself to the long gone-out fire in the chimney.
"What are you going to do, Karen?" he said softly.
She looked back at him, with her hand in the ashes.
"Haven't you watched to-night?"
"I've watched a many nights," she said shaking her head and beginning again to rake for coals in the cold fireplace, — "this aint the first. That aint nothin'. I'll watch now, dear, 'till the day dawn and the shadows flee away'; — what else should Karen do? 'Taint much longer, and I'll be where there's no night again. O come, sweet day! —" said the old woman clasping her hands together as she crouched in the fireplace, and the tears beginning to trickle down, — "when the mother and the childr'n'll all be together, and Karen somewheres — and our home won't be broken up no more! —"
She raked away among the ashes with an eager trembling hand.
"Karen, —" said Winthrop softly, — "Leave that."
"What, dear?" — she said.
"Leave that."
"Who'll do it, dear?"
"I will."
She obeyed him, as perhaps she would have done for no one else. Rising up, Winthrop carried his sleeping sister without wakening her, and laid her on the bed in her own little room, which opened out of the kitchen; then he came back and went to work in the fireplace. Karen yielded it to him with equal admiration and unwillingness; remarking to herself as her relieved hands went about other business, that, "for sure, nobody could build a fire handsomer than Mr. Winthrop"; — and that "he was his mother's own son, and deserved to be!"
CHAPTER XXV.
That thee is sent receive in buxomness;
The wrestling of this worlde askith a fall;
Here is no home, here is but wildernesse,
Forthe, pilgrim, forthe, o best out of thy stall,
Loke up on high, and thanke thy God of all.
CHAUCER.
As soon as she was awake Winnie sought her brother's side again; and from that moment never left it when it was possible to be there. In his arms, if she could; close by his side, if nearer might not be; she seemed to have no freedom of life but in his shadow. Her very grief was quieted there; either taking its tone from his calm strength, or binding itself with her own love for him. Her brother was the sturdy tree round which this poor little vine threw its tendrils, and climbed and flourished, all it could.
He had but a few days to spend at Shahweetah now. Towards the end of them, she was one evening sitting, as usual, on his knee; silent and quiet. They were alone.
"Winnie," said her brother, "what shall I do with you?"
She put her arms round his neck and kissed him, — a very frequent caress; but she made no answer.
"Shall I take you to Mannahatta with me?"
"Oh yes, Winthrop!"
It was said with breathless eagerness.
"I am almost afraid to do it."
"Why, Winthrop?"
"Hush —" he said gently; for her words came out with a sort of impatient hastiness; — "You don't know what kind of a place it is, Winnie. It isn't much like what home used to be."
"Nor this aint, neither," she murmured, nestling her head in his bosom.
"But you wouldn't have the free air and country — I am afraid it wouldn't be so good for you."
"Yes it would — it would be better for me. — I can't hardly be good at all, Governor, except where you are. I get cross now- a-days — it seems I can't help it — and I didn't use to do so —"
How gently the hand that was not round her was laid upon her cheek, as if at once forbidding and soothing her sorrow. For it was true, — Winnie's disease had wrought to make her irritable and fretful, very different from her former self. And it was true that Winthrop's presence governed it, as no other thing could.
"Would you rather go with me, Winnie?"
"Oh yes, Governor! —oh yes!"
"Then you shall."
He went himself first to make arrangements, which he well knew were very necessary. That one little attic room of his and that closet which was at once Mother Hubbard's cupboard and his clothes press, could never do anything for the comfort of his little sister. He went home and electrified Mrs. Nettley with the intelligence that he must leave her and seek larger quarters, which he knew her house could not give.
"To be sure," said Mrs. Nettley in a brown study, — "the kitchen's the kitchen, — and there must be a parlour, — and George's painting room, — and the other's my bedroom, — and George sleeps in that other little back attic. — Well, Mr. Landholm, let's think about it. We'll see what can be done. We can't let you go away — George would rather sleep on the roof."
"He would do what is possible, Mrs. Nettley; and so would I."
It was found to be possible that "the other little back attic" should be given up. Winthrop never knew how, and was not allowed to know. But it was so given that he could not help taking. It was plain that they would have been worse straitened than in their accommodations, if he had refused their kindness and gone somewhere else.
Mrs. Nettley would gladly have done what she could towards furnishing the same little back attic for Winnie's use; but on this point Winthrop was firm. He gathered himself the few little plain things the room wanted, from the cheapest sources whence they could be obtained; even that was a serious drain upon his purse. He laid in a further supply of fuel, for Winnie's health, he knew, would not stand the old order of things, — a fire at meal-times and an old cloak at other times when it was not very cold. Happily it was late in the season and much more fire would not be needed; a small stock of wood he bought, and carried up and bestowed in the closet; he could put his clothes in Winnie's room now and the closet need no longer act as a wardrobe. A few very simple stores to add to Mother Hubbard's shelves, and Winthrop had stretched his limited resources pretty well, and had not much more left than would take him to Wut-a-qut-o, and bring him back again.
"I don't see but I shall have to sell the farm," said Mr.
Landholm on this next visit of his son's.
"Why, sir?"
"To pay off the mortgage — that mortgage to Mr. Haye."
Winthrop was silent.
"I can't meet the interest on it; —I haven't been able to pay any these five years," said Mr. Landholm with a sigh. "If he don't foreclose, I must. — I guess I'll take Asahel and go to the West."
"Don't do it hastily, father."
"No," said Mr. Landholm with another sigh; — "but it'll come to that."
Winthrop had no power to help it. And the money had been borrowed for him and Rufus. Most for Rufus. But it had been for them; and with this added thought of sorrowful care, he reached Mannahatta with his little sister.
It was early of a cold spring day, the ground white with a flurry of snow, the air raw, when he brought Winnie from the steamboat and led her, half frightened, half glad, through the streets to her new home. Winnie's tongue was very still, her eyes very busy. Her brother left the eyes to make their own notes and comments, at least he made none, till they had reached the corner of Little South St. He made none then; the door was opened softly, and he brought her up the stairs and into his room without disturbing or falling in with anybody. Putting her on a calico-covered settee, Winthrop pulled off his coat and set about making a fire.
Winnie had cried all the day before and as much of the night as her poor eyelids could keep awake; and now in a kind of lull, sat watching him.
"Governor, you'll catch cold —"
"Not if I can make the fire catch," said he quietly.
"But you wanted me to keep on my things."
"Did you want to take them off?"
Winnie sat silent again, shrugging her shoulders to the chill air. But presently the fire caught, and the premonitory snapping and crackling of the kindling wood gave notice of a sudden change of temperature. Winnie's feelings took the cheery influence of the promise and she began to talk in a more hearty strain.
"Is this your room, Winthrop?"
"This is my room, Winnie. Yours is there, next to it."
"Through that door?"
"No — through the entry; — that is the door of my storehouse."
Winnie got up to look at it.
"'Tisn't a very large storehouse," was her conclusion.
"And not much in it. But the large storehouses are not far off, Winnie. Shall I leave you here for five minutes, while I go to get something from one of them?"
"Do you mean out of doors? — from the shops?"
"Yes. Shall I leave you five minutes?"
"O yes!"
He had come before her and was holding both her hands. Before he let them go he stooped down and kissed her.
It was not a very common thing for Winthrop to kiss her; and Winnie sat quieted under the power and the pleasure of it till the five minutes were run out and he had got back again. His going and coming was without seeing any one of the house; a fact owing to Mrs. Nettley's being away to market and Mr. Inchbald out on another errand.
Winthrop came in with his hands full of brown papers. Winnie watched him silently again while he put his stores in the closet and brought out plates and knives and forks.
"Where do you sleep, Governor?"
"In a pleasanter place than I slept in last night," said her brother.
"Yes, but where? I don't see any bed."
"You don't see it by day. It only shews itself at night."
"But where is it, Governor?"
"You're sitting on it, Winnie."
"This! —"
"What is the matter with it?"
"Why, —" said Winnie, looking dismayfully at the couch with which Winthrop had filled the place of his bed, transferred to her room, — "it's too narrow!"
"I don't fall out of it," said her brother quietly.
"It isn't comfortable!"
"I am, when I am on it."
"But it's hard!"
"Not if I don't think it is hard."
"I don't see how that makes any difference," said Winnie discontentedly. "It's hard to me."
"But it's not your bed, Winnie."
"I don't like it to be yours, Winthrop."
He was busy laying a slice of ham on the coals and putting a skillet of water over the fire; and then coming to her side he began, without speaking, and with a pleasant face, to untie the strings of her bonnet and to take off that and her other coverings, with a gentle sort of kindness that made itself felt and not heard. Winnie bore it with difficulty; her features moved and trembled.
"It's too much for you to have to take care of me," she said in a voice changed from its former expression.
"Too much?" said Winthrop.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It's too much. Can you do it?"
"I think I can take care of you, Winnie. You forget who has promised to take care of us both."
She threw her arms round his neck exclaiming, "I forget everything! —"
"No, not quite," said he.
"I do! — except that I love you. I wish I could be good,
Winthrop! — even as good as I used to be."
"That wouldn't content me," said her brother; — "I want you to be better."
She clasped her arms in an earnest clasp about his neck, very close, but said nothing.
"Now sit down, Winnie," said he presently, gently disengaging her arms and putting her into a chair, — "or something else will not be good enough."
She watched him again, while he turned the ham and put eggs in the skillet, and fetched out an odd little salt-cellar and more spoons and cups for the eggs.
"But Winthrop!" she said starting, — "where's your tea- kettle?"
"I don't know. I have never had it yet, Winnie."
"Never had a tea-kettle?"
"No."
"Then how do you do, Winthrop?"
"I do without," he said lightly. "Can't you?"
"Do without a tea-kettle!"
"Yes."
"But how do you make tea and coffee?"
"I don't make them."
"Don't you have tea and coffee?"
"No, except when somebody else makes it for me."
"I'll make it for you, Winthrop!"
"No, Winnie — I don't want you to have it any more than myself."
"But Winthrop — I can't drink water!"
"I think you can — if I want you to."
"I won't," was in Winnie's heart to say; it did not get to her lips. With a very disturbed and unsettled face, she saw her brother quietly and carefully supply her plate — the ham and the eggs and the bread and the butter, — and then Winnie jumped up and came to his arms to cry; the other turn of feeling had come again. He let it have its way, till she had wept out her penitence and kissed her acknowledgment of it, and then she went back to her seat and her plate and betook herself to her breakfast. Before much was done with it, however, Mrs. Nettley and Mr. Inchbald came to the door; and being let in, overwhelmed them with kind reproaches and welcomes. Winnie was taken down stairs to finish her breakfast with tea and coffee; and Winthrop leaving her in hands that he knew would not forget their care of her, was free to go about his other cares, with what diligence they might require.
That same morning, before she had left her own room, Miss Haye was informed that a black girl wished to speak with her. Being accordingly ordered up, said black girl presented herself. A comely wench, dressed in the last point of neatness, though not by any means so as to set off her good accidents of nature. Nevertheless they could not be quite hid; no more than a certain air of abundant capacity, for both her own business and other people's. She came in and dropped a curtsey.
"Who are you?" said Elizabeth.
"I am Clam, ma'am."
"Clam!" said Elizabeth. "O, are you Clam? Where have you come from?"
"From the boat, last place, ma'am."
"Boat! what boat?"
"The boat what goes with wheels and comes down the river," said Clam lucidly.
"Oh! — And have you just come down?"
"We was comin' down all yesterday and last night, ma'am."
"Who were coming?"
"Mr. Winthrop Landholm, and Winifred, and me."
"Winifred and you," said Elizabeth. "And did he send you to me?"
Clam nodded. "He said he would ha' writ somethin', if he'd ha' had a piece of paper or card or anything, but he hadn't nothing."
"He would have written what?"
"Don't know — didn't say."
"Do you know who I am?"
Clam nodded again and shewed her teeth. "The lady Mr. Winthrop sent me to."
"Do you remember ever seeing me before?"
"When he was out walkin' with you in the rain," said Clam, her head first giving significant assent.
"Look here," said Elizabeth a little shortly, — "when I speak to you, speak, and don't nod your head."
To which Clam gave the prohibited answer.
"What are you sent here for now?"
"I dun' know, ma'am."
"What did Mr. Winthrop say you were to do?"
"Said I was to come here, and behave."
"Why have you come away from Mrs. Landholm?"
"Didn't," said Clam. "She went away first. She's gone to heaven."
"Mrs. Landholm! Is she dead?"
Clam nodded.
"When? — and what was the matter?"
"'Twa'n't much of anything the matter with her," said Clam; — "she took sick for two or three days and then died. It's more'n a fortnight ago."
"And they sent for Mr. Winthrop?"
"Job Underhill rode down after him as hard as he could and fetched him up on horseback."
"In time?" said Elizabeth.
"He was in time for everything but himself. It was too late for him. But all the rest of the folks had the good of his coming."
"Why what was there for him to do?" said Elizabeth.
"He finds enough to do — or he's pretty apt to —whenever he comes to a place," said Clam. "There was everybody to put in order, about. There was Mr. Landholm hardly fit to live, he was so willin' to die; and Winifred was crazy. She went and crawled under one of the beds to hide when she thought he was a comin'."
"When who was coming?"
"He — Mr. Winthrop. And Karen was takin' airs — that aint out o' the common — but I'd a little liever have him master than her mistress — she wa'n't mine, neither."
"And where was Mr. Asahel?"
"He was there — and good enough what there was of him; but he won't never stand in other folks' shoes."
"Do you say Winifred was crazy?"
"She was so feared to see her brother come home!"
"Her brother Winthrop?"
"There wa'n't no other coming," said Clam.
"Poor thing!" said Elizabeth. "And you say he has brought her down to Mannahatta?"
Clam nodded. "She don't think she's alive when he aint near her; so he's took her down to live with him. I guess it's good living with him," said Clam sagaciously. "I wish I did it."
"I must go and see her. Where is she?"
"She's wherever he's took her to."
"But where's that? — don't you know?"
"It's to his house — if you know where that is."
"Do you know what you've come here to do?" said Elizabeth after a slight pause.
Clam shook her head.
"One thing I can tell you, first of all," said Elizabeth, — "it is to mind what I say to you."
"Mr. Winthrop said I was to behave," said Clam with another glimpse of her white teeth.
"Then don't shake your head any more when I speak to you. What have you been doing at Wut-a-qut-o?"
"At Wuttle-quttle?" said Clam.
"At Wut-a-qut-o. What did you do there?"
"'Tain't the name of the place," said Clam. "They call it
Shah-wee-tah."
"Wut-a-qut-o is the name of the mountain — it's all one. What have you been used to do there?"
"Set tables —" said Clam considerately.
"What did Mrs. Landholm teach you?"
"She learned me 'most everything," said Clam. "What she learned me most of all, was to have me read the Bible every day, and do nothin' wrong o' Sundays, and never say nothin' that wa'n't."
"That wasn't what?"
"That wa'n't it," said Clam. "Never to say nothin' that wa'n't the thing."
"Why, did you ever do that?" said Elizabeth.
"Maybe I did," said Clam, considering her new mistress's dressing-table. "Mis' Landholm was afeard on't."
"Well, you must be just as careful about that here," said
Elizabeth. "I love truth as well as she did."
"All kinds?" said the girl.
Elizabeth looked at her, with a mouthful of answer which she did not dare to bring out. Nothing was to be made of Clam's face, except that infallible air of capacity. There was no sign of impertinent meaning.
"You look as if you could learn," she said.
"Been learnin' ever since I was big enough," said the black girl. And she looked so.
"Are you willing to learn?"
"Like nothin' better."
"Provided it's the right kind, I suppose," said Elizabeth, wholly unable to prevent her features giving way a little at the unshakable coolness and spirit she had to do with. Clam's face relaxed in answer, after a different manner from any it had taken during the interview; and she said,
"Well, I'll try. Mr. Winthrop said I was to be good; and I ain't a goin' to do nothin' to displease him, anyhow!"
"But the matter is rather to please me, here," said Elizabeth.
"Well," said Clam with her former wide-awake smile, "I guess what 'll please him 'll please you, won't it?"
"Go down stairs, and come to me after breakfast," said her mistress. "I'll let you make some new dresses for yourself the first thing. And look here, —" said she pulling a bright- coloured silk handkerchief out of a drawer, — "put that into a turban before you come up and let me see what you're up to."
Clam departed without an answer; but when she made her appearance again, the orange and crimson folds were twisted about her head in a style that convinced Elizabeth her new waiting-maid's capacity was equal to all the new demands she would be likely to make upon it.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Never his worldly lot, or worldly state torments him:
Less he would like, if less his God had sent him.
FLETCHER.
Winthrop had taken no little charge upon himself in the charge of his little sister. In many ways. He had a scanty purse, and it better bore the demands of one than of two; but that was only a single item. Winnie was not a charge upon his purse alone, but upon his heart and his head and his time. The demands were all met, to the full.
As much as it was possible, in the nature of Winthrop's business, his sister had him with her; and when he could not be there, his influence and power. It was trying enough for the poor child to be left alone as much as she was, for she could not always find solace in Mrs. Nettley, and sometimes could not endure her presence. Against this evil Winthrop provided as far as he might by giving Winnie little jobs to do for him while he was gone, and by setting her about what courses of self-improvement her delicate system of mind and body was able to bear. He managed it so that all was for him; not more the patching and knitting and bits of writing which were strictly in his line, than the pages of history, the sums in arithmetic, and the little lesson of Latin, which were for Winnie's own self. He knew that affection, in every one of them, would steady the nerves and fortify the will to go patiently on to the end. And the variety of occupation he left her was so great that without tiring herself in any one thing, Winnie generally found the lonely hours of her day pretty well filled up. Mrs. Nettley was a great help, when Winnie was in the mood for her company; that was not always.
His little sister's bodily and mental health was another care upon Winthrop's mind, and on his time. Disease now constantly ruffled the sweet flow of spirits which once was habitual with her. Nothing ruffled his; and his soothing hand could always quiet her, could almost always make her happy, when it was practicable for him to spare time. Very often when he had no time to give beyond what a word or a look would take from his business. But those times were comparatively few. He was apt to give her what she needed, and make up for it afterwards at the cost of rest and sleep when Winnie was abed. Through the warm summer days he took her daily and twice daily walks, down to the Green where the sea air could blow in her face fresh from its own quarter, where she and he too could turn their backs upon brickwork and pavement and look on at least one face of nature unspotted and unspoiled. At home he read to her, and with her, the times when he used to read the classics; and many other times; he talked to her and he played with her, having bought a second-hand backgammon board for the very purpose; he heard her and set her her lessons; and he amused her with all the details of his daily business and experience that he could make amusing.
If these things were a charge, it was one for which he was abundantly rewarded, every night and every morning, and knew it. But the other part of the burden, the drain upon his purse, was not so easily to be met withal. There was no helping it. Winnie's state of health made her simple wants, simple as they were, far more costly than his own had been; and he would and did supply them. He could bear to starve himself and lie hard; but Winnie would very soon starve to death; and the time when she could sleep softly on a hard bed had once been, but would never be again, literally or figuratively. Winthrop never shewed her how it was with him; not the less it was almost the ebb; and whence the flow was to come, was a point he saw not. He was not yet admitted to practise law; his slender means were almost all gathered from teaching; and he could not teach any more than he did. And this consciousness he carried about with him, to the office, to market, and to his little sister's presence. For her his face was always the same; and while she had it Winnie thought little was wanting to her life.
One morning when she had it not, she was lying wearily stretched out on the couch which was hers by day and Winthrop's by night. It was early June; the sun was paying his first instalment of summer heat, and doing it as if he were behind-hand with pay-day. Winnie's attic roof gave her a full share of his benefits. The hours of the morning had worn away, when towards noon a slow step was heard ascending the stairs. It was her hostess, come up to look after her.
"All alone?" said Mrs. Nettley.
"Oh yes! —" came with most fervent breath from Winnie. Her head uneasily turned the other cheek to the pillow.
"Poor child!" said Mrs. Nettley; and every line of her careful and sympathetic face said it over again. "Poor child! — And Mr. Winthrop's been away all the morning!"
"I don't know why you call me poor," said Winnie, whose nerves could not bear even that slight touch, if it happened to touch the wrong way; — "Of course he's been away all the morning — he always is."
"And you're tired. I didn't mean poor, dear, in the way that I am poor myself; — not that poor, — I only meant, — because you were so much here all alone without your brother."
"I know what you meant," said Winnie.
"It's hot up here, isn't it," said Mrs. Nettley going to the window. "Dreadful. It's hot down stairs too. Can't we let a little air in?" —
"Don't! It's hotter with it."
Mrs. Nettley left the window and came and stood by Winnie's couch, her face again saying what her voice did not dare to say, — "Poor child!" —
"Mrs. Nettley —"
"What, my love?"
"I'm very cross —"
"No you aren't, my love! you're only tired."
"I'm very cross — I don't know what makes me so — but sometimes I feel so it seems as if I couldn't help it. I'm cross even to Winthrop. I'm very much obliged to you, but you must think I aint."
"I don't think the least thing of the kind, dearest — I know it's miserable and suffocating up here, and you can't feel — I wish I could make it better for you!"
"O it'll be better by and by — when Governor gets home and it grows cool."
"Come down and take a bit of dinner with me."
"O no, thank you, Mrs. Nettley," said Winnie brightening up, — "I don't want anything; and Governor'll be home by and by and then we'll have our dinner. I'm going to broil the chicken and get everything ready."
"Well, that'll be sweeter than anything I've got," said the good lady. — "Why, who's there? —"
Somebody there was, knocking at the door; and when the door was opened, who was there shewed herself in the shape of a young lady, very bright looking and well dressed. She glanced at Mrs. Nettley with a slight word of inquiry and passing her made her way on up to the couch.
"Is this Winifred?" she said, looking, it might be, a little shocked and a little sorrowful at the pale and mind-worn face that used to be so round and rosy; and about which the soft fair hair still clustered as abundantly as ever.
"Yes ma'am," Winifred said, half rising.
"Don't get up, — don't you know me?"
Winnie's eye keenly scanned the bright fresh face that bent over her, but she shook her head and said 'no'.
"Can't you remember my being at your house — some time ago? — me and" she stopped. "Don't you remember? We spent a good while there — one summer — it was when you were a little girl."
"O!" — said Winnie, — "are you —"
"Yes."
"I remember. But you were not so large then, either."
"I am not very large now," said her visiter, taking a chair beside Winnie's couch.
"No. But I didn't know you."
"How do you do, dear?"
"I don't know," said Winnie. "I am not very well now-a-days."
"And Mannahatta is hot and dusty and disagreeable — more than any place you ever were in before in your life, isn't it?"
"I don't care," said Winnie. "I'd rather be with Winthrop."
"And can he make up for dust and heat and bad air and all?"
The smile that broke upon Winnie's face Elizabeth remembered was like that of old time; there was a sparkle in the eyes that looked up at her, the lips had their childish play, and the thin cheek even shewed its dimple again. As she met the look, Elizabeth's own face grew grave and her brow fell; and it was half a minute before she spoke.
"But he cannot be with you a great deal of the time."
"O yes he is," said Winnie; — "he is here in the morning, and at breakfast and dinner and tea, and all the evening. And all Sundays."
"That's the best day of the week then, I suppose."
"It's always that," said Winnie. "And he takes a great many walks with me — every day almost, when it gets cool — we go down on the Green and stay there as long as it's pleasant."
Elizabeth was silent again.
"But doesn't he have studying or writing to do in the evenings? I thought he had."
"O yes," said Winnie, "but then it don't hinder him from talking to me."
"And is he good enough to make you like this place better than your beautiful country home?"
"I would rather be here," said Winnie. But she turned her face a little from her questioner, and though it remained perfectly calm, the eyes filled to overflowing. Elizabeth again paused, and then bending over her where she still lay on her couch, she pressed her own full red lips to Winnie's forehead. The salute was instantly returned upon one of her little kid gloves which Winnie laid hold of.
"You don't know how rich you are, Winifred, to have such a good brother."
"Yes I do," said Winifred. "You don't."
If there was not a rush to Elizabeth's eyes, it was because she fought for it.
"Perhaps I don't," she said quietly; — "for I never had any one. Will you go and ride with me to-morrow, Winifred?"
"Ride?" said Winifred.
"Yes. In my carriage. We'll go out of town."
"O yes! O thank you! I should like it very much."
"You don't look very strong," said Elizabeth. "How is it that you can take such long walks?"
"O Winthrop don't let me get tired you know."
"But how does he manage to help it?" said Elizabeth smiling.
"Can he do everything?"
"I don't know," said Winnie. "He don't let me stand too long, and he doesn't let me walk too fast; and his arm is strong, you know; —he can almost hold me up if I do get tired."
"I have — or my father has," — said Elizabeth, "some very old, very good wine. — I shall send you some. Will you try it? I think it would make you stronger."
"I don't know whether Winthrop would let me drink it."
"Why not?"
"O he don't like me to drink anything but water and milk — he don't let me have tea or coffee — and I don't know whether he'd like wine; — but I'll ask him."
"Don't let you have tea or coffee!"
"No; we drink milk, and water."
"But don't he let you do whatever you have a mind?"
"No," said Winnie; "and I don't want to, either."
"Don't want to do what?"
"Why — anything that he don't like."
"Do you love him well enough for that — not to wish to do what he don't like, Winifred?"
"Yes!" said Winifred. "I think I do. I may wish it at first, of course; but I don't want to do it if he wishes me not."
"How did he ever get such power over you!"
"Power!" said Winnie, raising herself up on her elbow, — "why I don't know what you mean! I should think everybody would do what Winthrop likes — it isn't power."