"'There' will be better at the end of your way, Karen, than at any other time."
"Ay — O I know it, dear; but I get so impatient, days, — I want to be gone. It's better waiting."
"Perhaps you'll have something yet to do for us, Karen," said
Winnie.
"Ye're too fur off," said the old woman. "Karen's done all she can for ye when she's took care of ye this time. But I'll find what I have to do — and I'll do it — and then I'll go!" — she said, with a curious modulation of the tones of her voice that came near some of the Methodist airs in which she delighted. "Governor'll take care o' you, Winnie; and the Lord'll take care o' him!"
Both brother and sister smiled a little at Karen's arrangement of things; but neither contradicted her.
"And how do you manage here, Karen, all alone? — do you keep comfortable?"
"I'm comfortable, Mr. Winthrop," she said with half a smile; —
"I have lived comfortable all my life. I seem to see Mis'
Landholm round now, times, jus' like she used to be; and I
know we'll be soon all together again. I think o' that when
I'm dreary."
She was a singular old figure, as she sat in the corner there with her head a little on one side, leaning her cheek on her finger, and with the quick change of energetic life and subdued patience in her manner.
"Don't get any dinner for us, Karen," said Winthrop as they rose from table. "We have enough for dinner in our basket."
"Ye must take it back again to Mannahatta," said Karen. "Ye'r dinner'll be ready — roast chickens and new potatoes and huckleberry pie — the chickens are just fat, and ye never see nicer potatoes this time o' year; and Anderese don't pick very fast, but he'll have huckleberries enough home for you to eat all the ways ye like. And milk I know ye like'm with, Governor."
"Give me the basket then, Karen, and I'll furnish the huckleberries."
"He'll do it — Anderese'll get 'em, Mr. Winthrop, — not you."
"Give me the basket! — I would rather do it, Karen. Anderese has got to dig the potatoes."
"O yes, and we'll go out and spend the morning in the woods, won't we, Governor?" said his sister.
The basket and Winnie were ready together and the brother and sister struck off into the woods to the north of the house. They had to cross but a little piece of level ground and sunshine and they were under the shade of the evergreens which skirted all the home valley. The ground as soon became uneven and rocky, broken into little heights and hollows, and strewn all over with a bedding of stones, large and small; except where narrow foot-tracks or cowpaths wound along the mimic ravines or gently climbed the hilly ridges. Among these stones and sharing the soil with them, uprose the cedars, pines, hemlocks, and a pretty intermingling of deciduous trees; not of very tall or vigorous growth, for the land favoured them not, but elegant and picturesque in varied and sweet degree. That it pleased those eyes to which it had been long familiar, and long strange, was in no measure.
Leaving the beaten paths, the brother and sister turned to the right of the first little ravine they had entered, just where a large boulder crowned with a tuft of ferns marked the spot, and toiled up a very rough and steep rising. Winthrop's help was needed here to enable Winnie to keep footing at all, much more to make her way to the top. There were steep descents of ground, spread with dead pine leaves, a pretty red-brown carpeting most dainty to the eyes but very unsure to the foot; — there were sharp turns in the rocky way, with huge granitic obstacles before and around them; — Winnie could not keep on her feet without Winthrop's strong arm; although in many a rough pitch and steep rise of the way, young hickories and oaks lent their aid to her hand that was free. Mosses and lichens, brown and black with the summer's heat, clothed the rocks and dressed out their barrenness; green tufts of fern nodded in many a nook, and kept their greenness still; and huckleberry bushes were on every hand, in every spare place, and standing full of the unreaped black and blue harvest. And in the very path, under their feet, sprang many an unassuming little green plant, that in the Spring had lifted its head in glorious beauty with some delicate crown of a flower. A stranger would have made nothing of them; but Winnie and Winthrop knew them all, crowned or uncrowned.
"It's pretty hard getting up here, Governor — I guess I haven't grown strong since I was here last; and these old yellow pines are so rotten I am afraid to take hold of anything — but your hand. It's good you are sure-footed. O look at the Solomon's Seal — don't you wish it was in flower!"
"If it was, we shouldn't have any huckleberries," said her brother.
"There's a fine parcel of them, isn't there, Winthrop? O let's stop and pick these — there are nice ones — and let me rest."
Winnie sat down to breathe, with her arm round the trunk of a pine tree, drinking in everything with her eyes, while that cluster of bushes was stripped of its most promising berries; and then a few steps more brought Winthrop and Winnie to the top of the height.
Greater barrenness of soil, or greater exposure to storms, or both causes together, had left this hill-top comparatively bare; and a few cedars that had lived and died there had been cut away by the axe, for firewood; making a still further clearance. But the shallow soil everywhere supported a covering of short grass or more luxuriant mosses; and enough cedars yet made good their hold of life and standing, to overshadow pretty well the whole ground; leaving the eye unchecked in its upward or downward rovings. The height was about two hundred feet above the level of the river, and seemed to stand in mid-channel, Shahweetah thrusting itself out between the north and southerly courses of the stream, and obliging it to bend for a little space at a sharp angle to the West. The north and south reaches, and the bend were all commanded by the height, together with the whole western shore and southern and south-eastern hills. To the northwest was Wut-a-qut-o, seen almost from the water's edge to the top; but the out-jutting woods of Shahweetah impinged upon the mountain's base, and cut the line of the river there to the eye. But north there was no obstruction. The low foreground of woods over which the hill-top looked, served but as a base to the picture, a setting on the hither side. Beyond it the Shatemuc rolled down from the north in uninterrupted view, the guardian hills, Wut-a-qut-o and its companions, standing on either side; and beyond them, far beyond, was the low western shore of the river sweeping round to the right, where the river made another angle, shewing its soft tints; and some faint and clear blue mountains still further off, the extreme distance of all. But what varied colouring, — what fresh lights and shades, — what sweet contrast of fair blue sky and fair blue river, — the one, earth's motion; the other, heaven's rest; what deep and bright greens in the foreground, and what shadowy, faint, cloud-like, tints of those far off mountains. The soft north wind that had greeted the travellers in the early morning, was blowing yet, soft and warm; it flickered the leaves of the oaks and chestnuts with a lazy summer stir; white sails spotted the broad bosom of the Shatemuc and came down with summer gentleness from the upper reaches of the river. And here and there a cloud floated over; and now and then a locust sang his monotone; and another soft breath of the North wind said that it was August; and the grasshoppers down in the dell said yes, it was.
Winnie sat or lay down under the trees, and there Winthrop left her for a while; when he came back it was with flushed face and crisped hair and a basket full of berries. He threw himself down on the ground beside Winnie, threw his hat off on the other side, and gave her the basket. Winnie set it down again, after a word of comment, and her head took its wonted place of rest with a little smothered sigh.
"How do you feel, Winnie?" said her brother, passing his hand gently over her cheek.
"O I feel very well," said Winnie. "But Governor, I wish you could keep all this! —"
"I couldn't live here and in Mannahatta too, Winnie."
"But Governor, you don't mean always to live in Mannahatta, do you? — and nowhere else?"
"My work is there, Winnie."
"Yes, but you can't play there, Governor."
"I don't want to play," he said gently and lightly.
"But why, Governor?" — said Winnie, whom the remark made uneasy, she couldn't tell why; — "why don't you want to play? why shouldn't you?"
"I feel more appetite for work."
"But you didn't use to be so," said Winnie, raising her head to look at him. "You used to like play as well as anybody, Winthrop?"
"Perhaps I do yet, Winnie, if I had a chance."
"But then what do you mean by your having more appetite for work? and not wanting to play?"
"I suppose it means no more but that the chance is wanting."
"But why is it wanting, Governor?"
"Why are your Solomon's Seals not in flower?"
Winnie turned her head to look at them, and then brought it round again with the uneasiness in full force.
"But Governor! — you don't mean to say that your life is like that?"
"Like what, Winnie?" said he with a pleasant look at her.
"Why, anything so dismal — like the Solomon's Seals with the flower gone?"
"Are they dismal?"
"Why, no, — but you would be, if you were like anything of that kind."
"Do I look like anything of that kind?"
"No," said Winnie, "indeed you don't, — you never look the least bit dismal in the world."
"I am not the least bit in the world, Winnie."
"I wish you had everything in the world that would give you pleasure!" she said, looking at him wistfully, with a vague unselfish consciousness that it might not all be for hers.
"That would be too much for any man's share, Winnie. You would make a Prince in a fairy tale of me."
"Well, what if I would?" said Winnie, half smiling, half sighing, and paying him all sort of leal homage in her heart's core.
"That is not commonly the lot of those who are to reign hereafter in a better kingdom."
Winnie rose up a little so that she could put both hands on his shoulders, and kissed him on forehead and cheeks; most loving kisses.
"But dear Governor, it isn't wrong for me to wish you to have both things, is it?"
"I hope not, dear Winnie. I don't think your wishes will do any mischief. But I am content to be here to-day."
"Are you? do you enjoy it?" she asked eagerly.
"Very much."
"I am so glad! I was afraid somehow you didn't — as much as I did. But I am sorry you can't keep it, Governor. Isn't it all beautiful? I didn't know it was so delightful as it is."
And Winnie sighed her wish over again.
"You can't have your possessions in both worlds, Winnie."
"No, — and I don't want to."
"You only wish that I could," he said smiling.
"Well, Winthrop, — I can't help that."
"I am in better hands than yours, Winnie. Look at that shadow creeping down the mountain."
"It's from that little white cloud up there," said Winnie. "O how beautiful! —"
"You see how something that is bright enough in itself may cast a shadow," he said.
"Was that what you thought of when you told me to look at it?"
"No, — not at that minute."
"But then we can see the cloud and we know that it is bright."
"And in the other case we don't see the cloud and we know that it is bright. 'We know that all things shall work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose!'"
"But Governor, what are you talking of?"
"That little cloud which is rolling away from Wut-a-qut-o."
"But what cloud is over you, or rolling away from you?"
"I thought the whole land was in shadow to you, Winnie, because I cannot buy it."
"Why no it isn't," said Winnie. "It never looked so bright to me. It never seemed near so beautiful when it was ours."
"The other land never seemed so bright and never will seem so beautiful, as when it is ours. 'Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty; they shall behold the land that is very far off.'"
Winnie smiled a most rested, pleased, gratified smile at him; and turned to another subject.
"I wonder what's become of your old little boat, Governor — the Merry-go-round?"
"I suppose it is lying in the barn-loft yet," he replied rather gravely.
"I wonder if it is all gone to pieces."
"I should think not. Why?"
"I was looking at the river and thinking how pleasant it would be to go out on it, if we could."
"If we can get home, Winnie, I'll see how the matter stands."
"I don't want to go home," said Winnie.
"But I want to have you. And Karen will want the huckleberries."
"Well — I'll go," said Winnie. "But we'll come again, Governor — won't we?"
"As often as you please. Now shall I carry you?"
"O no!"
But Winthrop presently judged of that also for himself, and taking his little sister on one arm, made his way steadily and swiftly down to the level ground.
"You're a good climber," was Winnie's remark when he set her on her feet again. "And I don't know but I was once. I've almost forgotten. But it's as good to have you carry me, and to see you do it."
The Merry-go-round was found in good condition, only with her seams a little, or not a little, opened. That trouble however was got over by the help of a little caulking and submersion and time; and she floated again as lightly as ever. Some days still passed, owing to weather or other causes, before the first evening came when they went out to try her.
That evening, — it was the seventeenth of August, and very fair, — they went down to the rocks, just when the afternoon had grown cool in the edge of the evening. Winnie put herself in the stern of the little white boat, and Winthrop took his old place and the oars. Winnie's eyes were sparkling.
"It will be harder work to pull than it used to be," she remarked joyously, — "you're so out of the habit of it."
Winthrop only replied by pushing the little skiff off.
"However," continued Winnie, "I guess it isn't much to pull me anywhere."
"Which way shall we go?" said Winthrop, one or two slow strokes of his oar sending the little boat forward in a way that made Winnie smile.
"I don't know — I want to go everywhere — Let's go up, Winthrop, and see how it looks — Let's go over under Wut-a- qut-o. O how beautiful it is, Winthrop! —"
Winthrop said nothing, but a repetition of those leisurely strokes brought the boat swiftly past the cedars and rocks of Shahweetah's shore and then out to the middle of the river, gradually drawing nearer to the other side. But when the mid- river was gained, high enough up to be clear of the obstructing point of Shahweetah, Winnie's ecstatic cry of delight brought Winthrop's head round; and with that he lay upon his oars and looked too. He might. The mountains and the northern sky and clouds were all floating as it were in a warm flush of light — it was upon the clouds, and through the air, and upon the mountains' sides, — so fair, so clear, but beyond that, so rich in its glowing suffusion of beauty, that eyes and tongue were stayed, — the one from leaving the subject, the other from touching it. Winthrop's oars lay still, the drops falling more and more slowly from the wet blades. The first word was a half awed whisper from Winnie —
"O Winthrop, — did you ever see it look so?"
The oars dipped again, and again lay still.
"Winthrop, this isn't much like Mannahatta!" Winnie said next, under breath.
The oars dipped again, and this time to purpose. The boat began to move slowly onward.
"But Winthrop you don't say anything?" Winnie said uneasily.
"I don't know how."
"I wish I could keep a picture of that," she went on with regretful accent as her eyes turned again to the wonderful scene before them in the north, floating as it seemed in that living soft glow.
"I shall keep a picture of it," said Winthrop.
Winnie sighed her regrets again, and then resigned herself to looking with her present eyes, while the little boat moved steadily on and the view was constantly changing; till they were close under the shadow of Wut-a-qut-o, and from beneath its high green and grey precipice rising just above them, only the long sunny reach of the eastern shore remained in view. They looked at it, till the sunset began to make a change.
"O Winthrop, there is Bright Spot," said Winnie, as her head came round to the less highly coloured western shore.
"Yes," — said Winthrop, letting the boat drop a little down from under the mountain.
"How it has grown up! — and what are all those bushes at the water's edge?"
"Alders. Look at those clouds in the south."
There lay, crossing the whole breadth of the river, a spread of close-folded masses of cloud, the under edges of which the sun touched, making a long network of salmon or flame-coloured lines. And then above the near bright-leaved horizon of foliage that rose over Bright Spot, the western sky was brilliantly clear; flecked with little reaches of cloud stretching upwards and coloured with fairy sunlight colours, gold, purple, and rose, in a very witchery of mingling.
Winthrop pushed the boat gently out a little further from the shore, and they sat looking, hardly bearing to take their eyes from the cloud kaleidoscope above them, or to speak, the mind had so much to do at the eyes. Only a glance now and then for contrast of beauty, at the south, and to the north where two or three little masses of grey hung in the clear sky. Gently Winthrop's oars dipped from time to time, bringing them a little further from the western shore and within fuller view of the opening in the mountains. As they went, a purplish shade came upon the grey masses in the north; — the sunlight colours over Bright Spot took richer and deeper hues of purple and red; the salmon network in the south changed for rose. And then, before they had got far, the moon's crescent, two or three days old, a glittering silver thread, hung itself out amid the bright rosy flecks of cloud in the west just hard by the mountain's brow. Winnie had to look sharp to find it.
"And there is Venus too," said Winthrop; — "look at her."
"Where?"
"In the blue — a little lower down than the moon; and further to the south — do you see? —"
"That white bright star? — O how beautiful! — in that clear blue sky. O how bright! — how much brighter than the moon, Winthrop?"
"Yes, — she has a way of looking bright."
"How did you know it was Venus, or how do you know?"
"Very much in the same way that I know it is Winnie. I have seen her before. I never saw those clouds before."
"Did you ever see such clouds before! And how long they stay,
Winthrop. O what a place!"
Slowly the little boat pulled over the river, getting further and further from Bright Spot and its bright bit of sky scenery, which faded and changed very slowly as they sailed away. They neared the high rocky point of Shahweetah, and then instead of turning down the river, kept an easterly course along the low woody shore which stretched back from the point. As they went on, and as the clouds lost their glory, the sky in the west over Wut-a-qut-o's head tinged itself with violet and grew to an opal light, the white flushing up liquidly into rosy violet, which in the northeast quarter of the horizon melted away to a clear grave blue.
"It's more beautiful than the clouds," said Winnie.
"It is a wonderful evening," said Winthrop, as he set his oars more earnestly in the water and the little boat skimmed along.
"But dear Governor, where are you going?"
"Going to land, somewhere."
"To land! But it'll be time to go home, won't it? We're a great way from there."
"We'll take a short cut home," said Winthrop, looking round for a place to execute his purpose.
"How can you?"
"Through the woods. Wouldn't you like it? You've had no exercise to-day."
"O I'd like it. But what will you do with the boat? leave her here? — O in the Aegean sea, Winthrop!"
"That is what I am steering for," said her brother. "But I want to see the after-glow come out first."
The 'Aegean Sea' was a little bay-like cove on the north side of Shahweetah; to which a number of little rock-heads rising out of the water, or some freak of play, had long ago given its classic name. Winthrop pushed his boat to the shore there, and made her fast; and then he and Winnie waited for the after-glow. But it was long coming and the twilight grew on; and at last they left the bay and plunged into the woods. A few steps brought them to a path, which rough and untravelled as it was, their knowledge of the land enabled them easily to follow. Easily for all but their feet. Winnie's would have faltered utterly, so rough, stony, and broken it was, without her brother's strong arm; but helped and led and lifted by him, she went on joyously through the gathering gloom and under the leafy canopy that shut out all the sky and all knowledge of the after-glow, if it came. But when they had got free of the woods, and had come out upon the little open cedar field that was on the river side of Shahweetah, near home, — there it was! Over Wut-a-qut-o's head lay a solid little long mass of cloud with its under edges close-lined with fine deep beautiful red. The opal light was all gone; the face of the heavens was all clear blue, in the gravity of twilight. Venus and the moon were there yet, almost down — bright as ever; the moon more brilliant and bright; for now the contrast of her sharp crescent was with Wut-a-qut-o's dark shadowy side.
That was the beginning of that August boating. And often again as in old times the little skiff flew over the water, in the shadow of the mountain and the sunlight of the bay, coasting the shores, making acquaintance with the evergreens and oaks that skirted them and looked over into the water's edge. Where once Elizabeth had gone, Winthrop and Winnie with swifter and surer progress went; many an hour, in the early and the late sunbeams. For those weeks that they stayed, they lived in the beauties of the land, rather than according to old Karen's wish, on the fatness of it.
But she did her best; and when at last Winthrop must return to his business, and they bid her good bye and left her and Wut- a-qut-o once more, the old woman declared even while she was wiping the eyes that would not be dry, that their coming had "done both of 'em real good — a power of it — and her too."
"He hasn't his beat in this country," she said to old Anderese her brother, as she was trying to take up again her wonted walk through the house. — "And she, dear thing! ain't long for this world; but she's ready for a better."
CHAPTER V.
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall at last a log, dry, bald, and sear.
A lily of a day
Is fairer far, in May.
BEN JONSON.
"What has become of the Landholms?" said Mr. Haye's young wife, one evening in the end of December.
"Confound the Landholms!" — was Mr. Haye's answering ejaculation, as he kicked his bootjack out of the way of his just-slippered foot.
"Why Mr. Haye!" said Rose, bridling over her netting-work.
"What have the Landholms done?"
"Done!"
"Well, what have they?"
"One of them won't pay me his dues, and the other is fighting me for trying to get them," said Mr. Haye, looking at the evening paper with infinite disgust.
"What dues?"
"And what fighting, Mr. Haye?" said Elizabeth and Rose in a breath.
"I can't answer you if you both speak at once."
"Well, what do you mean by fighting, Mr. Haye?"
"Fighting."
"Well, but what sort?" said Rose laughing, while the other lady laid down her book and waited.
"With his own cursed weapons."
"And what are those, Mr. Haye? you haven't told us which of the Landholms you mean, yet."
"One of 'em hasn't any weapons but his fists and his tongue," said Mr. Haye. "He hasn't tried the first on me — I have some small knowledge of the last."
"What has the other done?" said Elizabeth.
"He is doing what he can, to hinder my getting my rights of his brother."
"What does his brother owe you?"
"Money, —" said Mr. Haye shortly.
"I suppose so. But what for?"
"Business! What does it signify what for?"
"I should like to know, father. It must be something which can be told."
"He bought cotton of me."
"Can he pay for it?"
"I suppose so. I'll try."
"But what is his brother doing?"
"Trying to hinder, as I told you."
"But how? How can he?"
"Don't ask me what lawyers can or can't do. They can put their fingers into any dirty job that offers!"
Elizabeth sat silent a minute with a very disturbed look. Rose had gone back to her netting, only glancing up once in a while at the faces of the other two.
"Upon what plea does he pretend to hinder it, father?"
"A plea he won't be able to bear out, I fancy," said Mr. Haye, turning round in his chair so as to bring his other side to the fire, and not ceasing to look at the paper all this while.
"But what?"
"What does it signify what! Something you can't understand."
"I can understand it, father; and I want to know."
"A plea of fraud, on my part, in selling the cotton. I suppose you would like to cultivate his acquaintance after that."
Elizabeth sat back in her seat with a little start, and did not speak again during the conversation. Rose looked up from her mesh-stick and poured out a flood of indignant and somewhat incoherent words; to which Mr. Haye responded briefly, as a man who was not fond of the subject, and finally put an end to them by taking the paper and walking off. Elizabeth changed her position then for a low seat, and resting her chin on her hand sat looking into the fire with eyes in which there burned a dark glow that rivalled it.
"Lizzie," said her companion, "did you ever hear of such a thing!"
"Not 'such a thing,'" she answered.
"Aren't you as provoked as you can be?"
"'Provoked' is not exactly the word," Elizabeth replied.
"Well you know what to think of Winthrop Landholm now, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Aren't you surprised?"
"I wish I could never be surprised again," she answered, laying her head down for an instant on her lap; but then giving it the position it held before.
"You take it coolly!" said Rose, jerking away at her netting.
"Do I? You don't."
"No, and I shouldn't think you would. Don't you hate those
Landholms?"
"No."
"Don't you! You ought. What are you looking at in the fire?"
"Winthrop Landholm, — just at that minute."
"I do believe," said Rose indignantly, "you like Winthrop
Landholm better than you do Mr. Haye!"
Elizabeth's eyes glared at her, but though there seemed a moment's readiness to speak, she did not speak, but presently rose up and quitted the room. She went to her own; locked the door, and sat down. There was a moment's quiver of the lip and drawing of the brow, while the eyes in their fire seemed to throw off sparks from the volcano below; and then the head bent, with a cry of pain, and the flood of sorrow broke; so bitter, that she sometimes pressed both hands to her head, as if it were in danger of parting in two. The proud forehead was stooped to the knees, and the shoulders convulsed in her agony. And it lasted long. Half hour and half hour passed before the struggle was over and Elizabeth had quieted herself enough to go to bed. When at last she rose to begin the business of undressing, she startled not a little to see her handmaid Clam present herself.
"When did you come in?" said Elizabeth after a moment's hesitation.
"When the door opened," said Clam collectedly.
"How long ago?"
"How long have you been here, do you s'pose, Miss 'Lizabeth?"
"That's not an answer to my question."
"Not ezackly," said Clam; "but if you'd tell, I could give a better guess."
Elizabeth kept a vexed silence for a little while.
"Well Clam," she said when she had made up her mind, "I have just one word to say to you — keep your tongue between your teeth about all my concerns. You are quite wise enough, and I hope, good enough for that."
"I ain't so bad I mightn't be better," said Clam picking up her mistress's scattered things. "Mr. Winthrop didn't give up all hopes of me. I 'spect he'll bring us all right some of these days."
With which sentence, delivered in a most oracular and encouraging tone, Clam departed; for Elizabeth made no answer thereto.
The next morning, after having securely locked herself into her room for an hour or more, Elizabeth summoned her handmaid.
"I want you to put on your bonnet, Clam, and take this note for me up to Mr. Landholm's; and give it with your own hand to him or to his sister."
Clam rather looked her intelligence than gave any other sign of it.
"If he's out, shall I wait till I see him?"
"No, — give it to his sister."
"I may put on more than my bonnet, mayn't I, Miss 'Lizabeth? This won't keep me warm, with the snow on the ground."
But Elizabeth did not choose to hear; and Clam went off with the note.
Much against her expectations, she found Mr. Winthrop at home and in his room, and his sister not there.
"Mornin', Mr. Winthrop!" said Clam, with more of a courtesy than she ever vouchsafed to her mistress or to any one else whomsoever. He came forward and shook her hand very kindly and made her sit down by the fire. The black girl's eyes followed him, as if, though she didn't say it, it was good to see him again.
"What's the word with you, Clam?"
"'Tain't with me — the word's with you, Mr. Winthrop."
"What is it?"
"I don' know, sir. I've nothin' to do but to bring it."
"How do you do this cold day?"
"I ain't cold," said Clam. "I bethought me to put my cloak on my shoulders. Miss 'Lizabeth wanted me to come off with only my bonnet."
And she produced the note, which Winthrop looked at and laid on the table.
"How is Miss Elizabeth?"
"She's sort o'," said Clam. "She has her ups and downs like other folks. She was down last night and she's up this mornin' — part way."
"I hope she is pleased with you, Clam."
"She ain't pleased with anything, much," said Clam; "so it can't be expected. I believe she's pleased with me as much as with anything else in our house. Last night she was cryin' as if her head would split — by the hour long."
"That is not part of your word to me, is it?"
"Not just," said Clam. "Mr. Winthrop, will you have me come back for an answer?"
"Did Miss Elizabeth desire it?"
"I guess so," said Clam. "But she didn't tell me to come but once."
"Then don't come again."
Clam rose to go and settled her cloak as she moved towards the door.
"If she sends me I may come again, mayn't I, Mr. Winthrop?" she said pausing.
"Yes," he said with a smile; but it was a very little bit of one.
"How is Winifred?" said Clam.
"She is not well."
The smile had entirely passed away; his face was more grave than ever.
"Is she more than common unwell?"
"Yes. Very much."
"Can I go in and see her, Mr. Winthrop?"
"Yes, if you please."
Clam went; and Winthrop took up Elizabeth's note.
"No 11 Parade, Dec. 20, 1821.
"I have just heard, briefly and vaguely, of the difficulties between my father and your brother, and of the remedies you, Mr. Landholm, are employing. I do not know the truth nor the details of anything beyond the bare outlines. Those are enough, and more than I know how to bear. I don't wish to have anything explained to me. But Mr. Landholm, grant me one favour — you must grant it, if you please — do not let it be explained any further to anybody. All you want, I suppose, is to see your brother righted. I will pay the utmost of what is due to him. I do not understand how the business lies — but I will furnish all the money that is wanting to set it right and put an end to these proceedings, if you will only let me know what it is. Please let me know it, and let me do this, Mr. Landholm; it is my right; and I need not ask you, keep my knowledge of it secret from everybody. I am sure you must see that what I ask is my right.
"Elizabeth Haye."
Winthrop had hardly more than time to read this when Clam put herself within his door again, shutting it at her back.
"If the Governor'll let me," she said, "I'll come and take care of her; — or I'll run up and down stairs, from the bottom to the top, — whichever's useful."
"It is very kind of you, Clam. Winnie and I thank you very much. But your mistress will want you."
"She won't. She'll want me here. Let me come, Governor. I shan't do nothin' for Miss 'Lizabeth if I stay with her."
"Go and do all she wants you to do. No, I can't let you come.
My sister is taken care of."
"She'd be that where you are," muttered Clam as she went out and went down the stairs, — "and so would anybody else. I wish some of the rest of us had a chance. Well — maybe we'll get it yet! —"
She found Elizabeth at her desk where she had left her, waiting.
"Did you find him?"
"Yes, miss."
"And you gave him the note?"
"No, miss — I mean, yes, miss."
"Don't say 'miss' in that kind of way. Put a name to it."
"What name?" said Clam.
"Any one you like. Did you see anybody else?"
"I see the brother and the sister," said Clam. "The brother was never lookin' better, and the sister was never lookin' worse; — she ain't lookin' bad, neither."
"Is she ill?"
"She's lyin' abed, and so far from bein' well that she'll never be well again."
"She hasn't been well this great while, Clam; that's nothing new."
"This is," said Clam.
"Does her brother think she is very ill?"
"He knows more about it than I do," said Clam. "I said I would go to take care of her, and he said I wouldn't, for you'd be a wantin' me."
"I don't want you at all!" said Elizabeth, — "if you could be of any use. Are you quiet and careful enough for a nurse?"
"Firstrate!" — said Clam; — "no, I guess I'm not ezackly, here; but I were, up to Wutsey-Qutsey."
"Up where?" said Elizabeth.
"Yes, miss."
"I told you not to speak to me so."
Clam stood and gave no sign.
"Do you think you could be of any use up there, Clam?"
"Mr. Winthrop says everybody can be of use."
"Then go and try; I don't want you; and stay as long as they would like to have you."
"When will I go, Mis' Landholm?"
"What?"
"I asked Mis' Landholm, when will I go."
"What do you mean, Clam!"
"You said call you any name I liked — and I like that 'bout as well as any one," said Clam sturdily.
"But it isn't my name."
"I wish 'twas," said Clam; — "no, I don' know as I do, neither; but it comes kind o' handy."
"Make some other serve your turn," said Elizabeth gravely. "Go up this afternoon, and say I don't want you and shall be most happy if you can be of any service to Miss Winifred."
"Or Mr. Winthrop —" said Clam. "I'll do all I can for both of 'em, Miss 'Lizabeth."
She was not permitted to do much. She went and stayed a night and a day, and served well; but Winifred did not like her company, and at last confessed to Winthrop that she could not bear to have her about. It was of no use to reason the matter; and Clam was sent home. The answer to Elizabeth's note came just before her handmaiden, by some other conveyance.
"Little South St. Dec. 21, 1821.
"Your note, Miss Haye, has put me in some difficulty, but after a good deal of consideration I have made up my mind to allow the 'right' you claim. It is your right, and I have no right to deprive you of it. Yet the difficulty reaches further still; for without details, which you waive, the result which you wish to know must stand upon my word alone. I dislike exceedingly it should so stand; but I am constrained here also to admit, that if you choose to trust me rather than have the trouble of the accounts, it is just that you should have your choice.
"My brother's owing to Mr. Haye, for which he is held responsible, is in the sum of eleven hundred and forty-one dollars.
"I have the honour to be, with great respect,
"Winthrop Landholm."
Elizabeth read and re-read.
"It is very polite — it is very handsome — nothing could be clearer from any shadow of implications or insinuations — no, nor of anything but 'great respect' either," she said to herself. "It's very good of him to trust and understand me and give me just what I want, without any palaver. That isn't like common people, any more. Well, my note wasn't, either. But he hasn't said a word but just what was necessary. — Well, why should he? —"
She looked up and saw Clam.
"What's brought you back again?"
"I don' know," said Clam. "My two feet ha' brought me, but I don' know what sent me."
"Why did you come then?"
"'Cause I had to," said Clam. "Nothin' else wouldn't ha' made me. I told you it was good livin' with him. I'd stay as long as I got a chance, if I was anybody!"
"Then what made you come home?"
"I don' know," said Clam. "He wouldn't let me stay. He don't stop to make everything clear; he thinks it's good enough for him to say so; and so it is, I suppose; and he told me to come."
"I am afraid you didn't do your duty well."
"I'd like to see who wouldn't," said Clam. "I did mine as well as he did his'n."
"How is Winifred?"
"She's pretty bad. I guess he don't think he'll have much more of her, and he means to have all he can these last days. And she thinks she's almost in Paradise when he's alongside of her."
Elizabeth laid her face down and asked no more questions.
But she concerned herself greatly to know how much and what she might do in the premises, to shew her kind feeling and remembrance, without doing too much. She sent Clam once with jellies; then she would not do that again. Should she go to see Winifred herself? Inclination said yes; and backed its consent with sundry arguments. It was polite and kind; and everybody likes kindness; she had known Winifred, and her brother, long ago, and had received kindness in the family, yes, even just now from Winthrop himself; and though his visiting had so long been at an end, this late intercourse of notes and business gave her an opening. And probably Winifred had very few friends in the city to look after her. And again inclination said "Go." But then came in another feeling that said "Go not. You have not opening enough. Mr. Landholm's long and utter cessation of visits, from whatever cause, says plainly enough that he does not desire the pleasure of your society; don't do anything that even looks like forcing it upon him. People will give it a name that will not please you." "But then," said inclination on the other hand, "my going could not have that air, to him, for he knows and I know that in the existing state of affairs it is perfectly impossible that he should ever enter the doors of my father's house — let me do what I will." "People don't know as much," said the other feeling; "err on the safe side if at all, and stay at home." "And I don't care much for people," — said Elizabeth.
It was so uncommon a thing for her to find any self-imposed check upon what she wished to do, that Miss Haye was very much puzzled; and tried and annoyed out of all proportion by her self-consultations. She was in a fidget of uneasiness all day long; and the next was no better.
"What is the matter, Lizzie?" said Rose, as she busily threaded her netting-needle through mesh after mesh, and Elizabeth was patiently or impatiently measuring the length of the parlour with her steps. "You look as if you had lost all your friends."
"Do I?"
"Yes. Why do you look so?"
"What is the difference between losing all one's friends, and having none to lose?"
"Why — haven't you any?"
"Whom have I?"
"Well, you might have. I am sure I have a great many."
"Friends!" said Elizabeth.
"Well — I don't know who you call friends," said Rose, breaking her silk with an impatient tug at a knot, — "There! — dear! how shall I tie it again? — I should think you needn't look so glum."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Why — because. You have everything in the world."
"Have I?" said Elizabeth bitterly. "I am alone as I can be."
"Alone!" said Rose.
"Yes. I am alone. My father is buried in his business; I have nothing of him, even what I might have, or used to have — you never were anything to me. There is not a face in the world that my heart jumps to see."
"Except that one?" said Rose.
"'That one,' as you elegantly express it, I do not see, as it happens."
"It's a pity he didn't know what effect his coming and looking in at our windows might have," said Rose. "I am sure he would be good enough to do it."
But Elizabeth thought a retort unworthy of the subject; or else her mind was full of other things; for after a dignified silence of a few minutes she left Rose and went to her own quarters. Perhaps the slight antagonistic spirit which was raised by Rose's talk came in aid of her wavering inclinations, or brought back her mind to its old tone of wilfulness; for she decided at once that she would go and see Winifred. She had a further reason for going, she said to herself, in the matter of the money which she wished to convey to Winthrop's hands. She did not want to send Clam with it; she did not like to commit it to the post; there was no other way but to give it to him herself; and that, she said, she would do; or to Winifred's hands for him.
She left home accordingly, when the morning was about half gone, and set out for Little South Street; with a quick but less firm step than usual, speaking both doubt and decision. Decision enough to carry her soon and without stopping to her place of destination, and doubt enough to make her tremble when she got there. But without pausing she went in, mounted the stairs, with the same quick footstep, and tapped at the door, as she had been accustomed to do on her former visits to Winifred.
No gentle voice said "come in," however, and the step which Elizabeth heard withinside after her knock, was not Winifred's. She had not expected that it would be; she had no reason to suppose that Winifred was well enough to be moving about as usual, and she was not surprised to see Winthrop open the door. The shadow of a surprise crossed his face for an instant, — then bowing, he stepped back and opened the door wide for her to enter; but there was not the shadow of a smile.
"Well, you do look wonderfully grave!" was Elizabeth's thought as her foot crossed the threshold, — "I wonder if I am doing something dreadful —"
And the instant impulse was to account for her being there, by presenting her business — not the business she had intended to mention first.
She came in and stood by the table and began to speak; then he placed a chair for her, and after a second of hesitation she sat down. She was embarrassed for a minute, then she looked up and looked him full in the face.
"Mr. Landholm, I am exceedingly obliged to you for your kindness in this late business, — you were very good to me."
"It was not kindness — I felt you had a right to ask what I could not refuse, Miss Elizabeth."
"I have come to bring you the money which I did not like to get to you by any other means."
She handed it to him, and he took it and counted it over. Elizabeth sat looking on, musing how tremulous her own hand had been, and how very cool and firm his was; and thinking that whatever were said by some people, there certainly was character in some hands.
"This will be handed to Mr. Haye," he said, as he finished the counting, — "and all the proceedings will fall to the ground at once."
"Thank you."
"I cannot receive any thanks, Miss Elizabeth. I am merely an agent, doing what I have been obliged to conclude was my duty."
"I must thank you, though," said Elizabeth. "I feel so much relieved. You are not obliged to disclose my name to Mr. Rufus Landholm?"
"Not at all. To no one."
"That is all my excuse for being here," said Elizabeth with a slight hesitation, — "except I thought I might take the privilege of old friendship to come and see your sister."
"Thank you," he said in his turn, but without raising his eyes. Yet it was not coldly spoken. Elizabeth did not know what to think of him.
"Can I see her, Mr. Landholm? Is she well enough to see me?"
He looked up then; and there was, hardly a smile, but a singular light upon his whole face, that made Elizabeth feel exceedingly grave.
"She is well, but she will not see you again, Miss Elizabeth.
Winnie has left me."
"Left! —" said Elizabeth bewildered.
"Yes. She has gone to her home. Winnie died yesterday morning,
Miss Haye."
Elizabeth met the clear intent eye which, she did not know why, fixed hers while he spoke; and then dropping her own, trembled greatly with constrained feeling. She could not tell in the least how to answer, either words or look; but it would have been impossible for her to stir an inch from the spot where she stood.
"Does it seem terrible to you?" he said. "It need not. Will you see her?"
Elizabeth wished very strongly not; but as she hesitated how to speak, he had gently taken her hand and was leading her forward out of the room; and Elizabeth could not draw away her hand nor hinder the action of his; she let him lead her whither he would.
"Are you afraid?" he said, as he paused with his hand upon the door of the other room. Elizabeth uttered an incomprehensible 'no,' and they went in.
"There is no need," he said again in a gentle grave tone as he led her to the side of the bed and then let go her hand. Elizabeth stood where he had placed her, like a person under a spell.
'There was no need' indeed, she confessed to herself, half unconsciously, for all her thoughts were in a terrible whirl. Winnie's face looked as though it might have been the prison of a released angel. Nothing but its sweetness and purity was left, of all that disease and weariness had ever wrought there; the very fair and delicate skin and the clustering sunny locks seemed like angel trappings left behind. Innocence and rest were the two prevailing expressions of the face, — entire, both seemed. Elizabeth stood looking, at first awe- stricken; but presently thoughts and feelings, many and different ones, began to rise and crowd upon one another with struggling force. She stood still and motionless, all the more.
"There is no pain in looking there?" said her companion softly. Elizabeth's lips formed the same unintelligible 'no,' which her voice failed to bring out.
"Little sleeper!" said Winthrop, combing back with his fingers the golden curls, which returned instantly to their former position, — "she has done her work. She has begun upon her rest. I have reason to thank God that ever she lived. — I shall see the day when I can quietly thank him that she has died."
Elizabeth trembled, and in her heart prayed Winthrop not to say another word.
"Does not this face look, Miss Haye, as if its once owner had 'entered into peace?'"
If worlds had depended on Elizabeth's answering, she could not have spoken. She could not look at the eye which, she knew, as this question was put, sought hers; her own rested only on the hand that was moving back those golden locks, and on the white brow it touched; she dared not stir. The contact of those two, and the signification of them, was as much as she could bear, without any help. She knew his eye was upon her.
"Isn't it worth while," he said, "to have such a sure foothold in that other world, that the signal for removing thither shall be a signal of peace?"
Elizabeth bowed her head low in answer.
"Have you it?" was his next question. He had left the bed's side and stood by hers.
Elizabeth wrung her hands and threw them apart with almost a cry, — "Oh I would give uncounted worlds if I had! —"
And the channel being once opened, the seal of silence and reserve taken off, her passion of feeling burst forth into wild weeping that shook her from head to foot. Involuntarily she took hold of the bedpost to stay herself, and clung to it, bending her head there like a broken reed.
She felt even at the time, and remembered better afterwards, how gently and kindly she was drawn away from there and taken back into the other room and made to sit down. She could do nothing at the moment but yield to the tempest of feeling, in which it seemed as if every wind of heaven shook her by turns. When at last it had passed over, the violence of it, and she took command of herself again, it was even then with a very sobered and sad mind. As if, she thought afterwards, as if that storm had been, like some storms in the natural world, the forerunner and usher of a permanent change of weather. She looked up at Winthrop, when she was quieted and he brought her a glass of water, not like the person that had looked at him when she first came in. He waited till she had drunk the water and was to appearance quite mistress of herself again.
"You must not go yet," he said, as she was making some movement towards it; — "you are cold. You must wait till you are warmed."
He mended the fire and placed a chair for her, and handed her to it. Elizabeth did as she was bade, like a child; and sat there before the fire a little while, unable to keep quiet tears from coming and coming again.
"I don't know what you must think of me, Mr. Winthrop," she said at last, when she was about ready to go. "I could not help myself. — I have never seen death before."
"You must see it again, Miss Elizabeth; — you must meet it face to face."
She looked up at him as he said it, with eager eyes, from which tears ran yet, and that were very expressive in the intensity of their gaze. His were not less intent, but as gentle and calm as hers were troubled.
"Are you ready?" he added.
She shook her head, still looking at him, and her lips formed that voiceless 'no.' She never forgot the face with which he turned away, — the face of grave gentleness, of sweet gravity, — all the volume of reproof, of counsel, of truth, that was in that look. But it was truth that, as it was known to him, he seemed to assume to be known to her; he did not open his lips.
Elizabeth rose; she must go; she would have given a world to have him say something more. But he stood and saw her put on her gloves and arrange her cloak for going out, and he said nothing. Elizabeth longed to ask him the question, "What must I do?" — she longed and almost lingered to ask it; — but something, she did not know what, stopped her and choked her, and she did not ask it. He saw her down to the street, in silence on both sides, and they parted there, with a single grasp of the hand. That said something again; and Elizabeth cried all the way home, and was well nigh sick by the time she got there.
CHAPTER VI.
How now?
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
TWELFTH NIGHT.
Miss Haye came down to breakfast the next morning; but after little more than a nominal presentation of herself there, she escaped from Rose's looks and words of comment and innuendo and regained her own room. And there she sat down in the window to muse, having carefully locked out Clam. She had reason. Clam would certainly have decided that her mistress 'wanted fixing,' if she could have watched the glowing intent eyes with which Elizabeth was going deep into some subject — it might be herself, or some other. Herself it was.
"Well," — she thought, very unconscious how clearly one of the houses on the opposite side of the street was defined on the retina of either eye, — "I have learned two things by my precious yesterday's expedition, that I didn't know before — or that if I did, it was in a sort of latent, unrecognized way; — two pretty important things! — That I wish I was a Christian, — yes, I do, — and that there is a person in the world who don't care a pin for me, whom I would lay down my life for! — How people would laugh at me if they knew it — and just because themselves they are not capable of it, and cannot understand it. — Why shouldn't I like what is worthy to be liked? — why shouldn't I love it? It is to my honour that I do! — Because he don't like me, people would say; — and why should he like me? or what difference does it make? It is not a fine face or a fair manner that has taken me — if it were, I should be only a fool like a great many others; — it is those things which will be as beautiful in heaven as they are here — the beauty of goodness — of truth — and fine character. — Why should I not love it when I see it? I shall not see it often in my life-time. And what has his liking of me to do with it? How should he like me! The very reasons for which I look at him would hinder his ever looking at me — and ought. I am not good, — not good enough for him to look at me; there are good things in me, but all run wild, or other things running wild over them. I am not worthy to be spoken of in the day that his name is mentioned. I wish I was good! — I wish I was a Christian! — but I know one half of that wish is because he is a Christian. —That's the sort of power that human beings have over each other! The beauty of religion, in him, has drawn me more, unspeakably, than all the sermons I ever heard in my life. What a beautiful thing such a Christian is! — what living preaching! — and without a word said. Without a word said, — it is in the eye, the brow, the lips, — the very carriage has the dignity of one who isn't a piece of this world. Why aren't there more such! — and this is the only one that ever I knew! — of all I have seen that called themselves Christians. — Would any possible combination ever make me such a person? — Never! — never. I shall be a rough piece of Christianity if ever I am one at all. But I don't even know what it is to be one. Oh, why couldn't he say three words more yesterday! But he acted — and looked — as if I could do without them. What did he mean! —"
When she had got to this point, Elizabeth left her seat by the window and crossed the room to a large wardrobe closet, on a high shelf of which sundry unused articles of lumber had found a hiding place. And having fetched a chair in, she mounted upon the top of it and rummaged, till there came to her hand a certain old bible which had belonged once to her mother or her grandmother. Elizabeth hardly knew which, but had kept a vague recollection of the book's being in existence and of its having been thrust away up on that shelf. She brought it down and dusted off the tokens of many a month's forgetfulness and dishonour; and with an odd sense of the hands to which it had once been familiar and precious, and of the distant influence under the power of which it was now in her own hands, she laid it on the bed, and half curiously, half fearfully, opened it. The book had once been in hands that loved it, for it was ready of itself to lie open at several places. Elizabeth turned the leaves aimlessly, and finally left it spread at one of these open places; and with both elbows resting on the bed and both hands supporting her head, looked to see what she was to find there. It chanced to be the beginning of the 119th psalm.
"BLESSED ARE THE UNDEFILED IN THE WAY, WHO WALK IN THE LAW OF THE LORD."
By what thread of association was it, that the water rushed to her eyes when they read this, and for some minutes hindered her seeing another word, except through a veil of tears?
"Am I becoming a Christian?" she said to herself. "But something more must be wanting than merely to be sorry that I am not what he is. How every upright look and word bear witness that this description belongs to him. And I — I am out of 'the way' altogether."
"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT KEEP HIS TESTIMONIES, AND THAT SEEK HIM WITH THE WHOLE HEART."
"'Keep his testimonies,'" said Elizabeth, — "and 'seek him with the whole heart.' — I never did, or began to do, the one or the other. 'With the whole heart' — and I never gave one bit of my heart to it — and how is he to be sought? —"
"THEY ALSO DO NO INIQUITY; THEY WALK IN HIS WAYS."
The water stood in Elizabeth's eyes again.
"How far from me! — how very far I am from it! 'Do no iniquity,' — and I suppose I am always doing it — 'They walk in his ways,' and I don't even so much as know what they are. — I wish Mr. Winthrop had said a little more yesterday!" —
She pondered this verse a little, feeling if she did not recognize its high and purified atmosphere; but at the next she sprang up and went back to her window.
"THOU HAST COMMANDED US TO KEEP THY PRECEPTS DILIGENTLY."
Elizabeth and the Bible were at issue.
She could heartily wish that her character were that fair and sweet one the first three verses had lined out; but the command met a denial; or at the least a putting off of its claim. She acknowledged all that went before, even in its application to herself; but she was not willing, or certainly she was not ready, to take the pains and bear the restraint that should make her and it at one. She did not put the case so fairly before herself. She kept that fourth verse at arm's length, as it were, conscious that it held something she could not get over; unconscious what was the precise why. She rushed back to her conclusion that the Bible teaching was unsatisfactory, and that she wanted other; and so travelling round in a circle she came to the point from which she had begun. With a more saddened and sorrowful feeling, she stood looking at Winthrop's character and at her own; more certified, if that had been wanting, that she herself was astray; and well she resolved that if ever she got another chance she would ask him to tell her more about her duty, and how she should manage to do it.
But how was she to get another chance? Winthrop never came, nor could come, to Mr. Haye's; all that was at an end; she never could go again to his rooms. That singular visit of yesterday had once happened, but could never happen again by any possibility. She knew it; she must wait. And weeks went on, and still her two wishes lived in her heart; and still she waited. There was nobody else of whom she chose to ask her questions; either from want of knowledge, or from want of trust, or from want of attraction. And there were few indeed that came to the house whom she could suppose capable of answering them.
One evening it happened that Mr. Satterthwaite came in. He often did that; he had never lost the habit of finding it a pleasant place. This time he threw himself down at the tea- table, in tired fashion, just as the lady of the house asked him for the news.
"No news, Mrs. Haye — sorry I haven't any. Been all day attending court, till I presume I'm not fit for general society. I hope a cup of tea 'll do something for me."
"What's taken you into court?" said Rose, as she gave the asked-for tea.
"A large dish of my own affairs, — that is to say, my uncle's and fathers and grandfather's — which is in precious confusion."
"I hope, getting on well?" said Rose sweetly.
"Don't know," said Mr. Satterthwaite contentedly. "Don't know till we get out of the confusion. But I have the satisfaction of knowing it's getting on as well as it can get on, — from the hands it is in."