"No! — let her alone. Mrs. Haye's woman may see to breakfast in her mistress's room — I don't want anything — but sleep. Let Karen have and do just what she wants."
"Won't Clam do as much!" — said the toss of the clean turban as its owner went out of the room. And the issue was, a very nice little breakfast brought to Miss Haye's bed-side in the space of half an hour. Elizabeth was waked up and looked dubious.
"You want it," said her handmaid. "The Governor said you was to take it."
"Is he here!" exclaimed Elizabeth, with an amount of fire in eye and action that, as Clam declared afterwards, "had like to have made her upset everything." But she answered demurely,
"He ain't here just yet. I guess he's comin', though."
Elizabeth's eye went down, and an eye as observant if not so brilliant as her own, watched how the pink tinge rose and mounted in the cheeks as she betook herself to the bread and coffee. "Ain't she eatin' her breakfast like a good child!" said Clam to herself. "That put her down."
And with a "Now you'll sleep —" Clam carried off the breakfast tray, and took care her mistress should have no second disturbance from anybody else. Elizabeth only heard once or twice in the course of the day that nothing was wanted from her; so slept her sleep out.
It was slept out at last, and Elizabeth got up and began to dress. Or rather, took her dressing-comb in hand and planted herself in front of the window, and there forgot what she had to do. It was a fine afternoon of October, late in the day. It was very fair outside. The hills touched here and there in their green with a frost-spot — yellow, or tawny, or red; the river water lying very calm; and a calm sky over-head; the air as pure as though vapours and mists were refined away for ever. The distant trees of the woodland shewed in round distinct masses of foliage, through such an atmosphere; the rocky shore edge cut sharp against the water; the nearer cedars around the home valley seemed to tell their individual leaves. Here and there in some one of them a Virginia creeper's luxuriant wreaths were colouring with suspicious tokens of crimson. Not in their full brilliancy yet, the trees and the vine-leaves were in fair preparation; and fancy could not imagine them more fair than they looked that afternoon.
"So bright without! — and so dark within!" — Elizabeth thought. "When will it end — or is it only beginning? Such a flood of brightness was over me a little while ago, — and now, there is one burden in one room, and another in another room, and I myself am the greatest burden of all. Because my life has nothing to look forward to — in this world — and heaven is not enough; I want something in this world. — Yes, I do. — Yet Winthrop Landholm has nothing more than I have, in this world's things, and he don't feel like me. What is the reason? Why is his face always so at rest, — so bright — so strong? Ah, it must be that he is so much better than I! — he has more, not of this world's things; religion is something to him that it is not to me; he must love his Master far better than I do. — Then religion might be more to me. — It shall be — I will try; — but oh! if I had never seen another Christian in all my life, how well his single example would make me know that religion is a strong reality. What a reward his will be! I wonder how many besides me he will have drawn to heaven — he does not dream that he has ever done me any good. Yet it is pleasant to owe so much to him — and it's bitter! —"
"You'll tire yourself with lookin', Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam behind her. "Mannahatta ain't so far off as that."
Elizabeth started a little from her fixed attitude and began to handle her dressing-comb.
"'Taint so far folks can't get here, I guess."
"Clam!" — said her mistress facing about.
"Well, Miss Lizzie —"
"Go and take care of Karen. I don't want you."
"She don't want me," said Clam. "And you've had no dinner."
"Do as I tell you. I shall not have any."
With this spur, Elizabeth was soon dressed, and then walked into Mrs. Haye's room. Rose apparently had had leisure for meditation and had made up her mind upon several things; but her brow changed as her cousin came in.
"Lizzie — Why you've been up all night, Emma says."
"That's nothing. I have been down all day."
"But what's the matter with this old woman?"
"I don't know. She don't know herself."
"But Emma said she thought she was dying?"
"So she did. I don't know whether she is right or not."
"Dying! — is she!" said Rose with a little scream.
"I don't know. I hope not, so soon as she thinks. She is no worse to-night."
"But what are you going to do?"
"Nothing — more than I have done."
"But are you going to stay here?"
"Stay here, Rose! —"
"Yes — I mean — who's going to take care of her? And isn't she your cook?"
A curious quick gleam of a laugh passed over Elizabeth's face; it settled graver than before.
"Clam can cook all you and I want."
"But who's going to take care of her?"
"I have sent for help, and for a doctor."
"Haven't you sent for a doctor before! Why Lizzie!"
"I sent early this morning. The messenger had to go a number of miles."
"And isn't there anybody about the house but Clam and Emma?"
"Anderese is here. I sent somebody else."
"What use is an old thing like that about a place?"
Elizabeth was silent. The cloud gathered on Rose's face, and as if that it might not cast its shadow on her cousin, she looked out of the window. Then Clam came in.
"Where'll supper be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"
"Is Karen in the kitchen?"
"Oh! — I won't have tea in there!" said Rose with one of her old little screams.
"Let it be here, Clam."
"What'll it be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"
"Anything you please."
"There's nothing in the house to be pleased with," said Clam; "and you've had no dinner."
"Bread and butter and tea — and boil an egg."
"That would be pleasant," said Clam, capacity and fun shining out of every feature; — "but Karen's hens don't lay no eggs when she ain't round."
"Bread and butter and tea, then."
"Butter's gone," said Clam.
"Bread and cold meat, then."
"Fresh meat was all eat up days ago; and you and Mis' Haye don't make no 'count of ham."
Elizabeth got up and went out to Anderese and despatched him to Mountain Spring after what forage he could find. Then from a sense of duty went back to her cousin. Rose was looking out of the window again when she came in, and kept silence for a little space; but silence was never Rose's forte.
"Lizzie — what makes you live in such a place?"
"It was the pleasantest place I could find," said her cousin, with a tone of suppressed feeling.
"It's so lonely!" said Rose.
"It suited me."
"But it isn't safe," said Rose. "What if something happened to you, with nobody about, — what would you do?"
"It has not been a subject of fear with me," said Elizabeth.
"I haven't thought about it."
"Who comes to see you here? anybody?"
"No. Who should come?" said Elizabeth sternly. "Whom should I want to see?"
"Don't you want to see anybody, ever? I do. I don't like to be in a desert so."
Elizabeth was silent, with a set of the lips that told of thoughts at work.
"Doesn't Winthrop Landholm come here?"
"No!"
"I'm not used to it," said Rose whimpering, — "I can't live so. It makes me feel dreadfully."
"Whom do you want to see, Rose?" said Elizabeth, with an expression that ought to have reminded her companion whom she was dealing with.
"I don't care who — any one. It's dreadful to live so, and see nothing but the leaves shaking and the river rolling and this great empty place."
"Empty!" said Elizabeth, with again a quick glancing laugh. "Well! — you are yourself yet! But at any rate the leaves don't shake much to-day."
"They did last night," said Rose. "I was so frightened I didn't know what to do, and with no man in the house either, good for anything — I didn't sleep a wink till after one o'clock."
"Was your sleep ever disturbed by anything of more importance than the wind?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Rose in tears. "I think you're very unkind! —"
"What would you like me to do, Rose?"
"Let's go away from here."
"Where?"
"I don't care — to Mannahatta."
"What do you want to do in Mannahatta?"
"Why, nothing, — what everybody does — live like other people.
I shall die here."
"Is the memory of the best friend you ever had, so little worth, Rose, that you are in a hurry to banish it your company already?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Rose, with one of her old pouts and then bursting into fresh weeping. "I don't know why one should be miserable any more than one can help. I have been miserable enough, I am sure. Oh Lizzie! — I think you're very unkind! —"
Elizabeth's face was a study; for the fire in her eyes shone through water, and every feature was alive. But her lips only moved to tremble.
"I won't stay here!" said Rose. "I'll go away and do something. I don't care what I do. I dare say there's enough left for me to live upon; and I can do without Emma. I can live somehow, if not quite as well as you do."
"Hush, Rose, and keep a little sense along with you," said
Elizabeth.
"There must be enough left for me somehow," Rose went on, sobbing. "Nobody had any right to take my money. It was mine. Nobody else had a right to it. It is mine. I ought to have it."
"Rose! —"
Rose involuntarily looked up at the speaker who was standing before her, fire flashing from eye and lip, like the relations of Queen Gulnare in the fairy story.
"Rose! — do not dare speak to me in that way! — ever again! — whatever else you do. I will leave you to get back your senses."
With very prompt and decided action, Miss Haye sought her rowing gloves in her own room, put them on, and went down to the rocks where the Merry-go-round lay. She stopped not to look at anything; she loosened the boat and pushed out into the water. And quick and smartly the oars were pulled, till the skiff was half way over the river towards Mr. Underhill's house. Suddenly there they stopped. Elizabeth's eyes were bent on the water about two yards from the stern of the boat; while the paddles hung dripping, dripping more and more slowly, at the sides, and the little skiff floated gently up with the tide. But if Elizabeth's eyes were looking into nature, it was her own; her face grew more settled and grave and then sorrowful every minute; and at last the paddle-handles were thrown across the boat and her arms and her head rested upon them. And the little skiff floated gently up stream.
It had got some distance above Mr. Underhill's, when its mistress lifted her head and looked about, with wet eyelashes, to see where she was. Then the boat's head was turned, and some steady pulling brought her to the gravelly beach in front of Mr. Underhill's house. Its owner was luckily there to help her out.
"Well, I declare that's clever of you," said he, as he grasped the bow of the little vessel to draw it further up. "I didn't much expect you'd come when I asked you. Why you can row, real smart."
"I don't see how I am going to get out, Mr. Underhill."
"Step up on there, can't you — I'll hold her, — can you jump?" —
"But Mr. Underhill, that's going to do no good to my boat. —"
"What aint? —"
"That gravel — grating and grinding on it, as the tide makes."
"'Twon't do nothin' — it'll just stay still so. Well, you go in and speak to mother, and I'll see to her. I didn't know you could row so smart, — real handsome!"
"I learnt a good while ago," said Elizabeth. "I'll not be gone long, Mr. Underhill."
Up the neglected green slope she ran, wondering at herself the while. What new steps were these, which Miss Haye was not taking for her own pleasure. What a strange visit was this, which her heart shrank from more and more as she neared the house door.
The house was tenanted by sundry younger fry of the feminine gender, of various ages, who met Elizabeth with wonder equal to her own, and a sort of mixed politeness and curiosity to which her experience had no parallel. By the fireside sat the old grandam, very old, and blind, as Elizabeth now perceived she was. Miss Haye drew near with the most utter want of knowledge what to do or say to such a person, — how to give the pleasure she had come to give. She hoped the mere fact of her coming and presence would do it, for to anything further she felt herself unequal. The old lady looked up curiously, hearing the noise of entering feet and a stranger's among them.
"Will you tell your grandmother who I am," Elizabeth asked, with a shy ignorance how to address her, and an exceeding reluctance to it.
"Grand'ma," said the eldest girl, "here is Miss Haye, — the young lady from Shahweetah — she's here."
The old woman turned her sightless eyes towards her visiter, got up and curtseyed.
"Don't do that," said Elizabeth, taking a seat near her. "Mr.
Underhill asked me some time ago to come and see his mother."
"I've heerd of ye," said the old woman. "'Siah was over to your place, makin' of a boat, or mendin', or somethin', he telled me. I'm glad to see ye. How did ye come across?"
"In a boat — in the boat he mended for me."
"Have you got somebody to row ye over?"
"I rowed myself over."
"Why did ye? — ain't ye afeard? I wouldn't ha' thought! 'Siah said she was a slim handsome girl, as one would see in the country."
"Well, I can row," said Elizabeth colouring; for she had an instant sense that several pairs of eyes not blind were comparing the report with the reality.
"Be you the owner of Shahweetah now?"
"Yes."
"I heerd it was so. And what's become of the old family?"
"They are scattered. Mr. Landholm is gone West, with one of his sons; the others are in different places."
"And the girl is dead, ain't she?"
"Winnie? — yes."
Elizabeth knew that!
"The mother was gone first — to a better place. She had a fine lot o' children. Will was a pictur; — the farmer, he was a fine man too; — but there was one — the second boy — Winthrop, — he was the flower of the flock, to my thinkin'. I ha'n't seen him this great while. He's been here since I lost my sight, but I thought I could see him when I heerd him speak."
There was silence. Elizabeth did not feel inclined to break it.
"Do you know him, maybe?" the old woman said presently.
Winthrop had made himself pleasant there! —
"Yes."
"Is he lookin' as well as he used to?"
"Quite as well, I believe."
"Is he gettin' along well?"
"Yes — I believe so — very well."
"Whatever he does 'll prosper, I believe," said Mrs. Underhill; "for the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous. Is that a way you have any knowledge of, young lady?"
"Not much —" said Elizabeth hesitating.
"'Siah says he 'spects you're rich."
"What makes him think so?"
"He says that's what he 'spects. Does the hull Shahweetah farm belong to you?"
"Yes."
"It's a good farm. Who's goin' to take care of it for you?"
"I don't know, yet."
"I 'spose you'll be gettin' married, one of these days, and then there'll be some one to do it for you. Be you handsome, particular, as 'Siah says?"
Elizabeth coloured exceedingly, and a tittering laugh, somewhat boisterous, ran round the group of spectators and listeners, with a murmured "Oh Grand'ma! —"
"Whisht!" — said the old woman; — "I'm not talkin' like you.
I'm old and blind. I can't see for myself, and I want to know.
She can tell me."
"Father telled ye already," said the eldest girl.
"I can tell better from what she says," said Mrs. Underhill, turning her face towards her visiter. "What does she say? Be you uncommon fair and handsome? — or not more than the common?"
The red deepened on Elizabeth's cheek and brow, but she answered, not without some hesitation,
"I believe — more than the common."
A little glimpse of a smile stole over the old woman's face.
"Handsome, and rich. Well — Be you happy too, young lady, above the common?"
"I have learned, ma'am, that that depends upon right-doing; — so I am not always happy."
"Have you learned that lesson?" said the old woman. "It's a good one. Let me see your hand?"
Elizabeth drew near and gave it.
"It's a pretty hand," — said the old woman. "It's soft — it hain't done much work. It feels rich and handsome. Don't you give it to no one who will help you to forget that the blessing of God is better than silver and gold."
"Thank you. I will not."
"Be you a servant of the Lord, young lady?"
"I hope I am, Mrs. Underhill," Elizabeth answered with some hesitation. "Not a good one."
The old woman dropped her hand and fell back in her chair, only saying, for Elizabeth had risen,
"Come and see me again — I'll be pleased to see ye."
"If I do! —" thought Elizabeth as she ran down to her boat. The free air seemed doubly free. But then came the instant thought, — "Winthrop Landholm would not have said that. How far I am — how far! — from where he stands!" —
She walked slowly down to the water's edge.
"Mr. Underhill," she said as she prepared to spring into the boat which he held for her, — "I have forgotten, while I was at the house, what I partly came for to-night. We are out of provisions — have you any eggs, or anything of any kind, to spare?"
"Eggs?" — said Mr. Underhill, holding the boat, — "what else would you like along of eggs?"
"Almost anything, that is not salt meat."
"Chickens? — we've got some o' them."
"Very glad of them indeed, — or fresh meat."
"Ha'n't got any of that just to-day," said the old farmer shaking his head. "I'll see. The boat won't stir — tide's makin' yet. You'll have a pull home, I expect."
He went back to the house, and Elizabeth stood waiting, alone with her boat.
There was refreshment and strength to be had from nature's pure and calm face; so very pure and calm the mountains looked down upon her and the river smiled up. The opposite hill-tops shone in the warm clear light of the October setting sun, the more warm and bright for the occasional red and yellow leaves that chequered their green, and many tawny and half turned trees that mellowed the whole mountain side. Such clear light as shone upon them! such unearthly blue as rose above them! such a soft and fair water face that gave back the blue! What could eyes do but look; what could the mind do but wonder, and be thankful; and wonder again, at the beauty, and grow bright in the sunlight, and grow pure in that shadowless atmosphere. The sharp cedar tops on Shahweetah were so many illuminated points, and further down the river the sunlight caught just the deep bend of the water in the bay; the rest was under shadow of the western hills. All was under a still and hush, — nothing sounded or moved but here and there a cricket; the tide was near flood and crept up noiselessly; the wind blew somewhere else, but not in October. Softly the sun went down and the shadows stole up.
Elizabeth stood with her hands pressed upon her breast, drinking in all the sights and sounds, and many of their soft whisperings that only the spirit catches; when her ear was caught by very dissimilar and discordant notes behind her, — the screaming of discomposed chickens and the grating of Mr. Underhill's boots on the gravel.
"Here's chickens for ye," said the farmer, who held the legs of two pair in his single hand, the heads of the same depending and screaming in company, — "and here's three dozen of fresh eggs — if you want more you can send for 'em. Will you take these along in the Merry-go-round?"
"If you please — there is no other way," said Elizabeth. "Wait — let me get in first, Mr. Underhill — Are they tied so they can't get loose?"
"La! yes," said the old man putting them into the bow of the boat, — "they can't do nothin'! I'll engage they won't hurt ye. Do you good, if you eat 'em right. Good bye! — it's pretty nigh slack water, I guess — you'll go home easy. Come again! — and you shall have some more fowls to take home with ye!" —
Elizabeth bowed her acknowledgments, and pulled away towards home, over the bright water, wondering again very much at herself and her chickens. The dark barrier of the western hills rose up now before her, darkening and growing more distant — as she went all the way over the river home. Elizabeth admired them and admired at herself by turns.
Near the landing, however, the boat paused again, and one oar splashed discontentedly in the water and then lay still, while the face of its owner betrayed a struggle of some sort going on. The displeased brow, and the firm-set lips, said respectively, 'I would not,' and 'I must;' and it was five minutes good before the brow cleared up and the lips unbent to their usual full free outline; and the oars were in play once more, and the Merry-go-round brought in and made fast.
"Well, Miss 'Lizabeth!" said Clam who met her at the door, — "where have you been! Here's Mis' Haye been cryin' and the tea-kettle singing an hour and a half, if it isn't two hours."
"Has Anderese come home?"
"Yes, and supper's ready, and 'taint bad, for Mis' Landholm learned me how to do fresh mutton and cream; and it's all ready. You look as if you wanted it, Miss 'Lizabeth. My! —"
"There are some eggs and chickens down in the boat, Clam"
"In what boat, Miss 'Lizabeth?"
"In mine — down at the rocks."
"Who fetched 'em?"
"I did, from Mr. Underhill's. You may bring them up to the house."
Leaving her handmaid in an excess of astonishment unusual with her, Elizabeth walked into her guest's room, where the table was laid. Rose sat yet by the window, her head in her handkerchief on the window-sill. Elizabeth went up to her.
"Rose —"
"What?" said Rose without moving.
"Rose — look up at me —"
The pretty face was lifted at her bidding, but it was sullen, and the response was a sullen "Well —"
"I am very sorry I spoke to you so — I was very wrong. I am very sorry. Forgive me and forget it — will you?"
"It was very unkind!" — said Rose, her head going down again in fresh tears.
"It was very unkind and unhandsome. What can I say more, but that I am sorry? Won't you forget it?"
"Of course," said Rose wiping her eyes, — "I don't want to remember it if you want to forget it. I dare say I was foolish —"
"Then come to supper," said Elizabeth. "Here's the tea — I'm very hungry."
CHAPTER XVI.
And Phant'sie, I tell you, has dreams that have wings,
And dreams that have honey, and dreams that have stings,
Dreams of the maker, and dreams of the teller,
Dreams of the kitchen, and dreams of the cellar.
BEN JONSON.
A few days more passed; days of sameness in the house, while Autumn's beautiful work was going on without, and the woods were changing from day to day with added glories. It seemed as if the sun had broken one or two of his beams across the hills, and left fragments of coloured splendour all over. The elm trees reared heads of straw-colour among their forest brethren; the maples shewed yellow and red and flame-colour; the birches were in bright orange. Sad purple ashes stood the moderators of the Assembly; and hickories of gold made sunny slopes down the mountain sides. All softened together in the distance to a mellow, ruddy, glowing hue over the whole wood country.
The two cousins sat by the two windows watching the fading light, in what used once to be the 'keeping-room' — Mrs. Haye's now. Elizabeth had been long looking out of the window, with a fixed, thoughtful, sorrowful, gaze. Rose's look was never fixed long upon anything and never betrayed her thoughts to be so. It wavered now uneasily between her cousin and the broad and bright hills and river — which probably Mrs. Haye did not see.
"How long are you going to stay here, Lizzie?"
"I don't know."
"How is that old woman?"
"I don't know. There don't seem to be much difference from one day to another."
"What ails her?"
"I don't know. I suppose it is as the doctor says, — that there is a general breaking up of nature."
"Is she going to live long?"
"I don't know. He said probably not."
"Well, who's going to take care of her?"
"She is taken care of. There is a woman here from Mountain
Spring, to do all that is necessary."
"Why must we stay here, Lizzie? — it's so dismal."
"We mustn't — I must."
"Why?"
"I would rather — and I think it is right."
"To take care of that old woman?"
"No — I can't do much for her — but I can see that she is taken care of."
"But how would she have done if you had never come here?"
"I don't know. I don't know what that has to do with it, seeing that I am here."
"You wouldn't stay for her now, if she wasn't somebody's old nurse."
Elizabeth did not answer.
"But how long do you mean to stay here, Lizzie? — any how?"
"Till I must go — till it is less pleasant here than somewhere else."
"And when will you think that?"
"Not for a good while."
"But when, Lizzie?"
"I don't know. I suppose when the cold weather comes in earnest."
"I'm sure it has come now!" said Rose shrugging her shoulders. "I'm shivering every morning after the fire goes out. What sort of cold weather do you mean?"
"I mean snow and ice."
"Snow and ice — And then you will go — where will you go?" said Rose discontentedly.
"I suppose, to Mannahatta."
"Will you go the first snow?"
"I cannot tell yet, Rose."
There was a pause. Elizabeth had not stirred from her position. Her head rested yet on her hand, her eyes looked steadily out of the window.
"It will seem so lonely there!" said Rose whimpering.
"Yes! — more lonely than here."
"I meant in the house. But there one can get out and see some one."
"There isn't a soul in Mannahatta I care to see."
"Lizzie! —"
"Not that I know of."
"Lizzie! — Mr. Landholm?"
"I mean, not one that I am like to see."
"What do you go to Mannahatta for, then?" said Rose unbelievingly.
"One must be somewhere, to do something in the world."
"To do what?"
"I don't know — I suppose I shall find my work."
"Work? — what work?" — said Rose wonderingly.
"I don't know yet, Rose. But everybody has something to do in the world — so I have, — and you have."
"I haven't anything. What have we to do, except what we like to do?"
"I hope I shall like my work," said Elizabeth. "I must like it, if I am to do it well."
"What do you mean? — what are you talking of, Lizzie?"
"Listen to me, Rose. Do you think that you and I have been put in this world with so many means of usefulness, of one sort and another, and that it was never meant we should do anything but trifle away them and life till the end of it came? Do you think God has given us nothing to do for him?"
"I haven't much means of doing anything," said Rose, half pouting, half sobbing. "Have you taken up your friend Winthrop Landholm's notions?"
There was a rush to Elizabeth's heart, that his name and hers, in such a connection, should be named in the same day; but the colour started and the eyes flushed with tears, and she said nothing.
"What sort of 'work' do you suppose you are going to do?"
"I don't know. I shall find out, Rose, I hope, in time."
"I guess he can tell you, — if you were to ask him," said Rose meaningly.
Elizabeth sat a minute silent, with quickened breath.
"Rose," she said, leaning back into the room that she might see and be seen, — "look at me and listen to me."
Rose obeyed.
"Don't say that kind of thing to me again."
"One may say what one has a mind to, in a free land," said Rose pouting, — "and one needn't be commanded like a child or a servant. Don't I know you would never plague yourself with that old woman if she wasn't Winthrop's old nurse?"
Elizabeth rose and came near to her.
"I will not have this thing said to me!" she repeated. "My motives, in any deed of charity, are no man's or woman's to meddle with. Mr. Landholm is most absolutely nothing to me, nor I to him; except in the respect and regard he has from me, which he has more or less, I presume, from everybody that has the happiness of knowing him. Do you understand me, Rose? clearly?"
Another answer was upon Rose's tongue, but she was cowed, and only responded a meek 'yes.' Elizabeth turned and walked off in stately fashion to the door of the kitchen. The latch was raised, and then she let it fall again, came back, and stood again with a very different face and voice before her guest.
"Rose," she said gravely, "I didn't speak just in the best way to you; but I do not always recollect myself quickly enough. You mustn't say that sort of thing to me — I can't bear it. I am sorry for anything in my manner that was disagreeable to you just now."
And before Rose had in the least made up her mind how to answer her, Elizabeth had quitted the room.
"She ain't goin' never!" said Clam, meeting and passing her mistress as she entered the kitchen. "I don't believe! She's a goin' to stay."
Karen sat in her wonted rocking-chair before the fire, rocking a very little jog on her rockers. Elizabeth came up to the side of the fireplace and stood there, silent and probably meditative. She had at any rate forgotten Karen, when the old woman spoke, in a feebler voice than usual.
"Is the Governor comin'?"
"What, Karen?" said Elizabeth, knowing very well what she had asked, but not knowing so well the drift and intent of it.
"Is the Governor comin'? will he be along directly?"
"No — I suppose not. Do you want to see him, Karen?"
"I'd like to see him," said the old woman covering her eyes with her withered hand. "I thought he was comin'."
"Perhaps something may bring him, some day. I dare say you will see him by and by — I don't know how soon."
"I'll see him there," said the old woman. "I can't stay here long."
"Why, you don't seem any worse, Karen, do you? Aren't you going to be well again?"
"Not here," said the old woman. "I'm all goin' to pieces. I'll go to bed to-night, and I won't get up again."
"Don't say that, Karen; because I think you will."
"I'll go to bed," she repeated in a rather plaintive manner.
"I thought he'd be here."
It touched Elizabeth acutely; perhaps because she had so near a fellow feeling that answered Karen's, and allowed her to comprehend how exceedingly the desire for his presence might grow strong in one who had a right to wish for it. And she knew that he would reckon old Karen his friend, whatever other people would do.
"What can I do for you, Karen?" she said gently. "Let me be the best substitute I can. What can I do for you, that he could do better?"
"There can't nobody do just the Governor's work," said his old nurse. "I thought he'd ha' been here. This'll be my last night, and I'd like to spend it hearin' good things."
"Would you like me to send for anybody," said Elizabeth.
"Could ye send for him?" said Karen earnestly.
"Not in time. No, Karen, — there'd be no time to send a message from here to Mannahatta and get him here to-night."
She jogged herself back and forward a little while on her rocking-chair; and then said she would go to bed. Elizabeth helped her into the little room, formerly Asahel's, opening out of the kitchen, which she had insisted Karen should take during her illness; and after she was put to bed, came again and asked her what she should do for her. Karen requested to have the Bible read.
Elizabeth set open the kitchen door, took a low seat by Karen's bedside, and established herself with her book. It was strange work to her, to read the Bible to a person who thought herself dying. She, who so lately had to do with everything else but the Bible, now seated by the bedside of an old black woman, and the Bible the only matter in hand between the two. Karen's manner made it more strange. She was every now and then breaking in upon the reading, or accompanying it, with remarks and interjections. Sometimes it was "Hallelujah!" — sometimes, "That's true, that's true!" — sometimes, and very often, "Praise the Lord!" Not loud, nor boisterous; they were most of the time little underbreath words said to herself, words seemingly that she could not help, the good of which she took and meant for nobody else's edification. They were however very disagreeable and troublesome to Elizabeth's ears and thoughts; she had half a mind to ask Karen to stop them; but the next sighing "That's true!" — checked her; if it was such a comfort to the old woman to hold counsel with herself, and Elizabeth could offer nothing better, the least she could do was to let her alone. And then Elizabeth grew accustomed to it; and at last thoughts wandered a little by turns to take up their new trade of wondering at herself and at the new, unwonted life she seemed beginning to lead. There was a singular pleasantness in what she was doing; she found a grave sweet consciousness of being about the right work; but presently to her roving spirit the question arose whether this, — this new and certainly very substantial pleasure, — were perhaps the chief kind she was hereafter to look forward to, or find in this life; — and Elizabeth's heart confessed to a longing desire for something else. And then her attention suddenly came back to poor Karen at her side saying, softly, "Bless the Lord, O my soul!" — Elizabeth stopped short; she was choked.
At this juncture Clam noiselessly presented herself.
"He's come, Miss 'Lizabeth."
The start that Miss Haye's inward spirits gave at this, was not to be seen at all on the outside. She looked at Clam, but she gave no sign that her words had been understood. Yet Elizabeth had understood them so well, that she did not even think at first to ask the question, and when she did, it was for form's sake, who had come? Probably Clam knew as much, for she only repeated her words.
"He's come. What'll I do with him, Miss 'Lizabeth?"
"Where is he?"
"He ain't come yet — he's comin'."
"Coming when? And what do you mean by saying he is come?"
"I don't mean nothin' bad," said Clam. "He's just a comin' up the walk from the boat — I see him by the moon."
"See who it is, first, before you do anything with him; and then you can bring me word."
Elizabeth closed her book however, in some little doubt what she should do with herself. She knew, — it darted into her mind, — that it would please Winthrop to find her there; that it would meet his approbation; and then with the stern determination that motives of self-praise, if they came into her head should not come into her life, she hurried out and across the kitchen and hid her book in her own room. Then came out into the kitchen and stood waiting for the steps outside and for the opening of the door.
"You are come in good time," she said, as she met and answered
Winthrop's offered hand.
"I am glad I am in time," he said.
"Karen has been wishing for you particularly to-night — but I don't know that that is any sign, except to the superstitious, that she is in particular danger."
"I shall be all the more welcome, at any rate."
"I don't know whether that is possible, in Karen's case. But did you know she wanted you? — did you know she was ill?"
"Do you suppose nothing but an errand of mercy could bring me?" he answered slightly, though with a little opening of the eyes which Elizabeth afterwards remembered and speculated upon. But for the present she was content with the pleasant implication of his words. Clam was ordered to bring refreshments. These Winthrop declined; he had had all he wanted. Then Elizabeth asked if he would like to see Karen.
She opened the door, which she had taken care to shut, and went in with him.
"Karen — here is the Governor, that you were wishing for."
The old woman turned her face towards them; then stretched out her hand, and spoke with an accent of satisfied longing that went at least to one heart.
"I thought he'd come," she said. "Governor! —"
Winthrop leaned over to speak to her and take her hand. Elizabeth longed to hear what he would say, but she had no business there; she went out, softly closing the door.
She was alone then; and she stood on the hearth before the fire in a little tumult of pleasure, thinking how she should dispose of her guest and what she might do for him.
"Once more I have a chance," she thought; "and I may never in the world have another — He will not come here again before I go back to Mannahatta, he cannot stay in my house there, — and another summer is very far off, and very uncertain. He'll not be very likely to come here — he may be married — and I am very sure I shall not want to see his wife here — I shall not do it. — Though I might ask her for his sake — No! I should better break with him at once and have no more to do with him; it would be only misery." "And what is it now?" said something else. And "Not misery" — was the answer.
"Where will I put him, Miss 'Lizabeth?" said the voice of Clam softly at her elbow. Elizabeth started.
"You must take my room. I will sleep with Mrs. Haye. Clam — what have we got in the house? and what can you do in the way of cooking?"
"I can do some things — for some folks," said Clam. "Wa'n't my cream gravy good the other day?"
"Cream gravy! — with what?"
"Fresh lamb, — mutton, I would say."
"But you have got no fresh mutton now, have you?"
"Maybe Mr. Underhill has," said Clam with a twinkle of her bright eye.
"Mr. Underhill's fresh mutton is on the other side of the river. What have we got on this side?"
"Pretty much of nothing," said Clam, "this side o' Mountain Spring. Anderese ain't no good but to make the fire — it takes mor'n him to find somethin' to put over it."
"Then you'll have to go to Mountain Spring before breakfast,
Clam."
"Well, m'm. Who'll take care of the house while I'm gone, Miss
'Lizabeth?"
"Mrs. Cives — can't she?"
"Mis' Cives is gone off home."
"Gone home! — what, to Mountain Spring?"
"That's where her home is, she says."
"What for? and without asking?"
"She wanted to spend to-night at home, she said; and she asked no questions and went."
"To night of all nights! when Karen seems so much worse!"
"It's good we've got the Governor," said Clam.
"But he can't sit up all night with her."
"Guess he will," said Clam. "Pretty much like him. You can sleep in your bed, Miss 'Lizabeth."
"You go and get the room ready — he must not sit up all night — and we'll see in the morning about Mountain Spring. Somebody must go."
"He'll go if you ask him," said Clam. "He'd do the marketing best, now, of all of us. He knows just where everything is. 'Fact is, we want him in the family pretty much all the time."
"Let him know when his room is ready, and offer him refreshments, — and call me if I am wanted."
Clam departed; but Elizabeth, instead of doing the same, took a chair on the kitchen hearth and sat down to await any possible demands upon her. She could hear a quiet sound of talking in Karen's room; now and then the old woman's less regulated voice, more low or more shrill, broke in upon the subdued tones of the other. Elizabeth thought she would have given anything to be a hearer of what was said and listened to there; but the door was shut; it was all for Karen and not for her; and she gave up at last in despair and retreated to her cousin's room.
"So he's come?" said Rose.
"Yes! — he's come. Did you know he was coming?"
"I! — No, — I didn't know he was coming. How should I?"
"Did you think he was coming, Rose?"
"I didn't know but he'd come," said Rose a little awkwardly,
"I didn't know anything about it."
Elizabeth chose to ask no further question. Somewhat mortified already, she would not give herself any more certain ground of mortification, not at that time. She would talk no more with Rose. She went to bed; and long after her companion was asleep, she listened for Winthrop's coming out or Clam's colloquy with him, and for any possible enquiry after herself. She heard Clam tap at the door — she heard the undistinguished sound of words, and only gathered that Winthrop probably was declining all proffered comforts and luxuries and choosing to spend the night by Karen's pillow. And weary and sorry and sick of everything in the world, Elizabeth went to sleep.
She waked up in the morning to hear the twittering of the birds around the house. They were singing busily of the coming day, but the day had not come yet; at least it was some time before sunrise. Elizabeth softly got up, softly dressed herself, and went out into the kitchen. That messenger must be despatched for something for breakfast.
She was met by Clam coming in from another door.
"Well, Clam," said her mistress, "where is everybody this morning?"
"I don't know where I am yet," said Clam. "Everybody's abed and asleep, I 'spose. Where be you, Miss 'Lizabeth?"
"Did Mr. Landholm sit up all night?"
"'Most. He said 'twas near upon two o'clock."
"When?"
"When he had done sittin' up, and went to bed."
"How was Karen?"
"I 'spose she was goin', but she ain't in no hurry — she ain't gone yet."
"Then she was no worse?"
"She was better. She was slicked up wonderful after seein' the
Governor, she telled me. I wonder who ain't."
"He has not come out of his room yet, I suppose?"
"I hope he haint," said Clam, "or I don' know when we'll get breakfast — 'less he turns to and helps us."
"He will want a good one, after last night, and yesterday's journey. Where's Anderese?"
"He took some bread and milk," said Clam.
"Well — where's Anderese? we must send him to Mountain
Spring."
"He's got to go after wood, Miss 'Lizabeth — there ain't three sticks more 'n 'll set the fire agoing."
"Must he! Then you must go, Clam."
"Very good. Who'll set the table, Miss 'Lizabeth?"
"Emma can. Or you can, after you get back."
"And there's the fire to make, and the floor to sweep, and the knives to clean, and the bread to make —"
"Bread! —" said Miss Haye.
"Or cakes," said Clam. "One or t'other 'll be wanted. I don't care which."
"Don't Emma know how?"
"She don't know a thing, but how to put Mrs. Haye's curls over a stick — when she ain't doin' her own."
"Then give me a basket — I'll go to Mountain Spring myself."
"Who'll bring the meat and things home?"
"I will; — or fish, or eggs, — something, whatever I can get."
"It 'll tire you, Miss 'Lizabeth — I guess, before you get back."
"You find me a basket — while I put on my bonnet," said Clam's mistress. And the one thing was done as soon as the other.
"I 'spect I'll wake up some morning and find myself playing on the pianny-forty," said Clam, as she watched her young mistress walking off with the basket.
CHAPTER XVII.
When was old Sherwood's head more quaintly curled?
Or looked the earth more green upon the world?
Or nature's cradle more enchased and purled?
When did the air so smile, the wind so chime,
As quiristers of season, and the prime?
BEN JONSON.
Miss Haye, however, had never sent her fingers over the keys with more energy, than now her feet tripped over the dry leaves and stones in the path to Mountain Spring. She took a very rough way, through the woods. There was another, much plainer, round by the wagon road; but Elizabeth chose the more solitary and prettier way, roundabout and hard to the foot though it was.
For some little distance there was a rude wagon-track, very rough, probably made for the convenience of getting wood. It stood thick with pretty large stones or heads of rock; but it was softly grass-grown between the stones and gave at least a clear way through the woods, upon which the morning light if not the morning sun beamed fairly. A light touch of white frost lay upon the grass and covered the rocks with bloom, the promise of a mild day. After a little, the roadway descended into a bit of smooth meadow, well walled in with trees, and lost itself there. In the tree-tops the morning sun was glittering; it could not get to the bottom yet; but up there among the leaves it gave a bright shimmering prophecy of what it would do; it was a sparkle of heavenly light touching the earth. Elizabeth had never seen it before; she had never in her life been in the woods at so early an hour. She stood still to look. It was impossible to help feeling the light of that glittering promise; its play upon the leaves was too joyous, too pure, too fresh. She felt her heart grow stronger and her breath come freer. What was the speech of those light- touched leaves, she might not have told; something her spirit took knowledge of while her reason did not. Or had not leisure to do; for if she did not get to Mountain Spring in good season she would not be home for breakfast. Yet she had plenty of time, but she did not wish to run short. So she went on her way.
From the valley meadow for half a mile, it was not much more or much better than a cow-path, beaten a little by the feet of the herdsman seeking his cattle or of an occasional foot- traveller to Mountain Spring. It was very rough indeed. Often Elizabeth must make quite a circuit among cat-briars and huckleberry bushes and young underwood, or keep the path at the expense of stepping up and stepping down again over a great stone or rock blocking up the whole way. Sometimes the track was only marked over the grey lichens of an immense head of granite that refused moss and vegetation of every other kind; sometimes it wound among thick alder bushes by the edge of wet ground; and at all times its course was among a wilderness of uncared-for woodland, overgrown with creepers and vines tangled with underbrush, and thickly strewn with larger and smaller fragments and boulders of granite rock. But how beautiful it was! The alders, reddish and soft-tinted, looked when the sun struck through them as if they were exotics out of witch-land; the Cornus family, from beautiful dogwood a dozen feet high stretching over Elizabeth's head, to little humble nameless plants at her feet, had edged and parted their green leaves with most dainty clear hues of madder lake; white birches and hickories glimmered in the sunlight like trees of gold, the first with stems of silver; sear leaves strewed the way; and fresh pines and hemlocks stretched out their arms amidst the changing foliage, with their evergreen promise and performance. The morning air and the morning walk no doubt had something to do with the effect of the whole; but Elizabeth thought, with all the beauty her eyes had ever seen they had never been more bewitched than they were that day.
With such a mood upon her, it was no wonder that on arriving at Mountain Spring she speedily made out her errand. She found whom and what she had come for; she filled her basket with no loss of time or pleasure; and very proud of her success set out again through the wood-path homeward.
Half way back to the bit of tree-enclosed meadow-ground, the path and the north shore of Shahweetah approached each other, where a little bay curve, no other than the AEgean Sea, swept in among the rocks. Through the stems of the trees Elizabeth could see the blue water with the brightness of the hour upon it. Its sparkle tempted her. She had plenty of time, or she resolved that she had, and she wanted to look at the fair broad view she knew the shore edge would give her. She hesitated, and turned, A few bounding and plunging steps amid rocks and huckleberry bushes brought her where she wished to be. She stood on the border, where no trees came in the way of the northern view. The mountains were full before her, and the wide Shatemuc rolled down between them, ruffled with little waves, every one sparkling cool in the sunlight. Elizabeth looked at the water a minute, and turned to the west. Wut-a- qut-o's head had caught more of the frosts than Shahweetah had felt yet; there were broad belts of buff and yellow along the mountain, even changing into sear where its sides felt the north wind. On all that shore the full sunlight lay. The opposite hills, on the east, were in dainty sunshine and shadow, every undulation, every ridge and hollow, softly marked out. With what wonderful sharp outline the mountain edges rose against the bright sky; how wonderful soft the changes of shade and colour adown their sloping sides; what brilliant little ripples of water rolled up to the pebbles at Elizabeth's feet. She stood and looked at it all, at one thing and the other, half dazzled with the beauty; until she recollected herself, and with a deep sighful expression of thoughts and wishes unknown, turned away to find her path again.
But she could not find it. Whereabouts it was, she was sure; but the where was an unfindable thing. And she dared not strike forward without the track; she might get further and further from it, and never get home to breakfast at all! — There was nothing for it but to grope about seeking for indications; and Miss Haye's eyes were untrained to wood-work. The woodland was a mazy wilderness now indeed. Points of stone, beds of moss, cat-briar vines and huckleberry bushes, in every direction; and between which of them lay that little invisible track of a footpath? The more she looked the more she got perplexed. She could remember no waymarks. The way was all cat-briars, moss, bushes, and rocks; and rocks, bushes, moss and cat-briars were in every variety all around her. She turned her face towards the quarter from which she had come and tried to recognize some tree or waymark she could remember having passed. One part of the wood looked just like another; but for the mountains and the river she could not have told where lay Mountain Spring.
Then a little sound of rustling leaves and crackling twigs reached her ear from behind her.
"There is a cow!" thought Elizabeth; — "now I can find the path by her. But then! — cows don't always —"
Her eye had been sweeping round the woody skirts of her position, in search of her expected four-footed guide, when her thoughts were suddenly brought to a point by seeing a two- footed creature approaching, and one whom she instantly knew.
"It is Winthrop Landholm! — he is going to Mountain Spring to take an early coach, without his breakfast! — Well, you fool, what is it to you?" was the next thought. "What does it signify whether he goes sooner or later, when it would be better for you not to see him at all, if your heart is going to start in that fashion at every time. —"
Meanwhile she was making her way as well as she could, over rocks and briars, towards the new-comer; and did not look up till she answered his greeting —
"Good morning! —"
It was very cheerfully spoken.
"Good morning," said Elizabeth, entangled in a cat-briar, from which with a desperate effort she broke free before any help could be given her.
"Those are naughty things."
"No," said Elizabeth, "they look beautiful now when they are growing tawny, as a contrast with the other creepers and the deep green cedars. And they are a beautiful green at other times."
"Make the best of them. What were you looking at, a minute ago?"
"Looking for my way. I had lost it."
"You don't know it very well, I guess."
"Yes. — No, not very well, but I could follow it, and did, till coming home I thought I had time to look at the view; and then I couldn't find it again. I got turned about."
"You were completely turned about when I saw you."
"O I was not going that way — I knew better than that. I was trying to discover some waymark."
"How did you get out of the way?"
"I went to look at the view — from the water's edge there."
"Have you a mind to go back to the river edge again? I have not seen that view in a long while. I shall not lose the path."
"Then you cannot be intending to go by an early coach," thought Elizabeth, as she picked her way back over rocks and moss to the water's edge. But Winthrop knew the ground, and brought her a few steps further to a broad standing-place of rock where the look-out was freer. There was again before her the sparkling river, the frost-touched mountain, the sharp outlines, the varying shadows, that she had looked at a few minutes back. Elizabeth looked at them again, thinking now not of them but of something different at every turn.
"The rock is too wet," said Winthrop, "or I should propose your sitting down."
"You certainly must have had your breakfast," thought
Elizabeth, "and not know that I haven't had mine."
"I don't want to sit down," she said quietly. A pang of fear again came to her heart, that in another minute or two he would be off to Mountain Spring. But his next movement negatived that. It was to take her basket, which she had till then tried to carry so that it would not be noticed. She was thankful he did not know what was in it.
"Do you often take such early walks as this?"
"No, not often," said Elizabeth guiltily. "I row more."
"So early?"
"No, not generally. Though there is no time more pleasant."
"You are looking well," he said gravely. "Better than I ever saw you look."
"It's very odd," thought Elizabeth, — "it must be the flush of my walk — I didn't look so this morning in the glass — nor last night. —" But she looked up and said boldly, laughing,
"I thought you came here to see the prospect, Mr. Landholm."
"I have been looking at it," he said quietly. "I need not say anything about that — it never changes."
"Do you mean that I do?" said Elizabeth.
"Everybody ought to change for the better, always," he said with a little smile, — "so I hope you are capable of that."
Elizabeth thought in her heart, though she was no better, yet that she had truly changed for the better, since former times; she half wanted to tell him so, the friend who had had most to do with changing her. But a consciousness of many things and an honest fear of speaking good of herself, kept her lips shut; though her heart beat with the wish and the doubt. Winthrop's next words in a few minutes decided it.
"What is the fact, Miss Elizabeth?"
Elizabeth hesitated, — and hesitated. He looked at her.
"I hope I am changed, a little, Mr. Landholm; but there is a great deal more to change!"
Her face was very ingenuous and somewhat sorrowful, as she turned it towards him; but his looked so much brighter than she had ever seen it, that the meeting of the two tides was just more than her spirits could bear. The power of commanding herself, which for the last few minutes had been growing less and less, gave way. Her look shrank from his. Winthrop had come nearer to her, and had clasped the hand that was nearest him and held it in his own. It was a further expression of the pleasure she had seen in his smile. Elizabeth was glad that her own face was hidden by her sunbonnet. She would not have either its pain or its pleasure to be seen. Both were sharp enough just then. But strong necessity made her keep outwardly quiet.
"What does the change date from?"
"As to time, do you mean?" said Elizabeth struggling.
"As to time, and motive."
"The time is but lately," she said with a tremulous voice, — "though I have thought about it, more or less, for a good while."
"Thought what?"
"Felt that you were right and I was wrong, Mr. Landholm."
"What made you think you were wrong?"
"I felt that I was — I knew it."
"What makes you think you are changed now?"
"I hardly dare speak of it — it is so little."
"You may, I hope, — to me."
"It is hardly I that am changed, so much as my motives and views."
"And they — how?" he said after waiting a moment.
"It seems to me," she said slowly, "lately, that I am willing to go by a new rule of life from that I used to follow."
"What is the new rule?"
"Well — Not my own will, Mr. Landholm."
He stood silent a little while. Her hand was still held in his. Elizabeth would have thought he had forgotten it, but that it was held in a free clasp which did not seem to imply forgetfulness. It was enough to forbid it on her part.
"How does the new rule work?" was his next question.
"It works hard, Mr. Landholm!" said Elizabeth, turning her face suddenly upon him for an instant. His look was bright, but she felt that her own eyes were swimming.
"Do you know that I am very glad to hear all this?" he said after another little pause.
"Yes," said Elizabeth under breath, — "I supposed you would be. — I knew you would."
"I hope you like being catechized," he said in a lighter tone.
"Yes — I do — by anybody that has a right to do it."
"I have taken the right."
"Certainly! — You have the best in the world."
"I am glad you think so, though I don't exactly see how you make it out."