Chapter Five.
They found themselves on board the “Steadfast” at last. The day of sailing was bright and beautiful, a perfect day for the sea, or the land either; but the wind rose in the night and the rain came on, and a very dreary morning broke on them as the last glimpse of land was fading in the distance.
“Oh! how dismal!” murmured Graeme, as in utter discomfort she seated herself on the damp deck, with her little sister in her arms. All the rest, excepting her father, and not excepting Janet, were down with sea-sickness, and even Norman and Harry had lost heart under its depressing influence. Another hour in the close cabin, and Graeme felt she must yield too—and then what would become of Rose? So into a mist that was almost rain she came, as the day was breaking, and sat down with her little sister upon the deck. For a minute she closed her eyes on the dreariness around, and leaned her head on a hencoop at her side. Rose had been fretful and uneasy all night, but now well pleased with the new sights around her, she sat still on her sister’s lap. Soon the cheerful voice of the Captain, startled Graeme.
“Touch and go with you I see, Miss Elliott. I am afraid you will have to give in like the rest.”
Graeme looked up with a smile that was sickly enough.
“Not if I can help it,” said she.
“Well, you are a brave lass to think of helping it with a face like that. Come and take a quick walk up and down the deck with me. It will do you good. Set down the bairn,” for Graeme was rising with Rose in her arms. “No harm will come to her, and you don’t look fit to carry yourself. Sit you there, my wee fairy, till we come back again. Here, Ruthven,” he called to a young man who was walking up and down on the other side of the deck, “come and try your hand at baby tending. That may be among the work required of you in the backwoods of Canada, who knows?”
The young man came forward laughing, and Graeme submitted to be led away. The little lady left on the deck seemed very much inclined to resent the unceremonious disposal of so important a person, as she was always made to feel herself to be. But she took a look into the face of her new friend and thought better of it. His face was a good one, frank and kindly, and Rose suffered herself to be lifted up and placed upon his knee, and when Graeme came back again, after a brisk walk of fifteen minutes, she found the little one, usually so fretful and “ill to do with,” laughing merrily in the stranger’s arms. She would have taken her, but Rose was pleased to stay.
“You are the very first stranger that ever she was willing to go to,” said she, gratefully. Looking up, she did not wonder at Rosie’s fancy for the face that smiled down upon her.
“I ought to feel myself highly honoured,” said he.
“I think we’ll give him the benefit of little Missy’s preference,” said Captain Armstrong, who had been watching Graeme with a little amused anxiety since her walk was ended. The colour that the exercise had given her was fast fading from her face, till her very lips grew white with the deadly sickness that was coming over her.
“You had best go to the cabin a wee while. You must give up, I think,” said he.
Graeme rose languidly.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Come Rosie.”
“Leave the little one with me,” said Mr Ruthven. And that was the last Graeme saw of Rosie for the next twelve hours, for she was not to escape the misery that had fallen so heavily upon the rest, and very wearily the day passed. It passed, however, at last, and the next, which was calm and bright as heart could wish, saw them all on deck again. They came with dizzy heads and uncertain steps it is true, but the sea air soon brought colour to their cheeks, and strength to their limbs, and their sea life fairly began.
But alas! for Janet. The third day, and the tenth found her still in her berth, altogether unable to stand up against the power that held her. In vain she struggled against it. The “Steadfast’s” slightest motion was sufficient to overpower her quite, till at last she made no effort to rise, but lay there, disgusted with herself and all the world. On the calmest and fairest days they would prevail on her to be helped up to the deck, and there amid shawls and pillows she would sit, enduring one degree less of misery than she did in the close cabin below.
“It was just a judgment upon her,” she said, “to let her see what a poor conceited body she was. She, that had been making muckle o’ herself, as though the Lord couldna take care o’ the bairns without her help.”
It was not sufficient to be told hourly that the children were well and happy, or to see it with her own eyes. This aggravated her trouble. “Useless body that I am.” And Janet did not wait for a sight of a strange land, to begin to pine for the land she had left, and what with sea-sickness and home-sickness together, she had very little hope that she would ever see land of any kind again.
The lads and Marian enjoyed six weeks of perfect happiness. Graeme and their father at first were in constant fear of their getting into danger. It would only have provoked disobedience had all sorts of climbing been forbidden, for the temptation to try to outdo each other in their imitation of the sailors, was quite irresistible; and not a rope in the rigging, nor a corner in the ship, but they were familiar with before the first few days were over. “And, indeed, they were wonderfully preserved, the foolish lads,” their father acknowledged, and grew content about them at last.
Before me lies the journal of the voyage, faithfully kept in a big book given by Arthur for the purpose. A full and complete history of the six weeks might be written from it, but I forbear. Norman or Harry, in language obscurely nautical, notes daily the longitude or the latitude, and the knots they make an hour. There are notices of whales, seen in the distance, and of shoals of porpoises seen near at hand. There are stories given which they have heard in the forecastle, and hints of practical jokes and tricks played on one another. The history of each sailor in the ship is given, from “handsome Frank, the first Yankee, and the best-singer” the boys ever saw, to Father Abraham, the Dutchman, “with short legs and shorter temper.”
Graeme writes often, and daily bewails Janet’s continued illness, and rejoices over “wee Rosie’s” improved health and temper. With her account of the boys and their doings, she mingles emphatic wishes “that they had more sense,” but on the whole they are satisfactory. She has much to say of the books she has been reading—“a good many of Sir Walter Scott’s that papa does not object to,” lent by Allan Ruthven. There are hints of discussions with him about the books, too; and Graeme declares she “has no patience” with Allan. For his favourites in Sir Walter’s books are seldom those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake; and there are allusions to battles fought with him in behalf of the good name of the Old Puritans—men whom Graeme delights to honour. But on the whole it is to be seen, that Allan is a favourite with her and with them all.
The beautiful Bay of Boston was reached at last, and with an interest that cannot be told, the little party—including the restored Janet—regarded the city to which they were drawing near. Their ideas of what they were to see first in the new world had been rather indefinite and vague. Far more familiar with the early history of New England—with such scenes as the landing of the pilgrims, and the departure of Roger Williams to a still more distant wilderness, than with the history of modern advance, it was certainly not such a city they had expected to see. But they gazed with ever increasing delight, as they drew nearer and nearer to it through the beautiful bay.
“And this is the wonderful new world, that promises so much to us all,” said Allan.
“They have left unstained what there they found.
Freedom to worship God,”
murmured Graeme, softly. “I’m sure I shall like the American people.”
But Allan was taking to heart the thought of parting from them all, more than was at all reasonable, he said to himself, and he could not answer her with a jest as he might at another time.
“You must write and tell me about your new home,” said he.
“Yes—the boys will write; we will all write. I can hardly believe that six weeks ago we had never seen you. Oh! I wish you were going with us,” said Graeme.
“Allan will see Arthur when he comes. Arthur will want to see all the country,” said Norman.
“And maybe he will like the Queen’s dominions best, and wish to settle there,” said Allan.
“Oh! but we shall see you long before Arthur comes,” said Graeme. “Is it very far to Canada?”
“I don’t know—not very far, I suppose. I don’t feel half so hopeful now that I am about to know what my fate is to be. I have a great dread on me. I have a mind not to go to my uncle at all, but seek my fortune here.”
“But your mother wouldna be pleased,” said Graeme, gravely.
“No. She has great hopes of what my uncle may do for me. But it would be more agreeable to me not to be confined to one course. I should like to look about me a little, before I get fairly into the treadmill of business.”
In her heart Graeme thought it an excellent thing for Allan that he had his uncle to go to. She had her own ideas about young people’s looking about them, with nothing particular to do, and quite agreed with Janet and Dr Watts as to the work likely to be found for them to do. But she thought it would be very nice for them all, if instead of setting off at once for Canada, Allan might have gone with them for a little while. Before she could say this, however, Janet spoke.
“Ay, that’s bairn-like, though you hae a man’s stature. I dare say you would think it a braw thing to be at naebody’s bidding; but, my lad, it’s ae’ thing to hae a friend’s house, and a welcome waiting you in a strange land like this, and it’s anither thing to sit solitary in a bare lodging, even though you may hae liberty to come and go at your ain will. If you’re like the lads that I ken’ maist about, you’ll be none the worse of a little wholesome restraint. Be thankful for your mercies.”
Allan laughed good-humouredly.
“But really, Mrs Nasmyth, you are too hard on me. Just think what a country this is. Think of the mountains, and rivers and lakes, and of all these wonderful forests and prairies that Norman reads about, and is it strange that I should grudge myself to a dull counting-room, with all these things to enjoy? It is not the thought of the restraint that troubles me. I only fear I shall become too soon content with the routine, till I forget how to enjoy anything but the making and counting of money. I am sure anything would be better than to come to that.”
“You’ll hae many things between you and the like o’ that, if you do your duty. You have them you are going to, and them you hae left—your mother and brother. And though you had none o’ them, you could aye find some poor body to be kind to, to keep your heart soft. Are you to bide in your uncle’s house?”
“I don’t know. Mrs Peter Stone, that was home last year, told us that my uncle lives in the country, and his clerks live in the town anywhere they like. I shall do as the rest do I suppose. All the better—I shall be the more able to do what I like with my leisure.”
“Ay, it’s aye liberty that the like o’ you delight in. Weel, see that you make a good use of it, that’s the chief thing. Read your Bible and gang to the kirk, and there’s no fear o’ you. And dinna forget to write to your mother. She’s had many a weary thought about you ’ere this time, I’ll warrant.”
“I daresay I shall be content enough. But it seems like parting from home again, to think of leaving you all. My bonnie wee Rosie, what shall I ever do without you?” said Allan, caressing the little one who had clambered on his knee.
“And what shall we do without you?” exclaimed a chorus of voices; and Norman added,—
“What is the use of your going all the way to Canada, when there’s enough for you to do here. Come with us, Allan, man, and never mind your uncle.”
“And what will you do for him, in case he should give his uncle up for you?” demanded Janet, sharply.
“Oh! he’ll get just what we’ll get ourselves, a chance to make his own way, and I doubt whether he’ll get more where he’s going. I’ve no faith in rich uncles.” Allan laughed.
“Thank you, Norman, lad. I must go to Canada first, however, whether I stay there or not. Maybe you will see me again, sooner than I think now. Surely, in the great town before us, there might be found work, and a place for me.”
Far-away before them, stretched the twinkling lights of the town, and silence fell upon them as they watched them. In another day they would be among the thousands who lived, and laboured, and suffered in it. What awaited them there? Not that they feared the future, or doubted a welcome. Indeed, they were too young to think much of possible evils. A new life was opening before them, no fear but it would be a happy one. Graeme had seen more trouble than the rest, being older, and she was naturally less hopeful, but then she had no fear for them all, only the thought that they were about to enter on a new, untried life, made her excited and anxious, and the thought of parting with their friend made her sad.
As for Janet, she was herself again. Her courage returned when the sea-sickness departed, and now she was ready “to put a stout heart to a stiff brae” as of old. “Disjaskit looking” she was, and not so strong as she used to be, but she was as active as ever, and more than thankful to be able to keep her feet again. “She had been busy all the morning,” overhauling the belongings of the family, preparatory to landing, much to the discomfort of all concerned. All the morning Graeme had submitted with a passably good grace to her cross-questionings as to the “guiding” of this and that, while she had been unable to give personal supervision to family matters. Thankful to see her at her post again, Graeme tried to make apparent her own good management of matters in general, during the voyage, but she was only partially successful. There were far more rents and stains, and soiled garments, than Janet considered at all necessary, and besides many familiar articles of wearing apparel were missing, after due search made. In vain Graeme begged her never to mind just now. They were in the big blue chest, or the little brown one, she couldna just mind where she had put them, but of course they would be found, when all the boxes were opened.
“Maybe no,” said Janet. “There are some long fingers, I doubt, in the steerage yonder. Miss Graeme, my dear, we would need to be carefu’. If I’m no’ mistaken, I saw one o’ Norman’s spotted handkerchiefs about the neck o’ yon lang Johnny Heeman, and yon little Irish lassie ga’ed past me the day, with a pinafore very like one o’ Menie’s. I maun ha’ a look at it again.”
“Oh, Janet! never mind. I gave wee Norah the pinafore, and the old brown frock besides. She had much need of them. And poor Johnny came on board on the pilot boat you ken, and he hadna a change, and Norman gave him the handkerchief and an old waistcoat of papa’s,—and—”
Janet’s hands were uplifted in consternation.
“Keep’s and guide’s lassie—that I should say such a word. Your papa hadna an old waistcoat in his possession. What for did you do the like o’ that? The like o’ Norman or Menie might be excused, but you that I thought had some sense and discretion. Your father’s waistcoat! Heard anybody ever the like? You may be thankful that you hae somebody that kens the value of good clothes, to take care of you and them—”
“Oh! I’m thankful as you could wish,” said Graeme, laughing. “I would rather see you sitting there, in the midst of those clothes, than to see the Queen on her throne. I confess to the waistcoat, and some other things, but mind, I’m responsible no longer. I resign my office of general caretaker to you. Success to you,” and Graeme made for the cabin stairs. She turned again, however.
“Never heed, Janet, about the things. Think what it must be to have no change, and we had so many. Poor wee Norah, too. Her mother’s dead you ken, and she looked so miserable.”
Janet was pacified.
“Weel, Miss Graeme, I’ll no’ heed. But my dear, it’s no’ like we’ll find good clothes growing upon trees in this land, more than in our own. And we had need to be careful. I wonder where a’ the strippet pillow slips can be? I see far more of the fine ones dirty than were needed, if you had been careful, and guarded them.”
But Graeme was out of hearing before she came to this.
They landed at last, and a very dreary landing it was. They had waited for hours, till the clouds should exhaust themselves, but the rain was still falling when they left the ship. Eager and excited, the whole party were, but not after the anticipated fashion. Graeme was surprised, and a little mortified, to find no particular emotions swelling at her heart, as her feet touched the soil which the Puritans had rendered sacred. Indeed, she was too painfully conscious, that the sacred soil was putting her shoes and frock in jeopardy, and had too much trouble to keep the umbrella over Marian and herself, to be able to give any thanks to the sufferings of the Pilgrim fathers, or mothers either. Mr Elliott had been on shore in the morning, and had engaged rooms for them in a quiet street, and thither Allan Ruthven, carrying little Rose, was to conduct them, while he attended to the proper bestowment of their baggage.
This duty Janet fain would have shared with him. Her reverence for the minister, and his many excellencies, did not imply entire confidence in his capacity, for that sort of business, and when he directed her to go with the bairns, it was with many misgivings that she obeyed. Indeed, as the loaded cart took its departure in another direction, she expressed herself morally certain, that they had seen the last of it, for she fully believed that, “yon sharp-looking lad could carry it off from beneath the minister’s nose.”
Dread of more distant evils was, however, driven from her thoughts by present necessities. The din and bustle of the crowded wharf, would have been sufficient to “daze” the sober-minded country-woman, without the charge of little Will, and unnumbered bundles, and the two “daft laddies forby.” On their part, Norman and Harry scorned the idea of being taken care of, and loaded with baskets and other movables, made their way through the crowd, in a manner that astonished the bewildered Janet.
“Bide a wee, Norman, man. Harry, you daft laddie, where are you going? Now dinna throw awa’ good pennies for such green trash.” For Harry had made a descent on a fruit stall, and his pockets were turned inside out in a twinkling.
“Saw ever anybody such cheatry,” exclaimed Janet, as the dark lady pocketed the coins with a grin, quite unmindful of her expostulations. “Harry lad, a fool and his money is soon parted. And look! see here, you hae set down the basket in the dubs, and your sister’s bed gowns will be all wet. Man! hae you no sense?”
“Nae muckle, I doubt, Janet,” said Harry, with an exaggerated gesture of humility and penitence, turning the basket upside down, to ascertain the extent of the mischief. “It’s awfu’ like Scotch dubs, now isn’t it? Never mind, I’ll give it a wash at the next pump, and it ’ill he none the worse. Give me Will’s hand, and I’ll take care of him.”
“Take care o’ yourself, and leave Will with me. But, dear me, where’s Mr Allan?” For their escort had disappeared, and she stood alone, with the baskets and the boys in the rainy street. Before her consternation had reached a climax, however, Ruthven reappeared, having safely bestowed the others in their lodgings. Like a discreet lad, as Janet was inclined to consider him, he possessed himself of Will, and some of the bundles, and led the way. At the door stood the girls, anxiously looking out for them.
If their hostess had, at first, some doubt as to the sanity of her new lodgers, there was little wonder. Such a confusion of tongues her American ears had not heard before. Graeme condoled with Will, who was both wet and weary. Janet searched for missing bundles, and bewailed things in general. Marian was engaged in a friendly scuffle for an apple, and Allan was tossing Rosie up to the ceiling, while Norman, perched on the bannisters high above them all, waved his left hand, bidding farewell, with many words, to an imaginary Scotland, while with his right he beckoned to the “brave new world” which was to be the scene of his wonderful achievements and triumphs.
The next day rose bright and beautiful. Mr Elliott had gone to stay with his friend Mr Caldwell, and Janet was over head and ears in a general “sorting” of things, and made no objections when it was proposed that the boys and Graeme should go out with Allan Ruthven to see the town. It is doubtful whether there was ever so much of Boston seen in one day before, without the aid of a carriage and pair. It was a day never to be forgotten by the children. The enjoyment was not quite unmixed to Graeme, for she was in constant fear of losing some of them. Harry was lost sight of for a while, but turned up again with a chapter of adventures at his finger ends for their amusement.
The crowning enjoyment of the day was the treat given by Allan Ruthven on their way home. They were very warm and tired, and hungry too, and the low, cool room down some steps into which they were taken, was delightful. There was never such fruit—there were never such cakes as these that were set before them. As for the ice cream, it was—inexpressible. In describing the feast afterwards, Marian could never get beyond the ice cream. She was always at a loss for adjectives to describe it. It was like the manna that the Children of Israel had in the wilderness, she thought, and surely they ought to have been content with it.
Graeme was the only one who did not enjoy it thoroughly. She had an idea that there were not very many guineas left in Allan’s purse, and she felt bound to remonstrate with him because of his extravagance.
“Never mind, Graeme, dear,” said Norman; “Allan winna have a chance to treat us to manna this while again; and when I am Mayor of Boston, I’ll give him manna and quails too.”
They came home tired, but they had a merry evening. Even Graeme “unbent,” as Harry said, and joined in the mirth; and Janet had enough to do to reason them into quietness when bed-time came.
“One would think when Mr Allan is going away in the morning, you might have the grace to seem sorry, and let us have a while’s peace,” said she.
If the night was merry, the morning farewells were sad indeed, and long, long did they wait in vain for tidings of Allan Ruthven.
Chapter Six.
“But where’s the town?”
The bairns were standing on the highest step of the meeting-house, gazing with eyes full of wonder and delight on the scene before them. The meeting-house stood on a high hill, and beyond a wide sloping field at the foot of the hill, lay Merleville pond, like a mirror in a frame of silver and gold. Beyond, and on either side, were hills rising behind hills, the most distant covered with great forest trees, “the trees under which the red Indians used to wander,” Graeme whispered. There were trees on the nearer hills too, sugaries, and thick pine groves, and a circle of them round the margin of the pond. Over all the great Magician of the season had waved his wand, and decked them in colours dazzling to the eyes accustomed to the grey rocks and purple heather, and to the russet garb of autumn in their native land.
There were farm-houses too, and the scattered houses along the village street looking white and fair beneath crimson maples and yellow beech-trees. Above hung a sky undimmed by a single cloud, and the air was keen, yet mild with the October sunshine. They could not have had a lovelier time for the first glimpse of their new home, yet there was an echo of disappointment in Harry’s voice as he asked,—
“Where’s the town?”
They had been greatly impressed by the description given them of Merleville by Mr Sampson Snow, in whose great wagon they had been conveyed over the twenty miles of country roads that lay between the railway and their new home.
“I was the first white child born in the town,” said Sampson. “I know every foot of it as well as I do my own barn, and I don’t want no better place to live in than Merleville. It don’t lack but a fraction of being ten miles square. Right in the centre, perhaps a leetle south, there’s about the prettiest pond you ever saw. There are some first-rate farms there, mine is one of them, but in general the town is better calculated for pasturage than tillage. I shouldn’t wonder but it would be quite a manufacturing place too after a spell, when they’ve used up all the other water privileges in the State. There’s quite a fall in the Merle river, just before it runs into the pond. We’ve got a fullin’-mill and a grist-mill on it now. They’d think everything of it in your country.”
“There’s just one meetin’-house in it. That’s where your pa’ll preach if our folks conclude to hire him a spell. The land’s about all taken up, though it hain’t reached the highest point of cultivation yet. The town is set off into nine school-districts, and I consider that our privileges are first-rate. And if it’s nutting and squirrel-hunting you’re after, boys, all you have to do is to apply to Uncle Sampson, and he’ll arrange your business for you.”
“Ten miles square and nine school-districts!” Boston could be nothing to it, surely, the boys thought. The inconsistency of talking about pasturage and tillage, nutting and squirrel-hunting in the populous place which they imagined Merleville to be, did not strike them. This was literally their first glimpse of Merleville, for the rain had kept them within doors, and the mist had hidden all things the day before and now they looked a little anxiously for the city they had pictured to themselves.
“But Norman! Harry! I think this is far better than a town,” said Marian, eagerly. “Eh, Graeme, isna yon a bonny water?”
“Ay, it’s grand,” said Graeme. “Norman, this is far better than a town.”
The people were beginning to gather to service by this time; but the children were too eager and too busy to heed them for a while. With an interest that was half wonder, half delight, Graeme gazed to the hills and the water and the lovely sky. It might be the “bonny day”—the mild air and the sunshine, and the new fair scene before her, or it might be the knowledge that after much care, and many perils, they were all safe together in this quiet place where they were to find a home; she scarce knew what it was, but her heart felt strangely light, and lips and eyes smiled as she stood there holding one of Marian’s hands in hers, while the other wandered through the curls of Will’s golden hair. She did not speak for a long time; but the others were not so quiet, but whispered to each other, and pointed out the objects that pleased them most.
“Yon’s Merle river, I suppose, where we see the water glancing through the trees.”
“And yonder is the kirkyard,” said Marian, gravely. “It’s no’ a bonny place.”
“It’s bare and lonely looking,” said Harry.
“They should have yew trees and ivy and a high wall, like where mamma is,” said Marian.
“But this is a new country; things are different here,” said Norman.
“But surely they might have trees.”
“And look, there are cows in it. The gate is broken. It’s a pity.”
“Look at yon road that goes round the water, and then up between the hills through the wood. That’s bonny, I’m sure.”
“And there’s a white house, just where the road goes out of sight. I would like to live there.”
“Yes, there are many trees about it, and another house on this side.”
And so they talked on, till a familiar voice accosted them. Their friend Mr Snow was standing beside them, holding a pretty, but delicate little girl, by the hand. He had been watching them for some time.
“Well how do you like the looks of things?”
“It’s bonny here,” said Marian.
“Where’s the town?” asked Harry, promptly.
Mr Snow made a motion with his head, intended to indicate the scene before them.
“Lacks a fraction of being ten miles square.”
“It’s all trees,” said little Will.
“Wooden country, eh, my little man?”
“Country! yes, it’s more like the country than like a town,” said Harry.
“Well, yes. On this side of the water, we can afford to have our towns, as big as some folks’ countries,” said Mr Snow, gravely.
“But it’s like no town I ever saw,” said Norman. “There are no streets, no shops, no market, no anything that makes a town.”
“There’s freedom on them hills,” said Mr Snow, waving his hand with an air.
During the journey the other day, Mr Snow and the lads had discussed many things together; among the rest, the institutions of their respective countries, and Mr Snow had, as he expressed it, “Set their British blood to bilin’,” by hints about “aristocracy,” “despotism,” and so on. “He never had had such a good time,” he said, afterwards. They were a little fiery, but first-rate smart boys, and as good natured as kittens, and he meant to see to them. He meant to amuse himself with them too, it seemed. The boys fired up at once, and a hot answer was only arrested on their lips, by the timely interference of Graeme.
“Whist, Norman. Harry, mind it is the Sabbath-day, and look yonder is papa coming up with Judge Merle,” and turning smilingly to Mr Snow, she added, “We like the place very much. It’s beautiful everywhere. It’s far bonnier than a town. I’m glad there’s no town, and so are the boys, though they were disappointed at first.”
“No town?” repeated Mr Snow.
But there was no time for explanations. Their father had reached the steps, and the children were replying to the greeting of the Judge. Judge Merle, was in the opinion of the majority, the greatest man in Merleville, if not in the country. The children had made his acquaintance on Saturday. He had brought them with his own hands, through the rain, a pail of sweet milk, and another of hominy, a circumstance which gave them a high idea of his kindness of heart, but which sadly overturned all their preconceived notions with regard to the dignity of his office. Janet, who looked on the whole thing as a proper tribute of respect to the minister, augured well from it, what he might expect in his new parish, and congratulated herself accordingly. The children were glad to see him, among the many strangers around them, and when Mr Snow gave him a familiar nod, and a “Morning Judge,” Graeme felt a little inclined, to resent the familiarity. The Judge did not resent it, however. On the contrary, when Mr Snow, nodding sideways toward the minister, said, “He guessed the folks would get about fitted this time,” he nodded as familiarly back, and said, “He shouldn’t wonder if they did.”
There are no such churches built in New England now, as that into which the minister and his children were led by the Judge. It was very large and high, and full of windows. It was the brilliant light that struck the children first, accustomed as they had been to associate with the Sabbath worship, the dimness of their father’s little chapel in Clayton. Norman the mathematician was immediately seized with a perverse desire to count the panes, and scandalised Graeme by communicating to her the result of his calculation, just as her father rose up to begin.
How many people there were in the high square pews, and in the galleries, and even in the narrow aisles. So many, that Graeme not dreaming of the quiet nooks hidden among the hills she had thought so beautiful, wondered where they all could come from. Keen, intelligent faces, many of them were, that turned toward the minister as he rose; a little hard and fixed, perhaps, those of the men, and far too delicate, and care-worn, those of the women, but earnest, thoughtful faces, many of them were, and kindly withal.
Afterwards—years and years afterwards, when the bairns had to shut their eyes to recall their father’s face, as it gleamed down upon them from that strange high pulpit, the old people used to talk to them of this first sermon in Merleville. There was a charm in the Scottish accent, and in the earnest manner of the minister, which won upon these people wonderfully. It was heart speaking to heart, an earnest, loving, human heart, that had sinned and had been forgiven, that had suffered and had been comforted; one who, through all, had by God’s grace struggled upwards, speaking to men of like passions and necessities. He spoke as one whom God had given a right to warn, to counsel, to console. He spoke as one who must give account, and his hearers listened earnestly. So earnestly that Deacon Fish forgot to hear for Deacon Slowcome, and Deacon Slowcome forgot to hear for people generally. Deacon Sterne who seldom forgot anything which he believed to be his duty, failed for once to prove the orthodoxy of the doctrine by comparing it with his own, and received it as it fell from the minister’s lips, as the very word of God.
“He means just as he says,” said Mr Snow to young Mr Greenleaf, as he overtook him in going home that afternoon. “He wasn’t talking just because it was his business to. When he was a telling us what mighty things the grace of God can do, he believed it himself, I guess.”
“They all do, don’t they?” said Mr Greenleaf.
“Well, I don’t know. They all say they do. But there’s Deacon Fish now,” said Mr Snow, nodding to that worthy, as his wagon whirled past, “he don’t begin to think that grace or anything else, could make me such a good man as he is.”
Mr Greenleaf laughed.
“If the vote of the town was taken, I guess it would be decided that grace wouldn’t have a great deal to do.”
“Well, the town would make a mistake. Deacon Fish ain’t to brag of for goodness, I don’t think; but he’s a sight better than I be. But see here, Squire, don’t you think the new minister’ll about fit?”
“He’ll fit me,” said the Squire. “It is easy to see that he is not a common man. But he won’t fit the folks here, or they won’t fit him. It would be too good luck if he were to stay here.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. There are folks enough in the town that know what’s good when they hear it, and I guess they’ll keep him if they can. And I guess he’ll stay. He seems to like the look of things. He is a dreadful mild-spoken man, and I guess he won’t want much in the way of pay. I guess you had better shell out some yourself, Squire. I mean to.”
“You are a rich man, Mr Snow. You can afford it.”
“Come now, Squire, that’s good. I’ve worked harder for every dollar I’ve got, than you’ve done for any ten you ever earned.”
The Squire shook his head.
“You don’t understand my kind of work, or you wouldn’t say so. But about the minister? If I were to pledge myself to any amount for his support, I should feel just as though I were in a measure responsible for the right arrangement of all things with regard to his salary, and the paying of it. Anything I have to do with, I want to have go right along without any trouble, and unless Merleville folks do differently than they have so far, it won’t be so in this matter.”
“Yes, I shouldn’t wonder if there would be a hitch before long. But I guess you’d better think before you say no. I guess it’ll pay in the long run.”
“Thank you, Mr Snow. I’ll take your advice and think of it,” said Mr Greenleaf, as Sampson stopped at his own gate. He watched him going up the hill.
“He’s goin’ along up to the widow Jones’ now, I’ll bet. I shouldn’t wonder if he was a goin’ to lose me my chance of getting her place. It kind o’ seems as though I ought to have it; it fits on so nice to mine. And they say old Skinflint is going to foreclose right off. I’ll have to make things fit pretty tight this winter, if I have to raise the cash. But it does seem as if I ought to have it. Maybe it’s Celestia the Squire wants, and not the farm.”
He came back to close the gate which, in his earnestness, he had forgotten, and leaned for a moment over it.
“Well, now, it does beat all. Here have I been forgetting all about what I have heard over yonder to the meeting-house. Deacon Sterne needn’t waste no more words, to prove total depravity to me. I’ve got to know it pretty well by this time;” and, with a sigh, he turned toward the house.
Chapter Seven.
The next week was a busy one to all. Mr Elliott, during that time, took up his residence at Judge Merle’s, only making daily visits to the little brown house behind the elms where Janet and the bairns were putting things to rights. There was a great deal to be done, but it was lovely weather, and all were in excellent spirits, and each did something to help. The lads broke sticks and carried water, and Janet’s mammoth washing was accomplished in an incredibly short time; and before the week was over the little brown house began to look like a home.
A great deal besides was accomplished this week. It was not all devoted to helping, by the boys. Norman caught three squirrels in a trap of his own invention, and Harry shot as many with Mr Snow’s wonderful rifle. They and Marian had made the circuit of the pond, over rocks, through bushes and brambles, over brooks, or through them, as the case might be. They came home tired enough, and in a state which naturally suggested thoughts of another mammoth washing, but in high spirits with their trip, only regretting that Graeme and Janet had not been with them. It was Saturday night, after a very busy week, and Janet had her own ideas about the enjoyment of such a ramble, and was not a little put out with them for “their thoughtless ruining of their clothes and shoon.” But the minister had come home, and there was but a thin partition between the room that must serve him for study and parlour, and the general room for the family, and they got off with a slight reprimand, much to their surprise and delight. For to tell the truth, Janet’s patience with the bairns, exhaustless in most circumstances, was wont to give way in the presence of “torn clothes and ruined shoon.”
The next week was hardly so successful. It was cold and rainy. The gold and crimson glories of the forest disappeared in a night, and the earth looked gloomy and sad under a leaden sky. The inconveniences of the little brown house became more apparent now. It had been declared, at first sight, the very worst house in Merleville, and so it was, even under a clear sky and brilliant sunshine. A wretched place it looked. The windows clattered, the chimney smoked, latches and hinges were defective, and there were a score of other evils, which Janet and the lads strove to remedy without vexing their father and Graeme. A very poor place it was, and small and inconvenient besides. But this could not be cured, and therefore must be endured. The house occupied by Mr Elliott’s predecessor had been burned down, and the little brown house was the only unoccupied house in the village. When winter should be over something might be done about getting another, and in the meantime they must make the best of it.
The people were wonderfully kind. One man came to mend windows and doors, another to mend the chimney. Orrin Green spent two days in banking up the house. Deacons Fish and Slowcome sent their men to bring up wood; and apples and chickens, and pieces of beef were sent in by some of the village people.
There were some drawbacks. The wood was green, and made more smoke than heat; and Janet mortally offended Mr Green by giving him his dinner alone in the kitchen. Every latch and hinge, and pane of glass, and the driving of every nail, was charged and deducted from the half year’s salary, at prices which made Janet’s indignation overflow. This latter circumstance was not known, however, till the half year was done; and in the meantime it helped them all through this dreary time to find their new friends so kind.
In the course of time, things were put to rights, and the little bare place began to look wonderfully comfortable. With warm carpets on the floors, and warm curtains on the windows, with stools and sofas, and tables made out of packing boxes, disguised in various ways, it began to have a look of home to them all.
The rain and the clouds passed away, too, and the last part of November was a long and lovely Indian-summer. Then the explorations of the boys were renewed with delight. Graeme and Rosie and Will went with the rest, and even Janet was beguiled into a nutting excursion one afternoon. She enjoyed it, too, and voluntarily confessed it. It was a fair view to look over the pond and the village lying so quietly in the valley, with the kirk looking down upon it from above. It was a fine country, nobody could deny; but Janet’s eyes were sad enough as she gazed, and her voice shook as she said it, for the thought of home was strong at her heart.
In this month they made themselves thoroughly acquainted with the geography of the place, and with the kindly inmates of many a farm-house besides. And a happy month it was for them all. One night they watched the sun set between red and wavering clouds, and the next day woke to behold “the beauty and mystery of the snow.” Far-away to the highest hill-top; down to the very verge of pond and brook; on every bush, and tree, and knoll, and over every silent valley, lay the white garment of winter. How strange! how wonderful! it seemed to their unaccustomed eyes.
“It ’minds me of white grave-clothes,” said Marian, with a shudder.
“Whist, Menie,” said her sister. “It makes me think, of how full the air will be of bonnie white angels at the resurrection-day. Just watch the flakes floating so quietly in the air.”
“But, Graeme, the angels will be going up, and—”
“Well, one can hardly tell by looking at them, whether the snow-flakes are coming down or going up, they float about so silently. They mind me of beautiful and peaceful things.”
“But, Graeme, it looks cold and dreary, and all the bonnie flowers are covered in the dark.”
“Menie! There are no flowers to be covered now, and the earth is weary with her summer work, and will rest and sleep under the bonnie white snow. And, dear, you mustna think of dreary things when you look out upon the snow, for it will be a long time before we see the green grass and the bonnie flowers again,” and Graeme sighed.
But it was with a shout of delight that the boys plunged headlong into it, rolling and tumbling and tossing it at one another in a way that was “perfect ruination to their clothes;” and yet Janet had not the heart to forbid it. It was a holiday of a new kind to them; and their enjoyment was crowned and completed when, in the afternoon, Mr Snow came down with his box-sleigh and his two handsome greys to give them a sleigh-ride. There was room for them all, and for Mr Snow’s little Emily, and for half a dozen besides had they been there; so, well wrapped up with blankets and buffalo-robes, away they went. Was there ever anything so delightful, so exhilarating? Even Graeme laughed and clapped her hands, and the greys flew over the ground, and passed every sleigh and sledge on the road.
“The bonnie creatures!” she exclaimed; and Mr Snow, who loved his greys, and was proud of them, took the oft repeated exclamation as a compliment to himself, and drove in a way to show his favourites to the best advantage. Away they went, up hill and down, through the village and over the bridge, past the mill to the woods, where the tall hemlocks and cedars stood dressed in white “like brides.” Marian had no thought of sorrowful things in her heart now. They came home again the other way, past Judge Merle’s and the school-house, singing and laughing in a way that made the sober-minded boys and girls of Merleville, to whom sleigh-riding was no novelty, turn round in astonishment as they passed. The people in the store, and the people in the blacksmith’s shop, and even the old ladies in their warm kitchens, opened the door and looked out to see the cause of the pleasant uproar. All were merry, and all gave voice to their mirth except Mr Snow’s little Emily, and she was too full of astonishment at the others to think of saying anything herself. But none of them enjoyed the ride more than she, though it was not her first by many. None of them all remembered it so well, or spoke of it so often. It was the beginning of sleigh-riding to them, but it was the beginning of a new life to little Emily.
“Isna she a queer little creature?” whispered Harry to Graeme, as her great black eyes turned from one to another, full of grave wonder.
“She’s a bonnie little creature,” said Graeme, caressing the little hand that had found its way to hers, “and good, too, I’m sure.”
“Grandma don’t think so,” said the child, gravely.
“No!” exclaimed Harry. “What bad things do you do?”
“I drop stitches and look out of the window, and I hate to pick over beans.”
Harry whistled.
“What an awful wee sinner! And does your grandma punish you ever? Does she whip you?”
The child’s black eyes flashed.
“She daren’t. Father wouldn’t let her. She gives me stints, and sends me to bed.”
“The Turk!” exclaimed Harry. “Run away from her, and come and bide with us.”
“Hush, Harry,” said Graeme, softly, “grandma is Mr Snow’s mother.”
There was a pause. In a little Emily spoke for the first time of her own accord.
“There are no children at our house,” said she.
“Poor wee lammie, and you are lonely sometimes,” said Graeme.
“Yes; when father’s gone and mother’s sick. Then there’s nobody but grandma.”
“Have you a doll?” asked Menie.
“No: I have a kitten, though.”
“Ah! you must come and play with my doll. She is a perfect beauty, and her name is Flora Macdonald.”
Menie’s doll had become much more valuable in her estimation since she had created such a sensation among the little Merleville girls.
“Will you come? Mr Snow,” she said, climbing upon the front seat which Norman shared with the driver, “won’t you let your little girl come and see my doll?”
“Well, yes; I guess so. If she’s half as pretty as you are, she is well worth seeing.”
Menie was down again in a minute.
“Yes, you may come, he says. And bring your kitten, and we’ll play all day. Graeme lets us, and doesna send us to bed. Will you like to come?”
“Yes,” said the child, quickly, but as gravely as ever.
They stopped at the little brown house at last, with a shout that brought their father and Janet out to see. All sprang lightly down. Little Emily stayed alone in the sleigh.
“Is this your little girl, Mr Snow?” said Mr Elliott, taking the child’s hand in his. Emily looked in his face as gravely and quietly as she had been looking at the children all the afternoon.
“Yes; she’s your Marian’s age, and looks a little like her, too. Don’t you think so Mrs Nasmyth?”
Janet, thus appealed to, looked kindly at the child.
“She might, if she had any flesh on her bones,” said she.
“Well, she don’t look ragged, that’s a fact,” said her father.
The cold, which had brought the roses to the cheeks of the little Elliotts, had given Emily a blue, pinched look, which it made her father’s heart ache to see.
“The bairn’s cold. Let her come in and warm herself,” said Janet, promptly. There was a chorus of entreaties from the children.
“Well, I don’t know as I ought to wait. My horses don’t like to stand much,” said Mr Snow.
“Never mind waiting. If it’s too far for us to take her home, you can come down for her in the evening.”
Emily looked at her father wistfully.
“Would you like to stay, dear?” asked he.
“Yes, sir.” And she was lifted out of the sleigh by Janet, and carried into the house, and kissed before she was set down.
“I’ll be along down after dark, sometime,” said Mr Snow, as he drove away.
Little Emily had never heard so much noise, at least so much pleasant noise, before. Mr Elliott sat down beside the bright wood fire in the kitchen, with Marian on one knee and the little stranger on the other, and listened to the exclamations of one and all about the sleigh-ride.
“And hae you nothing to say, my bonnie wee lassie?” said he pushing back the soft, brown hair from the little grave face. “What is your name, little one?”
“Emily Snow Arnold,” answered she, promptly.
“Emily Arnold Snow,” said Menie, laughing.
“No; Emily Snow Arnold. Grandma says I am not father’s own little girl. My father is dead.”
She looked grave, and so did the rest.
“But it is just the same. He loves you.”
“Oh, yes!” There was a bright look in the eyes for once.
“And you love him all the same?”
“Oh, yes.”
So it was. Sampson Snow, with love enough in his heart for half a dozen children, had none of his own, and it was all lavished on this child of his wife, and she loved him dearly. But they did not have “good times” up at their house the little girl confided to Graeme.
“Mother is sick most of the time, and grandma is cross always; and, if it wasn’t for father, I don’t know what we should do.”
Indeed, they did not have good times. Old Mrs Snow had always been strong and healthy, altogether unconscious of “nerves,” and she could have no sympathy and very little pity for his son’s sickly wife. She had never liked her, even when she was a girl, and her girlhood was past, and she had been a sorrowful widow before her son brought her home as his wife. So old Mrs Snow kept her place at the head of the household, and was hard on everybody, but more especially on her son’s wife and her little girl. If there had been children, she might have been different; but she almost resented her son’s warm affection for his little step-daughter. At any rate she was determined that little Emily should be brought up as children used to be brought up when she was young, and not spoiled by over-indulgence as her mother had been; and the process was not a pleasant one to any of them, and “good times” were few and far between at their house.
Her acquaintance with the minister’s children was the beginning of a new life to Emily. Her father opened his eyes with astonishment when he came into Janet’s bright kitchen that night and heard his little girl laughing and clapping her hands as merrily as any of them. If anything had been needed to deepen his interest in them all, their kindness to the child would have done it; and from that day the minister, and his children, and Mrs Nasmyth, too, had a firm and true friend in Mr Snow.