GOING TO CALIFORNIA!
It is strange how soon the most startling things that happen to us,
settle into a matter of course. Before another Saturday night the whole
Gilman family thought and talked of “going to California,” as if they had
looked forward to it for a year. Sam contrived to gather more information
about Cape Horn and the Pacific coast than he could have learned from a
study of Olney’s Geography all his life. As Mrs. Gilman expected, her
husband’s adviser made a determined opposition against taking a boy, and
one as sharp-sighted as Sam Gilman particularly. But she was equally
determined, and as Colcord knew she had it in her power to stop the sale
of the farm, and cut off their means of going, he thought it best to give
up. He concluded he should be able to manage both father and son after a
while, and it might not be such a bad plan in the end.
Squire Merrill tried his best to dissuade Mr. Gilman, when he saw what
was on foot. He even offered to lend him money to stock his farm, and get
started again, but he could have had about as much influence on the wind.
He proved himself to be a true friend, even though his advice was not
taken.
He bought the remnant of the once valuable farm, paying ready money for
it, though he was afterwards sorry he had not kept the sum intended for
Mrs. Gilman’s use in his own hands. It would have been much better if he
had. His old neighbor could not bear to have money and not be generous.
With his hundred dollars clear, in his pocket, after paying Colcord
enough to secure his passage in the same ship,—it was called _a loan_,—he
felt quite as good as any one in the county, and would not listen to the
suggestion that they should take passage in the steerage. He even debated
going in the Crescent City, but found that quite beyond his means.
There was one comfort in this self-importance. He renewed a promise made
and broken, many, many times, not to drink any more, and in spite of the
past sad experience, his wife _almost_ believed he would keep it. It was
this hope, and seeing him more like his old self, kind and affectionate,
that helped her through those two weeks of preparation. Her busy thoughts
flew fast into the future, as her needle kept time to them. She said to
herself she would forget the unhappy years that were gone, and work on
cheerfully. How many bright pictures of the future were wrought into her
daily tasks! She could even see them measuring the land, and sign the
deed that gave up all right to it, thinking how soon the old homestead
might be theirs again, and once more have fields crowned with plenty.
Sam seemed to think a long face was expected from him, and tried to
put on one every time the matter was talked over. He found this harder
and harder, as the time came near. A journey to Boston was an event in
the life of Ben Chase he had never quite recovered from. Ben Chase had
seen the Bunker Hill Monument and the State House, with Washington’s
Statue, and, dear to a boy’s heart, the Common, with its renowned Frog
Pond, which he never would own, even to himself, had disappointed him.
Ben Chase talked of Boston Harbor, and like all boys brought up out of
sight of salt water, thought of all things in the world he should like
to be a sailor. He had even contemplated running away and persuading Sam
Gilman to go with him. But Ben was a deacon’s son, and heard “honor thy
father and mother” read out of the big family Bible very often. He had
compunctious visitings the next day after concocting this notable scheme,
at family prayers, and quite repented of it when he saw his father go
round with the collection plate, the Sunday after. Now all his enthusiasm
revived. He looked up to Sam quite as much as Sam expected or desired,
when he found they were going “round the Horn.” He favored him with many
decidedly original suggestions, always prefaced with—“I’ll tell you what,
Sam,” and read over in the retirement of the barn chamber his limited
collection of voyages and travels, burning with a renewed desire to
“Walk the waters like a thing of life,”
as he poetically termed staggering across a ship’s deck. Sam sometimes
felt a little uncertainty about his positive happiness in leaving home,
when he saw how sorry Julia Chase looked; but Ben’s conversation had
quite an opposite effect on his spirits. Julia presented him with a
heart-shaped pincushion, made out of the pieces of her new hood, as a
keepsake. Ben deliberated among his accumulated stores a long time, and
finally decided on the big hickory bow and arrow he was making with a
great deal of care and skill. “It would be so useful if you was cast away
on a desert island, you know,” he said.
Julia and Ben came over on Saturday afternoon to bring their presents,
and some dried apples from Mrs. Chase to Mrs. Gilman. The last were
prefaced by the apology that “she didn’t know but Mrs. Gilman’s must be
most out.” Many a useful gift had come from the same quarter, prompted by
equal kindness, and offered with the same natural delicacy. “Neighbors”
in New England, mean more than living near a person. The rule of the
Samaritan is taken rather than the Levite’s, and certainly good wishes
and kind acts were as “oil and wine” to Mrs. Gilman of late, however
trifling they might seem in themselves.
The children passed a greater part of the afternoon in the garret
chamber, which being directly over the kitchen, was warm and comfortable.
Sam’s clothes were to go in his father’s chest—“a real sea-chest”—as he
told Ben, but he was to have a box of his own besides. Packing this box
was the excitement of the afternoon, as it included a distribution of
that part of Sam’s treasures, he found it impossible to accommodate. One
particular red ear of corn presented to Julia Chase, made a great deal
of amusement; some speckled bird’s eggs, and the principal curiosity of
his museum, a carved elephant’s tooth, brought home by some sailor uncle
or cousin of his mother’s, completed her share of the spoils. The sled
was presented to Ben, and Abby and Hannah shared the remainder, feeling
far richer than many a grown up legatee does in receiving a bequest of
thousands. An animated conversation was kept up, Julia bringing forward
a fact in history that had troubled her very much for the past few days.
Her class were studying Goodrich’s United States for the first time,
and she remembered that when the English settled at Jamestown they
discovered earth containing a great quantity of shining particles which
were supposed to be gold by the colonists. She sympathized very heartily
with them in their disappointment, when they found their ship loads
sent to England turned out worthless, and she had become quite anxious
on Sam’s account. What if after all the California gold should end in
the same way! Hannah and Abby were very much agitated for a while with
this startling historical inference, but Ben did not hesitate to say,
“girls were fools, they knew nothing and never did;” while Sam gave such
remarkable anecdotes and facts, that they were reassured, and all grew
merry and good-natured again.
For the first time in many Sundays, Mr. Gilman went with his wife and
family to meeting. His new rough great coat and respectable hat made
him seem like another man. But he did not like the sermon at all, and
considered it as meant for him. It was rather singular that the text
should be—
“_Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust
doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:_
“_But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor
rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal._”
Sam, who had persuaded his mother to let him sit in the gallery with
Ben, became much more attentive than usual. The new minister evidently
had the California adventure in his mind, though he only spoke of the
feeling extending all over the country; the sudden haste to get rich, and
the willingness people showed to leave their families and their homes
to go in search of golden treasure. He said if they would make half as
many sacrifices to lay up treasure in heaven, they would be thought to
have lost their senses, and ridiculed on every side; yet there was no
comparison between the worth and value of the two.
Ben on the contrary thought the sermon very long and tiresome, and amused
himself by carving on the seat what he fondly called a ship, working
most industriously with one eye on his father’s pew, to see when he was
unobserved. Ben certainly never could have supported existence without a
knife, and though it was only a jack-knife, and not a very elegant one at
that, it was surprising what a number of things he managed to do with it.
All the neighbors stood in the entry, or porch, at the noon recess,
and shook hands with Mr. Gilman, just as they used to do. His wife sat
near the glowing stove, talking with Mrs. Chase, and could not help
thinking how much happier it would be if, instead of going away the
next morning, he would stay with her and the children, and try to get
along at home. But then, perhaps, it was wrong not to be thankful for
any change that promised better things. Squire Merrill spoke very kindly
and encouragingly, Deacon Chase in his queer, forgetful way, shook hands
twice over, and insisted on driving them home, after afternoon meeting,
although Mrs. Gilman told him they were going back with Mr. Conner, whose
wife was not well enough to go out, so there was plenty of room. Sam on
his side had a large congregation of all the boys round him, most of them
looking very stiff and uncomfortable in their Sunday clothes, with their
straight, sunburnt locks, plastered down by an extra allowance of soap
and water. In their secret hearts they all envied him, and he knew it,
but tried not to overpower them by a sense of his own importance, leaving
it for Ben to set forth his probable route and adventures. Julia had
brought his sisters a big Baldwin apple apiece, and shared her luncheon
of dough-nuts in the most generous manner; a kindness which Abby fully
appreciated, as all their apples were gone long ago, and dough-nuts had
been a rarity for the last two winters. Hannah, with characteristic
forethought, saved her Baldwin until she could have a good chance to read
her new library book. A book and an apple was the height of Hannah’s
enjoyment. We must not forget, however, that she _was_ capable of
self-denial, for that same treasured Baldwin, with its beautiful crimson
cheek, found its way into Sam’s overcoat pocket the next morning. Let
those who have given up a hoarded dainty, appreciate the sacrifice!
Mr. Gilman was very restless—“fidgety” the Deacon would have called it,
all that evening. It was Sunday; all preparations were completed; he
could not make an excuse to go to Mooney’s, and he _had_ to think. He
went out to the barn, and even mounted to what was once the hay-loft.
He walked to the road, back to the kitchen, and out to the road again,
with his hands in his pockets, and his hat set down over his face. He
began to whistle, but stopped, remembering it was Sunday. No one but He
who can read the thoughts of our hearts, knew all that came into his, in
the quiet and deep stillness of that last Sunday evening at home. The
sermon, the journey, the next day’s parting with his wife, her love for
him, and his selfish neglect, all mingled there, and brought remorse and
self-condemnation with them. When he went into the house, Mrs. Gilman was
sitting in the fire-light with her children, singing hymns that her own
mother had taught her. This had once been the happiest hour of all the
week, but now the mother’s voice was tremulous, and her heart full of
heaviness. The last night of an unbroken family circle, perhaps for ever;
the last Sunday beneath the roof of her father’s homestead! How could it
be otherwise? Mr. Gilman was persuaded that this was the commencement of
a new and better life for him. All the indifference and selfishness of
years seemed to melt away; something like a silent prayer came in its
place, a prayerful resolve only, not one for aid and guidance. Depending
on himself, and forgetting how often he had been self-betrayed, he meant
fully, at that moment, to be industrious and persevering for their dear
sakes. He would toil with a strength and energy that must succeed, and
his wife should be doubly rewarded for all she had suffered.
Perhaps she felt the certainty of this as he sat near her, shading his
eyes with his hand; for her voice grew clearer and stronger as she sang—
Ye fearful souls fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread,
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense
But trust him for his grace—
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The _bud may have a bitter taste_,
_But sweet will be the flower._
Oh, these calm, thoughtful Sunday evenings in a New England home,
where the strict, and it may be rigid rule of our forefathers, is
still preserved! What a blessed memory they are, in after years, to
the toil-worn and world-wearied heart! The dear circle gathered in
the fire-light, one clasping a mother’s hand—the youngest nestling in
a father’s arms!—the long quiet talk of pleasant and holy things—the
wonderful Bible stories of Joseph and his brethren, Moses in the
bulrushes, and the destruction of Pharaoh’s host—the old-fashioned hymns,
led by a dear mother’s voice, in which all strive to join; the simple
melodies, and the pious words sinking unconsciously into the memory!
Who would exchange these recollections for the indulgence of carpeted
nurseries, a servant’s twice-told tales of ghost or goblin, the muttered
sleepy prayer at her knee, when another Sunday is over, a day of idle
play, or marked only by a careful toilette for the dinner company who
were expected, and engross the time and thoughts of worldly parents in
the drawing-room? We may be mistaken, after all, about the privileges
which the children of the rich enjoy.
Actually saying “good-bye,” is hardly ever as hard as we expect it will
be, or the loneliness afterwards proves. The next morning found Mr.
Gilman as confident as ever, and bustling around with great alacrity,
to be ready in time for the stage. His wife did not allow herself to
think. She had her breakfast to prepare—though Abby was the only one of
the party that seemed to need it—and many things to see to at the last
moment. Wherever she was, and whatever occupied her hands, her eyes
and her heart followed Sam, who felt all the excitement of departure.
His father had been so little comfort or company lately, that it would
be easier to be accustomed to his absence. Sam she had depended on—his
willing, cheerful readiness to assist her, the frank honesty that never
deceived, young as he was, had filled up a great void in her heart. His
very voice, and step, were music and lightness.—Do all she could the
tears could not be kept back, but filled her eyes, and almost blinded
her, as she went about her morning work. And then the time came—her
husband kissing her hurriedly and nervously as the toiling horses came
in sight, her boy not ashamed to cling to her neck, while she wrapped
her arms around him, as if he had been still the baby in her bosom,
and kissed him in an agony of love, and fear, and blessing. They were
gone, and the house, no longer her home, was empty and desolate, and her
straining eyes could not catch another glimpse of that bright boyish face.
All day long Mrs. Gilman busied herself with strange haste, and
unnecessary care. It seemed as if she dreaded to have her hands
unemployed for a moment. The children forgetting their tears, as children
will, played, and worked, and disputed, but she scarcely seemed to notice
them. It seemed to her as if death, not absence, had removed her son.