Spring came and went. The lads distinguished themselves both for the
quantity and quality of their sugar, and highly enjoyed the work
besides. The free out-of-door life, the camping in the woods beside a
blazing fire, and the company of the village lads who daily and nightly
crowded around them, charmed them from all other pursuits. Mr Foster
and his mathematics were sadly neglected in these days. In future they
were to devote themselves to agriculture.
In vain Janet hinted that "new things aye pleased light heads," and
warned them that they were deciding too soon. In vain Mr Snow said
that it was not sugaring time all the year; and that they should summer
and winter among the hills before they committed themselves to a
farmer's life. Harry quoted Cincinnatus, and Norman proved to his own
satisfaction, if not to Mr Snow's, that on scientific principles every
farm in Merleville could be cultivated with half the expense, and double
the profits. Even their father was carried away by their enthusiasm;
and it is to be feared, that if he had had a fortune to invest, it would
have been buried for ever among these beautiful hills of Merleville.
An opportunity to test the strength of the lads' determination, came in
a manner which involved less risk than a purchase would have done.
Early in May a letter was received from Mr Ross, in which he offered to
take the charge of Arthur's education on himself, and, as he was well
able to do so, Mr Elliott saw no reason for refusing the offer. The
money, therefore, that he had set apart for his son's use, returned to
his hands, and he did a wiser thing than to invest it either in mountain
or valley.
It came, about this time, to the worst, with Mrs Jones and her daughter
Celestia. The mortgage on the farm could not be paid, even the interest
had fallen far behind, and Squire Skinflint had foreclosed. Nothing
remained for the widow, but to save what she could from the wreck of a
property that had once been large, and go away to seek a new home for
herself and her children. On the homestead she was about to leave, the
heart and eyes of Mr Snow had long been fixed. As a relation of the
widow, he had done what could be done, both by advice and assistance, to
avert the evil day; but the widow was no farmer, and her boys were
children, and the longer she kept the place, the more she must involve
herself; and now that the land must pass from her hands, Sampson would
fain have it pass into his. But the only condition of sale was for
ready money, and this without great sacrifice he could not obtain.
Meanwhile, others were considering the matter of the purchase, and the
time was short; for there had been some failure in Squire Skinflint's
Western land speculation, and money must be had. If the widow could
have held it still, Mr Snow would never have desired to have the land;
but what with the many thoughts he had given to it, and the fear of
getting bad neighbours, he had about come to the conclusion that it was
not worth while to farm at all, unless he could have the two farms put
into one.
Just at this juncture, the minister surprised him greatly by asking his
advice about the investment of the money which his brother-in-law's
generosity had placed at his disposal. A very few words settled the
matter. The minister lent the money to Mr Snow, and for the annual
interest of the same, he was to have the use of the farm-house and the
ten acres of meadow and pasture land, that lay between it and the pond.
The arrangement was in all respects advantageous to both parties, and
before May was out, the little brown house behind the elms was left in
silence, to await the coming of the next chance tenants; and the
pleasurable excitement of settling down in their new home, filled the
minds of Janet and the bairns.
And a very pleasant home it promised to be. Even in that beautiful land
of mountain and valley they would have sought in vain for a lovelier
spot. Sheltered by high hills from the bleak winds of the north and
east, it was still sufficiently elevated to permit a wide view of the
farms and forests around it. Close below, with only a short, steep
bank, and a wide strip of meadow land between, lay Merle pond, the very
loveliest of the many lovely lakelets, hidden away among these
mountains. Over on the rising ground beyond the pond stood the
meeting-house, and scattered to the right and left of it were the white
houses of the village, half-hidden by the tall elms and maples that
fringed the village street. Close by the farm-house, between it and the
thick pine grove on the hill, ran Carson's brook, a stream which did not
disappear in summer-time, as a good many of these hill streams are apt
to do, and which, for several months in the year was almost as worthy of
the name of river as the Merle itself. Before the house was a large
grassy yard, having many rose-bushes and lilac trees scattered along the
fences and the path that led to the door. There were shade trees, too.
Once they had stood in regular lines along the road, and round the large
garden. Some of these had been injured because of the insufficient
fences of late years; but those that remained were trees worthy of the
name of trees. There were elms whose branches nearly touched each
other, from opposite sides of the wide yard; and great maples that grew
as symmetrically in the open space, as though each spring they had been
clipped and cared for by experienced hands. There had been locusts
once, but the old trees had mostly died, and there were only a few young
ones springing up here and there, but they were trees before the
children went away from the place which they were now beginning to look
upon as home.
Formerly, there had been a large and handsome garden laid out at the end
of the house, but since trouble had come on the family, its cultivation
had been considered too much expense, and the grass was growing green on
its squares and borders now. There were a few perennials easy to
cultivate; and annuals such as sow themselves, marigolds and pansies.
There was balm in abundance, and two or three gigantic peonies, in their
season the admiration of all passers by; and beds of useful herbs,
wormwood and sage, and summer savory. But, though it looked like a
wilderness of weeds the first day they came to see it, Janet's quick eye
foresaw a great deal of pleasure and profit which might be got for the
bairns out of the garden, and, as usual, Janet saw clearly.
There was a chance to find fault with the house, if anyone had at this
time been inclined to find fault with anything. It was large and
pleasant, but it was sadly out of repair. Much of it had been little
used of late, and looked dreary enough in its dismantled state. But all
this was changed after a while, and they settled down very happily in
it, without thinking about any defect it might have, and these
disappeared in time.
For, by and by, all necessary repairs were made by their provident
landlord's own hands. He had no mind to pay out money for what he could
do himself; and many a wet afternoon did he and his hired man devote to
the replacing of shingles, the nailing on of clapboards, to puttying,
painting, and other matters of the same kind. A good landlord he was,
and a kind neighbour too; and when the many advantages of their new home
were being told over by the children, the living so near to Mr Snow and
little Emily was never left till the last.
A very pleasant summer thus began to them all. It would be difficult to
say which of them all enjoyed their new life the most. But Janet's
prophecy came true. The _newness_ of farming proved to be its chief
charm to the lads; and if it had been left entirely to them to plant and
sow, and care for, and gather in the harvest, it is to be feared there
would not have been much to show for the summer's work. But their
father, who was by no means inexperienced in agricultural matters, had
the success of their farming experiment much at heart, and with his
advice and the frequent expostulations and assistance of Mr Snow,
affairs were conducted on their little farm on the whole prosperously.
Not that the lads grew tired of exerting themselves. There was not a
lazy bone in their bodies, Mr Snow declared, and no one had a better
opportunity of knowing than he. But their strength and energy were not
exerted always in a direction that would _pay_, according to Mr Snow's
idea of remuneration. Much time and labour were expended on the
building of a bridge over Carson's brook, between the house and Pine
Grove Hill, and much more to the making of a waterfall above it. Even
Mr Snow, who was a long time in coming to comprehend why they should
take so much trouble with what was no good but to look at, was carried
away by the spirit of the affair at last, and lent his oxen, and used
his crowbar in their cause, conveying great stones to the spot. When
the bridge and the waterfall were completed, a path was to be made round
the hill, to the pine grove at the top. Then, among the pines, there
was a wonderful structure of rocks and stones, covered with mosses and
creeping plants. The Grotto, the children called it, Mr Snow called it
the Cave. A wonderful place it was, and much did they enjoy it. To be
sure, it would not hold them all at once, but the grove would, and the
grotto looked best on the outside, and much pleasure did they get out of
their labours.
The lads did not deserve all the credit of these great works. The girls
helped, not only with approving eyes and lips, but with expert hands as
well. Even Graeme grew rosy and sunburnt by being out of doors so much
on bright mornings and evenings, and if it had been always summer-time,
there might have been some danger that even Graeme would not very soon
have come back to the quiet indoor enjoyment of work and study again.
As for Janet, her home-sickness must have been left in the little brown
house behind the elms, for it never troubled her after she came up the
brae. With the undisputed possession of poultry, pigs and cows, came
back her energy and peace of mind. The first basket of eggs collected
by the children, the first churning of golden butter which she was able
to display to their admiring gaze, were worth their weight in gold as
helps to her returning cheerfulness. Not that she valued her dumb
friends for their usefulness alone, or even for the comforts they
brought to the household. She had a natural love for all dependent
creatures, and petted and provided for her favourites, till they learned
to know and love her in return. All helpless creatures seemed to come
to her naturally. A dog, which had been cruelly beaten by his master,
took refuge with her; and being fed and caressed by her hand, could
never be induced to leave her guardianship again. The very bees, at
swarming time, did not sting Janet, though they lighted in clouds on her
snowy cap and neckerchief; and the little brown sparrows came to share
with the chickens the crumbs she scattered at the door. And so, hens
and chickens, and little brown sparrows did much to win her from a
regretful remembrance of the past, and to reconcile her to what was
strange--"unco like" in her new home.
Her cows were, perhaps, her prime favourites. Not that she would
acknowledge them at all equal to "Fleckie" or "Blackie," now, probably,
the favourites of another mistress on the other side of the sea. But
"Brindle and Spottie were wise-like beasts, with mair sense and
discretion than some folk that she could name," and many a child in
Merleville got less care than she bestowed on them. Morning and night,
and, to the surprise of all the farmers' wives in Merleville, at noon
too, when the days were long she milked them with her own hands, and
made more and better butter from the two, than even old Mrs Snow, who
prided herself on her abilities in these matters, made from any three on
her pasture. And when in the fall Mr Snow went to Boston with the
produce of his mother's dairy, and his own farm, a large tub of Janet's
butter went too, for which was to be brought back "tea worth the
drinking, and at a reasonable price," and other things besides, which at
Merleville and at Merleville prices, could not be easily obtained.
The Indian-summer had come again. Its mysterious haze and hush were on
all things under the open sky, and within the house all was quiet, too.
The minister was in the study, and the bairns were in the pine grove, or
by the water side, or even farther away; for no sound of song or
laughter came from these familiar places. Janet sat at the open door,
feeling a little dreary, as she was rather apt to do, when left for
hours together alone by the bairns. Besides, there was something in the
mild air and in the quiet of the afternoon, that "'minded" her of the
time a year ago, when the bairns, having all gone to the kirk on that
first Sabbath-day, she had "near grat herself blind" from utter
despairing home-sickness. She could now, in her restored peace and
firmness, afford to to feel a little contemptuous of her former self,
yet a sense of sadness crept over her, at the memory of the time, a
slight pang of the old malady stirred at her heart. Even now, she was
not quite sure that it would be prudent to indulge herself in thoughts
of the old times, lest the wintry days, so fast hastening, might bring
back the old gloom. So she was not sorry when the sound of footsteps
broke the stillness, and she was pleased, for quite other reasons, when
Mr Snow appeared at the open door. He did not accept her invitation to
enter, but seated himself on the doorstep.
"Your folks are all gone, are they?" asked he.
"The minister is in his study, and Miss Graeme and the bairns are out
by, some way or other. Your Emily's with them."
"Yes, I reckoned so. I've just got home from Rixford. It wouldn't
amount to much, all I could do to-night, so I thought I'd come along up
a spell."
Janet repeated her kindly welcome.
"The minister's busy, I presume," said he.
"Yes,--as it's Saturday,--but he winna be busy very long now. If you'll
bide a moment, he'll be out, I daresay."
"There's no hurry. It's nothing particular."
But Mr Snow was not in his usual spirits evidently, and watching him
stealthily, Janet saw a care-worn anxious expression fastening on his
usually, cheerful face.
"Are you no' weel the night?" she asked.
"Sartain. I never was sick in my life."
"And how are they all down-by?" meaning at Mr Snow's house, by
"down-by."
"Well, pretty much so. Only just middling. Nothing to brag of, in the
way of smartness."
There was a long silence after that. Mr Snow sat with folded arms,
looking out on the scene before them.
"It's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said he, at last.
"Ay," said Janet, softly, not caring to disturb his musings. He sat
still, looking over his own broad fields, not thinking of them as his,
however, not calculating the expense of the new saw-mill, with which he
had been threatening to disfigure Carson's brook, just at the point
where its waters fell into the pond. He was looking far-away to the
distant hills, where the dim haze was deepening into purple, hiding the
mountain tops beyond. But it could not be hills, nor haze, nor hidden
mountain tops, that had brought that wistful longing look into his eyes,
Janet thought, and between doubt as to what she ought to say, and doubt
as to whether she should say anything at all, she was for a long time
silent. At last, a thought struck her.
"What for wasna you at the Lord's table, on the Sabbath-day?" asked she.
Sampson gave her a queer look, and a short amused laugh.
"Well, I guess our folks would ha' opened their eyes, if I had undertook
to go there."
Janet looked at him in some surprise.
"And what for no? I ken there are others of the folk, that let strifes
and divisions hinder them from doing their duty, and sitting down
together. Though wherefore the like of these things should hinder them
from remembering their Lord, is more than I can understand. What hae
you been doing, or what has somebody been doing to you?"
There was a pause, and then Sampson looked up and said, gravely.
"Mis' Nasmyth, I ain't a professor. I'm one of the world's people
Deacon Fish tells about."
Janet looked grave.
"Come now, Mis' Nasmyth, you don't mean to say you thought I was one of
the good ones?"
"You ought to be," said she, gravely.
"Well,--yes, I suppose I ought to. But after all, I guess there ain't a
great sight of difference between folks,--leastways, between Merleville
folks. I know all about _them_. I was the first white child born in
the town, I was raised here, and in some way or other, I'm related to
most folks in town, and I ought to know them all pretty well by this
time. Except on Sundays, I expect they're all pretty much so. It
wouldn't do to tell round, but there are some of the world's people,
that I'd full as lief do business with, as with most of the professors.
Now that's a fact."
"You're no' far wrong _there_, I daresay," said Janet, with emphasis.
"But that's neither here nor there, as far as your duty is concerned, as
you weel ken."
"No,--I don't know as it is. But it kind o' makes me feel as though
there wasn't much in religion, anyway."
Janet looked mystified. Mr Snow continued.
"Well now, see here, I'll tell you just how it is. There ain't one of
them that don't think I'm a sinner of the worst kind--gospel hardened.
They've about given me up, I know they have. Well now, let alone the
talk, I don't believe there's a mite of difference, between me, and the
most of them, and the Lord knows I'm bad enough. And so you see, I've
about come to the conclusion, that if there is such a thing as religion,
I haven't never come across the real article."
"That's like enough," said Janet, with a groan. "I canna say that I
have seen muckle o' it myself in this town, out of our own house. But I
canna see that that need be any excuse to you. You have aye the word."
"Well, yes. I've always had the Bible, and I've read it considerable,
but I never seem to get the hang of it, somehow. And it ain't because I
ain't tried, either. There was one spell that I was dreadful down, and
says I to myself, if there's comfort to be got out of that old book, I'm
bound to have it. So I began at the beginning about the creation, and
Adam and Eve, but I didn't seem to get much comfort there. There was
some good reading, but along over a piece, there was a deal that I could
see nothing to. Some of the Psalms seemed to kind o' touch the spot,
and the Proverbs _are_ first-rate. I tell _you_ he knew something of
human nature, that wrote _them_."
"There's one thing you might have learned, before you got far over in
Genesis," said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely, "that you are a condemned sinner.
You should have settled that matter with yourself, before you began to
look for comfort."
"Yes. I knew that before, but I couldn't seem to make it go. Then I
thought, maybe I didn't understand it right, so I talked with folks and
went to meeting, and did the best I could, thinking surely what other
folks had got, and I hadn't, would come sometime. But it didn't. The
talking, and the going to meeting, didn't help me.
"Now there's Deacon Sterne; he'd put it right to me. He'd say, says he,
`Sampson, you're a sinner, you know you be. You've got to give up, and
bow that stiff neck o' your'n to the yoke.' Well, `I'd say, I'd be glad
to, if I only knew how to.' Then he'd say, `But you can't do it
yourself, no how. You're clay in the hands of the potter, and you'll
have to perish, if the Lord don't take right hold to save you.' Then
says I, `I wish to mercy He would.' Then he'd talk and talk, but it all
came to about that, `I must, and I couldn't,' and it didn't help me a
mite.
"That was a spell ago, after Captain Jennings' folks went West. I
wanted to go awfully, but father he was getting old, and mother she
wouldn't hear a word of it. I was awful discontented, and then, after a
spell, worse came, and I tell _you_, I'd ha' given most anything, to
have got religion, just to have had something to hold on to."
Mr Snow paused. There was no doubting his earnestness now. Janet did
not speak, and in a little while he went on again.
"I'd give considerable, just to be sure there's anything in getting
religion. Sometimes I seem to see that there is, and then again I
think, why don't it help folks more. Now, there's Deacon Sterne, he's
one of the best of them. He wouldn't swerve a hair, from what he
believed to be right, not to save a limb. He is one of the real old
Puritan sort, not a mite like Fish and Slowcome. But he ain't one of
the meek and lowly, I can tell you. And he's made some awful mistakes
in his lifetime. He's been awful hard and strict in his family. His
first children got along pretty well. Most of them were girls, and
their mother was a smart woman, and stood between them and their
father's hardness. And besides, in those days when the country was new,
folks had to work hard, old and young, and that did considerable towards
keeping things straight. But his boys never thought of their father,
but to fear him. They both went, as soon as ever they were of age.
Silas came home afterwards, and died. Joshua went West, and I don't
believe his father has heard a word from him, these fifteen years. The
girls scattered after their mother died, and then the deacon married
again, Abby Sheldon, a pretty girl, and a good one; but she never ought
to have married him. She was not made of tough enough stuff, to wear
along side of him. She has changed into a grave and silent woman, in
his house. Her children all died when they were babies, except William,
the eldest,--wilful Will, they call him, and I don't know but he'd have
better died too, for as sure as the deacon don't change his course with
him, he'll drive him right straight to ruin, and break his mother's
heart to boot. Now, what I want to know is--if religion is the powerful
thing it is called, why don't it keep folks that have it, from making
such mistakes in life?"
Janet did not have her answer at her tongue's end, and Sampson did not
give her time to consider.
"Now there's Becky Pettimore, she's got religion. But it don't keep her
from being as sour as vinegar, and as bitter as gall--"
"Whist, man!" interrupted Janet. "It ill becomes the like o' you to
speak that way of a poor lone woman like yon--one who never knew what it
was to have a home, but who has been kept down with hard work and little
sympathy, and many another trial. She's a worthy woman, and her deeds
prove it, for all her sourness. There's few women in the town that I
respect as I do her."
"Well, that's so. I know it. I know she gets a dollar a week the year
round at Captain Liscome's, and earns it, too; and I know she gives half
of it to her aunt, who never did much for her but spoil her temper. But
it's an awful pity her religion don't make her pleasant."
"One mustna judge another," said Mrs Nasmyth, gently.
"No, and I don't want to. Only I wish--but there's no good talking.
Still I must say it's a pity that folks who have got religion don't take
more comfort out of it. Now there's mother; she's a pillar in the
church, and a good woman, I believe, but she's dreadful crank sometimes,
and worries about things as she hadn't ought to. Now it seems to me, if
I had all they say a Christian has, and expects to have, I'd let the
rest go. They don't half of them live as if they took more comfort than
I do, and there are spells when I don't take much."
Janet's eyes glistened with sympathy. There was some surprise in them,
too. Mr Snow continued--
"Yes, I do get pretty sick of it all by spells. After father died--and
other things--I got over caring about going out West, and I thought it
as good to settle down on the old place as any where. So I fixed up,
and built, and got the land into prime order, and made an orchard, a
first-rate one, and made believe happy. And I don't know but I should
have stayed so, only I heard that Joe Arnold had died out West--he had
married Rachel Jennings, you know; so I got kind of unsettled again, and
went off at last. Rachel had changed considerable. She had seen
trouble, and had poor health, and was kind o' run down, but I brought
her right home--her and little Emily. Well--it didn't suit mother. I
hadn't said anything to her when I went off. I hadn't anything to say,
not knowing how things might be with Rachel. Come to get home, things
didn't go smooth. Mother worried, and Rachel worried, and life wasn't
what I expected it was going to be, and I worried for a spell. And Mis'
Nasmyth, if there had been any such thing as getting religion, I should
have got it then, for I tried hard, and I wanted something to help me
bad enough. There didn't seem to be anything else worth caring about
any way.
"Well, that was a spell ago. Emily wasn't but three years old when I
brought them home. We've lived along, taking some comfort, as much as
folks in general, I reckon. I had got kind of used to it, and had given
up expecting much, and took right hold to make property; and have a good
time, and here is your minister has come and stirred me up, and made me
as discontented with myself and everything else as well."
"You should thank the Lord for that," interrupted Janet, devoutly.
"Well, I don't know about that. Sometimes when he has been speaking, I
seem to see that there is something better than just to live along and
make property. But then again, I don't see but it's just what folks do
who have got religion. Most of the professors that I know--"
"Man!" exclaimed Janet, hotly, "I hae no patience with you and your
professors. What need you aye to cast them up? Canna you read your
Bible? It's that, and the blessing that was never yet withheld from any
one that asked it with humility, that will put you in the way to find
abiding peace, and an abiding portion at the last."
"Just so, Mis' Nasmyth," said Mr Snow, deprecatingly, and there was a
little of the old twinkle in his eye. "But it does seem as though one
might naturally expect a little help from them that are spoken of as the
lights of the world; now don't it?"
"There's no denying that, but if you must look about you, you needna
surely fix your eyes on such crooked sticks as your Fishes and your
Slowcomes. It's no breach o' charity to say that _they_ dinna adorn the
doctrine. But there are other folk that I could name, that are both
light and salt on the earth."
"Well, yes," admitted Sampson; "since I've seen your folks, I've about
got cured of one thing. I see now there is something in religion with
some folks. Your minister believes as he says, and has a good time,
too. He's a good man."
"You may say that, and you would say it with more emphasis if you had
seen him as I have seen him for the last two twelve-months wading
through deep waters."
"Yes, I expect he's just about what he ought to be. But then, if
religion only changes folks in one case, and fails in ten."
"Man! it never fails!" exclaimed Janet, with kindling eye. "It never
failed yet, and never will fail while the heavens endure. And lad! take
heed to yourself. That's Satan's net spread out to catch your unwary
soul. It may serve your turn now to jeer at professors, as you call
them, and at their misdeeds that are unhappily no' few; but there's a
time coming when it will fail you. It will do to tell the like of me,
but it winna do to tell the Lord in `that day.' You have a stumbling
block in your own proud heart that hinders you more than all the Fishes
and Slowcomes o' them, and you may be angry or no' as you like at me for
telling you."
Sampson opened his eyes.
"But you don't seem to see the thing just as it is exactly. I ain't
jeering at professors or their misdeeds, I'm grieving for myself. If
religion ain't changed them, how can I expect that it will change me;
and I need changing bad enough, as you say."
"If it hasna changed them, they have none of it," said Mrs Nasmyth,
earnestly. "A Christian, and no' a changed man! Is he no' a sleeping
man awakened, a dead man made alive--born again to a new life? Has he
not the Spirit of God abiding in him? And no' changed!--No' that I wish
to judge any man," added she, more gently. "We dinna ken other folk's
temptations, or how small a spark of grace in the heart will save a man.
We have all reason to be thankful that it's the Lord and no' man that
is to be our judge. Maybe I have been over hard on those men."
Here was a wonder! Mrs Nasmyth confessing herself to have been hard
upon the deacons. Sampson did not speak his thoughts, however. He was
more moved by his friend's earnestness than he cared to show.
"Well, I expect there's something in it, whether I ever see it with my
own eyes or not," said he, as he rose to go.
"Ay, is there," said Mrs Nasmyth, heartily; "and there's no fear but
you'll see it, when you ask in a right spirit that your eyes may be
opened."
"Mis' Nasmyth," said Sampson, quietly and solemnly, "I may be deceiving
myself in this matter. I seem to get kind o' bewildered at times over
these things. But I do think I am in earnest. Surely I'll get help
some time?"
"Ay--that you will, as God is true. But oh man! go straight to _Him_.
It's between you and Him, this matter. But winna you bide still? I
daresay the minister will soon be at leisure now."
"I guess not. I hadn't much particular to say to him. I can just as
well come again." And without turning his face toward her, he went
away.
Janet looked after him till the turn of the road hid him, saying to
herself,--
"If the Lord would but take him in hand, just to show what He could make
of him. Something to His praise, I hae no doubt--Yankee though he be.
God forgive me for saying it. I daresay I hae nae all the charity I
might hae for them, the upsettin' bodies."