I turn to go: my feet are set
To leave the pleasant fields and farms:
They mix in one another's arms
To one pure image of regret.
TENNYSON.
That little space of time was an exceeding sweet one. Governor
was at home again, -- and Governor was going away again. If
anything had been needed to enhance his preciousness, those
two little facts would have done it. Such an idea entered
nobody's head. He was the very same Winthrop, they all said,
that had left them four years ago; only taller, and stronger,
and handsomer.
"He's a beautiful strong man!" said Karen, stopping in the act
of rolling her cakes, to peer at him out of the kitchen
window. "Aint he a handsome feller, Mis' Landholm?"
"Handsome is that handsome does, Karen."
"Don't he do handsome?" said Karen, flouring her roller. "His
mother knows he does, I wish I knowed my shortcake'd be arter
the same pattern."
Winthrop pulled off his coat and went into the fields as
heartily as if he had done nothing but farming all his days;
and harvests that autumn came cheerily in. The corn seemed
yellower and the apples redder than they had been for a long
time. Asahel, now a fine boy of fifteen, was good aid in
whatever was going on, without or within doors. Rufus wrote
cheerfully from the North, where he still was; and there was
hardly a drawback to the enjoyment of the little family at
home.
There was one; and as often happens it had grown out of the
family's greatest delight. Winifred was not the Winifred of
former days. The rosy-cheeked, fat, laughing little roll-about
of five years old, had changed by degrees into a slim, pale,
very delicate-looking child of twelve. Great nervous
irritability, and weakness, they feared of the spine, had
displaced the jocund health and sweet spirits which never knew
a cloud. It was a burden to them all, the change; and yet -- so
strangely things are tempered -- the affections mustered round
the family hearth to hide or repair the damage disease had
done there, till it could scarcely be said to be poorer or
worse off than before. There did come a pang to every heart
but Winifred's own, when they looked upon her; but with that
rose so sweet and rare charities, blessing both the giver and
the receiver, that neither perhaps was less blessed than of
old. Winthrop's face never shewed that there was anything at
home to trouble him, unless at times when Winifred was not
near; his voice never changed from its cool cheerfulness; and
yet his voice had a great deal to say to her, and his face
Winifred lived upon all the while he was at home. He never
seemed to know that she was weaker than she used to be; but
his arm was always round her, or it might be under her,
whenever need was; and to be helped by his strength was more
pleasant to Winifred than to have strength of her own.
She was sitting on his knee one day, and they were picking out
nuts together; when she looked up and spoke, as if the words
could not be kept in.
"What _shall_ I do when you are gone!"
"Help mother, and keep Asahel in spirits."
Winifred could not help laughing a little at this idea.
"I wonder if anything could trouble Asahel much," she said.
"I suppose he has his weak point -- like the rest of us," said
Winthrop.
"_You_ haven't."
"How do you know?"
"I don't _know_, but I think so," said Winifred, touching her
hand to his cheek, and then kissing him.
"What's your _weak_ point?"
"They're all over," said Winifred, with a little change of
voice; "I haven't a bit of strength about anything. I don't
think anybody's weak but me."
"Nobody ought to be weak but you," said her brother, with no
change in his.
"I oughtn't to be weak," said Winifred; "but I can't help it."
"It doesn't matter, Winnie," said her brother; "you shall have
the advantage of the strength of all the rest."
"That wouldn't be enough," said Winifred, gently leaning her
head upon the broad breast which she knew was hers for
strength and defence.
"Not, Winnie? -- What will you have?"
"I'll have the Bible," said the child, her thin intelligent
face looking at him with all its intelligence.
"The Bible, Winnie?" said Winthrop cheerfully.
"Yes, because there I can get strength that isn't my own, and
that is better than yours, or anybody's."
"That's true, Winnie; but what do you want so much strength
for?" he said coolly.
She looked at him again, a look very hard indeed to bear.
"O I know, Winthrop," she said; -- "I want it. -- I want it now
for your going away."
Her voice was a little checked, and again she leaned forward
upon him, this time so as to hide her face.
Winthrop set down the nuts and drew her more close, and his
lips kissed the little blue and white temple which was all of
her face he could get at.
"It's best I should go, Winnie," he said.
"O I know you must."
"I will have a house one of these days and you shall come and
keep it for me."
She sat up and shook away a tear or two, and laughed, but her
speech was not as jocular as she meant it to be.
"What a funny housekeeper I should make!"
"The best in the world. You shall study, and I will knit the
socks."
"O Governor! What do you know about knitting socks?"
"I know who has knit mine ever since I have been at
Shagarack."
"Did mamma tell you?" said the child with a bright sharp
glance.
"I found it out."
"And were they all right? Because I am going to keep on doing
it, Governor."
"Till you come to be my housekeeper."
"I don't believe that'll ever be," said Winifred.
"Why not?"
"It seems so funny, to think of your ever having a house in
Mannahatta!"
"Will you come, Winnie?"
"O Governor! -- I dont know," she said, her face full of a
world of uncertainties.
"What don't you know?"
"I don't know any thing; and you don't. O Governor" -- and she
flung her arms round his neck, and spoke words coined out of
her heart, -- "I wish you were a Christian! --"
For a minute only he did not speak; and then he said calmly in
her ear,
"I shall be -- I mean to be one, Winnie."
Her little head lay very still and silent a few minutes more;
and when she lifted it she did not carry on the subject;
unless the kisses she gave him, only too strong in their
meaning, might be interpreted.
"I should feel so much better if you knew somebody in
Mannahatta," she said presently.
"I do. I know Mr. Herder."
"O yes; but I mean more than that; somebody where you could
stay and be nice."
"I shall not stay where I cannot be nice."
"I know that," said Winifred; "but you don't know anywhere to
go, do you?"
"Yes. Uncle Forriner's."
"Uncle Forriner. -- You don't know him, do you?"
"Not yet."
"Did you ever see him?"
"No."
"Maybe you won't like him."
"Then it will matter the less about his liking me."
"He can't help that," said Winifred.
"You think so?"
"But Rufus didn't stay with him?"
"No -- Mr. Forriner only moved to Mannahatta about a year ago."
"Have you ever seen Aunt Forriner?"
"Yes -- once."
"Well -- is she good?"
"I hope so."
"You don't know, Governor?"
"I don't know, Winnie."
Winifred waited a little.
"What are you going to do, Governor, when you first get
there?"
"I suppose the first thing will be to go and examine Uncle
Forriner and see if I like him."
Winifred laughed.
"No, no, but I mean business -- what you are going to
Mannahatta for -- what will be the first thing?"
"To shew myself to Mr. De Wort."
"Who's he?"
"He is a lawyer in Mannahatta."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"No, Winnie; but other people do."
"What are you going to see him for, Governor?"
"To ask him if he will let me read law in his office."
"Will he want to be paid for it?"
"I don't know."
"Suppose he should, Governor?"
"Then I will pay him, Winifred."
"How can you?"
Her brother smiled a little. "My eyes are not far-sighted
enough to tell you, Winnie. I can only give you the fact."
Winifred smiled too, but in her heart believed him.
"Did you ever see Mr. De Wort?"
"Never."
"Then what makes you choose him?"
"Because he is said to be the best lawyer in the city."
Winifred put her fingers thoughtfully through and through the
short dark wavy brown hair which graced her brother's broad
brow, and wondered with herself whether there would not be a
better lawyer in the city before long. And then in a sweet
kind of security laid her head down again upon his breast.
"I'll have a house for you there, by and by, Winnie," he said,
as his arm drew round her.
"O I couldn't leave mother, you know," she answered.
Her mother called her at this instant, and she ran off,
leaving him alone.
He had spoken to her all the while with no change on his
wonted calm brow and lip; but when she left the room he left
it; and wandering down to some hiding place on the rocky
shore, where only the silent cedars stood witnesses, he wept
there till his strong frame shook, with what he no more than
the rocks would shew anywhere else. It never was shewn. He was
just as he had been. Nobody guessed, unless his mother, the
feeling that had wrought and was working within him; and she
only from general knowledge of his nature. But the purpose of
life had grown yet stronger and struck yet deeper roots
instead of being shaken by this storm. The day of his setting
off for Mannahatta was not once changed after it had been once
fixed upon.
And it came. Almost at the end of November; a true child of
the month; it was dark, chill, gloomy. The wind bore little
foretokens of rain in every puff that made its way up the
river, slowly, as if the sea had charged it too heavily, or as
if it came through the fringe of the low grey cloud which hung
upon the tops of the mountains. But nobody spoke of Winthrop's
staying his journey. Perhaps everybody thought, that the day
before, and the night before, and so much of the morning, it
were better not to go over again.
"Hi!" sighed old Karen, as she took the coffee-pot off the
hearth and wiped the ashes from it, -- "it's a heavy place for
our feet, just this here; -- I wonder why the Lord sends 'em.
_He_ knows."
"Why he sends what, Karen?" said Winifred, taking the coffee-
pot from her, and waiting to hear the answer.
"Oh go 'long, dear," said the old woman; -- "I was quarrelling
with the Lord's doings, that's all."
"_He_ knows!" repeated Winnie, turning away and bending her face
down till hot tears fell on the cover of the coffee-pot. She
stopped at the door of the keeping-room and fought the tears
with her little hand desperately, for they were too ready to
come; once and again the hand was passed hard over cheeks and
eyes, before it would do and she could open the door.
"Well, mother," said Mr. Landholm, coming back from a look at
the weather, -- "let's see what comfort can be got out of
breakfast!"
None, that morning. It was but a sham, the biscuits and
coffee. They were all feeding on the fruits of life-trials,
struggles and cares, past and coming; and though some wild
grown flowers of hope mingled their sweetness with the harsh
things, they could not hide nor smother the taste of them.
That taste was in Mr. Landholm's coffee; the way in which he
set down the cup and put the spoon in, said so; it was in
Winthrop's biscuit, for they were broken and not eaten; it
seemed to be in the very light, to Winifred's eyes, by the
wistful unmarking look she gave to everything the light shined
upon.
It was over; and Mrs. Landholm had risen from the tea-board
and stood by the window. There Winthrop parted from her, after
some tremulous kisses, and with only the low, short, "Good
bye, mother!" He turned to meet the arms of his little sister,
which held him like some precious thing that they might not
hold. It was hard to bear, but he bore it; till she snatched
her arms away from his neck and ran out of the room. Yet she
had not bid him good bye and he stood in doubt, looking after
her. Then remembered Karen.
He went into the kitchen and shook the old shrivelled hand
which was associated in his memory with many an old act of
kindness, many a time of help in days of need.
"Good bye, Karen."
"Well -- good bye, --" said the old woman slowly, and holding
his hand. "I sometimes wonder what ever you were brought into
the world for, Mr. Winthrop."
"Why, Karen?"
"Because I aint much better than a fool," she said, putting
her other hand to her eyes. "But ye're one of the Lord's
precious ones, Governor; he will have service of ye, wherever
ye be."
Winthrop wrung her hand. Quitting her, he saw his sister
waiting for him at the kitchen door. She let him come within
it, and then holding up her Bible which had hung in one hand,
she pointed with her finger to these words where she had it
open; --
"God now commandeth all men everywhere to repent."
Her finger was under the word '_now_.' She added nothing, except
with her eyes, which went wistfully, searchingly, beggingly,
into his; till a film of tears gathered, and the book fell,
and her arms went round him again and her face was hid.
"I know, dear Winnie," he said softly, stooping to her after
the silent embrace had lasted a minute. -- "I must go -- kiss
me."
There was a great deal in her kiss, of hope and despair; and
then he was gone; and she stood at the window looking after
him as long as a bit of him could be seen; clearing away the
tears from her eyes that she might watch the little black
speck of the boat, as it grew less and less, further and
further off down the river. Little speck as it was, he was in
it.
The world seemed to grow dark as she looked, -- in two ways.
The heavy rain clouds that covered the sky stooped lower down
and hung their grey drapery on the mountains more thick and
dark. But it did not rain yet, nor till Winifred turned
wearily away from the window, saying that "they had got
there;" -- meaning that the little black speck on the water had
reached the little white and brown spot on the shore which
marked the place of Cowslip's Mill. Then the clouds began to
fringe themselves off into rain, and Cowslip's Mill was soon
hid, and river and hills were all grey under their thick
watery veil. "But Governor will be in the stage, mamma," said
Winifred. "He won't mind it."
Poor Winifred! Poor Governor! -- He was not in the stage. There
was no room for him. His only choice was to take a seat beside
the driver, unless he would wait another day; and he never
thought of waiting. He mounted up to the box, and the stage-
coach went away with him; while more slowly and soberly the
little boat set its head homewards and pulled up through the
driving rain.
It rained steadily, and all things soon owned the domination
of the watery clouds. The horses, the roads, the rocks, the
stage-coach, and the two outsiders, who submitted for a long
distance in like silence and quiet; though with the one it was
the quiet of habit and with the other the quiet of necessity.
Or it might be of abstraction; for Winthrop's mind took little
heed to the condition of his body.
It was busy with many greater things. And among them the
little word to which his sister's finger had pointed, lodged
itself whether he would or no, and often when he would not.
Now NOW, -- "God NOW commandeth all men everywhere to repent."
It was at the back of Winthrop's thoughts, wherever they might
be; it hung over his mental landscape like the rain-cloud; he
could look at nothing, as it were, but across the gentle
shadows of that truth falling upon his conscience. The rain-
drops dimpled it into the water, when the road lay by the
river-side; and the bare tree-stems they were passing, that
said so much of the past and the future, said also quietly and
soberly, "NOW." The very stage-coach reminded him he was on a
journey to the end of which the stage-coach could not bring
him, and for the end of which he had no plans nor no
preparations made. And the sweet images of home said, "_now_ --
make them." And yet all this, though true and real in his
spirit, was so still and so softly defined, that, -- like the
reflection of the hills in the smooth water of the river, -- he
noted without noting, he saw without dwelling upon it. It was
the depth of the picture, and his mind chose the stronger
outlines. And then the water ruffled, and the reflection was
lost.
The ride was in dull silence, till after some hours the
coachman stopped to give his horses water; though he remarked,
"it was contrary in them to want it." But after that his
tongue seemed loosed.
"Dampish!" he remarked to his fellow-traveller, as he climbed
up to his place again and took the reins.
"Can you stand it?" said Winthrop.
"Stand what?"
"Being wet through at this rate?"
"Don't signify whether a man's killed one way or another," was
the somewhat unhopeful answer. "Come to the same thing in the
long run, I expect."
"Might as well make as long a run as you can of it. Why don't
you wear some sort of an overcoat?"
"I keep it -- same way you do yourn. -- No use to spoil a thing
for nothing. There's no good of an overcoat but to hold so
much heft of water, and a man goes lighter without it. As long
as you've got to be soaked through, what's the odds?"
"I didn't lay my account with this sort of thing when I set
out," said Winthrop.
"O _I_ did. I have it about a third of the time, I guess. This
and March is the plaguiest months in the hull year. They do
use up a man."
Some thread of association brought his little sister's open
book and pointed finger on the sudden before Winthrop, and for
a moment he was silent.
"Yours is rather bad business this time of year," he remarked.
"Like all other business," said the man; "aint much choice.
There's a wet and a dry to most things. What's yourn? if I may
ask."
"Wet," said Winthrop.
"How? --" said the man.
"You need only look at me to see," said Winthrop.
"Well -- I thought --" said his companion, looking at him again
-- "Be you a dominie?"
"No."
"Going to be? -- Hum! -- Get ap! --" said the driver touching up
one of his horses.
"What makes you think so?" said Winthrop.
"Can't tell -- took a notion. I can mostly tell folks, whether
they are one thing or another."
"But you are wrong about me," said Winthrop; "I am neither one
thing nor the other."
"I'll be shot if you aint, then," said his friend after taking
another look at him. "Ben't you? -- You're either a dominie or
a lawyer -- one of the six."
"I should like to know what you judge from. Are clergymen and
lawyers so much alike?"
"I guess I aint fur wrong," said the man, with again a glance,
a very benign one, of curiosity. "I should say, your eye was a
lawyer and your mouth a clergyman."
"You can't tell what a man is when he is as wet as I am," said
Winthrop.
"Can't tell what he's goin' to be, nother. Well, if the rain
don't stop, we will, that's one thing."
The rain did not stop; and though the coach did, it was not
till evening had set in. And that was too late. The wet and
cold had wrought for more days than one; they brought on
disease from which even Winthrop's strong frame and spirit
could not immediately free him. He lay miserably ill all the
next day and the next night, and yet another twelve hours; and
then finding that his dues paid would leave him but one dollar
unbroken, Winthrop dragged himself as he might out of bed and
got into the stage-coach for Mannahatta which set off that
same evening.