I reckon this always -- that a man is never undone till he be
hanged; nor never welcome to a place, till some certain shot
be paid, and the hostess say, welcome.
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.
What a journey that was, of weariness and pain and strong
will. Unfit, and almost unable to travel, empty of means and
resources almost alike, he would go, -- and he was going; and
sheer determination stood in the place and filled the want of
all things beside. It was means and resources both; for both
are at the command of him who knows how to command them. But
though the will stand firm, it may stand very bare of cheering
or helping thoughts; and so did Winthrop's that live-long
night. There was no wavering, but there was some sadness that
kept him company.
The morning broke as cheerless as his mood. It had rained
during the night and was still raining, or sleeting, and
freezing as fast as it fell. The sky was a leaden grey; the
drops that came down only went to thicken the sheet of ice
that lay upon everything. No face of the outer world could be
more unpromising than that which slowly greeted him, as the
night withdrew her veil and the stealthy steps of the dawn
said that no bright day was chasing her forward. Fast enough
it lighted up the slippery way, the glistening fences, the
falling sleet which sheathed fields and houses with glare ice.
And the city, when they came to it, was no better. It was
worse; for the dolefulness was positive here, which before in
the broad open country was only negative. The icy sheath was
now upon things less pure than itself. The sleet fell where
cold and cheerlessness seemed to be the natural state of
things. Few people ventured into the streets, and those few
looked and moved as if they felt it a sad morning, which
probably they did. The very horses stumbled along their way,
and here and there a poor creature had lost footing entirely
and gone down on the ice. Slowly and carefully picking its way
along, the stage-coach drew up at last at its pace in Court
St.
The disease had spent itself, or Winthrop's excellent
constitution had made good its rights; for he got out of the
coach feeling free from pain, though weak and unsteady as if
he had been much longer ill. It would have been pleasant to
take the refreshment of brushes and cold water, for his first
step; but it must have been a pleasure paid for; so he did not
go into the house. For the same reason he did not agree to the
offer of the stage-driver to carry him and his baggage to the
end of his journey. He looked about for some more humble way
of getting his trunk thither, meaning to take the humblest of
all for himself. But porters seemed all to have gone off to
breakfast or to have despaired of a job. None were in sight.
Only a man was shuffling along on the other side of the way,
looking over at the stage-coach.
"Here, Jem -- Tom -- Patrick!" -- cried the stage-driver, --
"can't you take the gentleman's trunk for him?"
"Michael, at your service, and if it's all one t' ye," said
the person called, coming over. "I'm the boy! Will this be the
box?"
"That is it; but how will you take it?" said Winthrop.
"Sure I'll carry it -- asy -- some kind of a way," said Michael,
handling the trunk about in an unsettled fashion and seeming
to meditate a hoist of it to his shoulders. "Where will it go,
sir-r?"
"Stop, -- that won't do -- that handle won't hold," said the
trunk's master. "Haven't you a wheelbarrow here?"
"Well that's a fact," said Michael, letting the end of the
trunk down into the street with a force that threatened its
frail constitution; -- "if the handle wouldn't hould, there'd
be no hoult onto it, at all. Here! -- can't you let us have a
barrow, some one amongst ye? -- I'll be back with it afore
you'll be wanting it, I'll engage."
Winthrop seconded the application; and the wheelbarrow after a
little delay came forth. The trunk was bestowed on it by the
united efforts of the Irishman and the ostler.
"Now, don't let it run away from you, Pat," said the latter.
"It'll not run away from Michael, I'll engage," said that
personage with a capable air, pulling up first his trowsers
band and then the wheelbarrow handles, to be ready for a
start. "Which way, then, sir, will I turn?"
Winthrop silently motioned him on, for in spite of weakness of
body and weariness of spirit he felt too nervously inclined to
laugh, to trust his mouth with any demonstrations. Michael and
the wheelbarrow went on ahead and he followed, both taking the
middle of the street where the ice was somewhat broken up, for
on the sidewalk there was no safety for anybody. Indeed safety
anywhere needed to be cared for. And every now and then some
involuntary movement of Michael and the barrow, together with
some equally unlooked-for exclamation of the former, by way of
comment or explanation, startled Winthrop's eye and ear, and
kept up the odd contrast of the light with the heavy in his
mind's musings. It had ceased to rain, but the sky was as
leaden grey as ever, and still left its own dull look on all
below it. Winthrop's walk along the streets was a poor emblem
of his mind's travelling at the time; -- a painful picking the
way among difficulties, a struggle to secure a footing where
foothold there was not; the uncertain touch and feeling of a
cold and slippery world. All true, -- not more literally than
figuratively. And upon this would come, with a momentary stop
and push forward of the wheelbarrow, --
"'Faith, it's asier going backwards nor for'ards! -- Which way
_will_ I turn, yer honour? is it up or down?"
"Straight ahead."
"Och, but I'd rather the heaviest wheeling that ever was
invinted, sooner nor this little slide of a place. -- Here we
go! -- Och, stop us! -- Och, but the little carriage has taken
me to itself intirely. It was all I could do to run ahint and
keep up wid the same. Would there be much more of the hills to
go down, yer honour, the way we're going?"
"I don't know. Keep in the middle of the street."
"Sure I'm blessed if I can keep any place!" said Michael,
whose movements were truly so erratic and uncertain that
Winthrop's mood of thoughtfulness was more than once run down
by them. -- "The trunk's too weighty for me, yer honour, -- it
will have its own way and me after it -- here we go! -- Och, it
wouldn't turn out if it was for an angel itself. Maybe yer
honour wouldn't go ahead and stop it?"
"No chance, I'm afraid," said Winthrop, whose mouth was
twitching at the trot of the Irishman's feet after the
wheelbarrow.
"Och, but we'll never get down there!" he said as he paused at
the top of a long slope. "Then I never knew before what a hard
time the carriage has to go after the horses! We'll never get
down there, yer honour?"
"Never's a great word, Michael."
"It is, sir!"
"I think you can get down there if you try."
"Very well, sir! -- I suppose I will."
But he muttered Irish blessings or cursings to himself as he
took up his trowsers and wheelbarrow handles again.
"Yer honour, do ye think we'll ever keep on our feet till the
bottom?"
"If you don't come down the wheelbarrow won't, I think,
Michael."
"Then I suppose we'll both be to come," said the man
resignedly. "Yer honour'll consider the bad way, I expict."
'His honour' had reason to remember it. They were going down
Bank St., where the fall of ground was rather rapid, and the
travel of the morning had not yet been enough to break up the
smooth glare of the frozen sleet. The Irishman and the barrow
got upon a run, the former crying out, "Och, it _will_ go, yer
honour!" -- and as it would go, it chose its own course, which
was to run full tilt against a cart which stood quietly by the
sidewalk. Neither Michael's gravity nor that of the
wheelbarrow could stand the shock. Both went over, and the
unlucky trunk was tumbled out into the middle of the street.
But the days when the old trunk could have stood such usage
were long past. The hasp and hinge gave way, the cover sprang,
and many a thing they should have guarded from public eyes
flew or rolled from its hiding place out upon the open street.
Winthrop from higher ground had beheld the overthrow, and knew
what he must find when he got to the bottom. Two or three pair
of the socks little Winnie had knitted for him had bounced out
and scattered themselves far and wide, one even reaching the
gutter. Some sheets of manuscript lay ingloriously upon the
wheelbarrow or were getting wet on the ice. One nicely "done
up" shirt was hopelessly done for; and an old coat had
unfolded itself upon the pavement, and was fearlessly telling
its own and its master's condition to all the passersby. Two
or three books and several clean pockethandkerchiefs lay about
indifferently, and were getting no good; an old shoe on the
contrary seemed to be at home. A paper of gingercakes, giving
way to the suggestions of the brother shoe, had bestowed a
quarter of its contents all abroad; and the open face of the
trunk offered a variety of other matters to the curiosity of
whom it might concern; the broken cover giving but very
partial hindrance.
The Irishman had gathered himself, and himself only, out of
the fallen condition in which all things were.
"Bad luck to the ould thing, then!" -- was his sense of the
matter.
"You needn't wish that," said Winthrop.
"Then, yer honour, I wouldn't wish anything better to meself,
if I could ha' helped it. If meself had been in the box, I
couldn't ha' taken it more tinder, till we began to go, and
then, plase yer honour, I hadn't no hoult of anything at all
at all."
"Take hold now, then," said Winthrop, "and set this up
straight; and then see if you can get a sixpenny worth of rope
anywhere."
The man went off, and Winthrop gathered up his stray
possessions from the street and the gutter and with some
difficulty got them in their places again; and then stood
mounting guard over the wheelbarrow and baggage until the
coming of the rope; thinking perhaps how little he had to take
care of and how strange it was there should be any difficulty
in his doing it.
More care, or an evener way, brought them at last, without
further mishap, to Diamond St., and along Diamond St. to Mr.
Forriner's house and store. Both in the same building; large
and handsome enough, at least as large and handsome as its
neighbours; the store taking the front of the ground floor.
Mr. Forriner stood in the doorway taking a look at the day,
which probably he thought promised him little custom; for his
face was very much the colour of the weather.
Winthrop stopped the wheelbarrow before the house; went up and
named his name.
"Winthrop Landholm!" -- the touch of Mr. Forriner's hand said
nothing at all unless it were in the negative; -- "how d'ye do,
sir. Come to make a visit in Mannahatta?"
"No, sir. I have come here to stay."
"Ah! -- hum. Sister well?"
"Very well, sir."
"Left home yesterday?"
"No sir -- three days ago."
"Ah? where have you been?"
"In bed, sir -- caught cold in the rain Tuesday."
"Tuesday! -- yes, it did rain considerable all along Tuesday.
Where were you?"
"By the way, sir."
"Just got here, eh? -- bad time."
"I could not wait for a good one."
"What are you calculating to do here?"
"Study law, sir."
"Law! -- hum. Do you expect to make money by that?"
"If I don't, I am afraid I shall not make money by anything,"
said Winthrop.
"Hum! -- I guess there aint much money made by the law," said
Mr. Forriner taking a pinch of snuff. "It's a good trade to
starve by. How long have you to study?"
"All the time I have to live, sir."
"Eh? -- and how do you expect to live in the meantime?"
"I shall manage to live as long as I study."
"Well I hope you will -- I hope you will," said Mr. Forriner.
"You'll come in and take breakfast with us?"
"If you will allow me, sir."
"You haven't had breakfast yet?"
"No sir, nor supper."
"Well, I guess wife's got enough for you. If that's your box
you'd better get the man to help you in with it. You can set
it down here behind the door."
"Is it the right place, sir?" inquired Michael as Winthrop
came out to him.
"No" said Winthrop. "But you may help me in with the trunk."
Michael was satisfied that he had the right money, and
departed; and Winthrop followed Mr. Forriner through a narrow
entry cut off from the store, to a little back room, which was
the first of the domestic premises. Here stood a table, and
Mrs. Forriner; a hard-featured lady, in a muslin cap likewise
hard-featured; there was a "not-give-in" look, very marked, in
both, cap and lady. A look that Winthrop recognized at once,
and which her husband seemed to have recognized a great while.
"Mrs. Forriner!" said that gentleman to his nephew. "My dear,
this is Cousin Winthrop Landholm -- Orphah's son."
"How do you do, sir?" said Mrs. Forriner's eyes and cap; her
tongue moved not.
"Just come in town," pursued her husband; "and has come to
take breakfast with us."
"Have you come in to stay, cousin? or are you going back again
to the North?"
"I am not going back at present -- I am going to stay," said
Winthrop.
The lady was standing up, waiting the instant arrival of
breakfast, or not enough at ease in her mind to sit down. The
table and room and furniture, though plain enough and even
mean in their character, had notwithstanding a sufficient look
of homely comfort.
"You didn't like it up there where you were?" she went on,
changing the places of things on the table with a dissatisfied
air.
"Up where, ma'am?"
"O this is not Rufus, -- this is Winthrop, my dear," said Mr.
Forriner. "Cousin Winthrop has just come down from -- I forget
-- from home. What does brother Landholm call his place,
cousin?"
"We sometimes call it after our mountain, 'Wut-a-qut-o.'"
How sweet the syllables seemed in Winthrop's lips!
"_What?_" put in the lady.
Winthrop repeated.
"I should never remember it. -- Then this is another cousin?"
she remarked to Mr. Forriner; -- "and not the one that was here
before?"
"No, my dear. It is Rufus that is in the country up North
somewhere -- Cousin Winthrop is coming here to be a lawyer, he
tells me."
"Will you sit up, cousin?" said the lady somewhat dryly, after
a minute's pause, as her handmaid set a Britannia metal tea-
pot on the board. The meaning of the request being that he
should move his chair up to the table, Winthrop did so; for to
do the family justice he had sat _down_ some time before.
"How will your mother do without you at home?" inquired Mrs.
Forriner, when she had successfully apportioned the milk and
sugar in the cups.
"I have not been at home for three years past."
"Has she other sons with her?"
"Not another so old as myself."
"It's pretty hard on her, aint it, to have her two eldest go
off?"
"Where have you been these three years?" put in Uncle
Forriner.
"At Shagarack, sir."
"Ah! -- Brother Landholm is bringing up all his sons to be
civilians, it seems."
Winthrop was not very clear what his questioner meant; but as
it was probable Mr. Forriner himself was in the same condition
of darkness, he refrained from asking.
"What's at Shagarack?" said Mrs. Forriner.
"A College, my dear."
"College! -- Have you just come to the city, cousin?"
"He caught cold in the rain last Tuesday and has been lying by
ever since, and only got in town this morning."
"Have you got a place to stay?"
"Not yet, ma'am. I have been but two hours here."
"Well, you had better see to that the first thing, and come
here and take dinner -- that'll give you a chance. You'll
easily find what you want."
"Not this morning, I think, unless it is to be found very near
by," said Winthrop; "for my feet would hardly carry me a
hundred yards."
"You see, he's weak yet," put in Mr. Forriner.
"Didn't you walk here, cousin?" said the lady.
"Unfortunately, I did, ma'am; for I have not strength to walk
anywhere else."
"O well, you can go up stairs and lie down and get some rest;
you'll be better by afternoon I dare say. Will you have
another cup of tea?"
But Winthrop declined it.
"He don't look right smart," said Mr. Forriner. "I reckon
he'll have to go to bed for a while. Cousin, if you'll come up
stairs, I'll shew you a place where you can sleep."
They went up accordingly.
"Mr. Forriner --" called his wife from the bottom of the stairs
when he and Winthrop had reached the top -- "Mr. Forriner! --
the _end_ room -- put him in the end room."
"Yes -- it isn't very big, but you won't mind that to take a
nap in," said Mr. Forriner, opening the door and ushering
Winthrop in.
Where he left him; and what secrets Winthrop's pillow knew
were known to none but his pillow. But the morning was not all
lost in sleep; and home's fair images did come most sweet
about him before sleep came at all.
He was called to dinner, but chose sleep rather, and slept
well all the afternoon. Towards evening he roused himself, and
though feeling very little strength to boast of, he dressed
himself and went out.
The day had changed. A warmer temperature had thawed off the
thin sleet, and the pavements were drying. The rain-cloud of
the morning was broken up and scattering hither and thither,
and through the clefts of it the sun came blinking in upon the
world. The light was pleasant upon the wet streets and the
long stacks of building and the rolling clouds; and the change
in the air was most soothing and mild after the morning's
harsh breath. Winthrop tasted and felt it as he walked up the
street; but how can the outer world be enjoyed by a man to
whom the world is all outer? It only quickened his sense of
the necessity there was he should find another climate for his
mind to live in. But his body was in no state to carry him
about to make discoveries. He must care for that in the first
place. After some inquiries and wandering about, he at last
made his way into Bank St. and found an eating-house, very
near the scene of his morning's disaster. Winthrop had very
few shillings to be extravagant with; he laid down two of them
in exchange for a small mutton chop and some bread; and then,
somewhat heartened, set out upon his travels again, crossing
over to the west side of the city. He felt glad, as he went,
that his mother -- and his little sister -- did not know at that
moment how utterly alone and foundationless he and his
undertaking were standing in the place he had chosen for the
scene of his labours and the home of his future life. Yet he
corrected himself. Not 'foundationless,' while his strong will
stood unmoved and untouched by circumstance. Let that not be
conquered, it would surely be conqueror, in the long run; and
he determined it should have as long a run as was necessary.
He could not help the coming to his mind, as he slowly walked
up Beaver St., of his mother's recipe against disappointment,
and the conversation had about it years before; and the words,
"Whatsoever he doeth shall prosper," as Rufus's voice had
given them, came back fresh and with a moment's singular doubt
and yearning touching their faithfulness. Himself, in that
flash of light, he saw to be weak, and not strong. What if it
should be so indeed? "_Whatsoever he doeth_ -- SHALL PROSPER."
Upon the uncertainty of human things, upon the tumult of human
difficulties and resolves, the words came like a strange
breath of peace, from somewhere unknown, but felt to be a
region of health and strength. Yet the qualifications to take
the promise were not in Winthrop's hand; to seek them seemed
to be a one side of his purpose; he left them on one side, and
went on.
He was bending his steps towards the meeting of Beaver and
Little South Sts., the sole point of light which he knew in
the city. It seemed to him that rather less of the sun's cheer
got into Diamond St. than anywhere else. Bank St. was a
heartsome place in comparison. He made his way slowly up
Beaver St. looking for Little South, and passing what to him
were a great many streets without finding that one. As he drew
near still another, his eye was taken with a man standing on
the sidewalk before the corner house; a tall, personable,
clean-looking man; who on his part looked first steadily at
Winthrop and then came down to meet him, laughing and holding
out his hand before he got near.
"How do you do?" was his first cordial salutation. -- "It's Mr.
Landholm! -- I knew it! -- I knew you, from your likeness to
your brother. We've been looking for you. Come in, come in!
How is your brother, Mr. Landholm?"
Winthrop was taken by surprise and could hardly say.
"I knew you as far off as I could see you -- I said to myself,
'That's Mr. Landholm!' I am very glad to see you, sir. You've
just got here?"
"This morning. But what right have I to be expected?"
"O we knew you were coming. Your room's ready for you -- empty
and waiting, and we've been waiting and lonesome too, ever
since Mr. William went away. How _is_ Mr. William, Mr.
Landholm?"
"Well, sir, and full of kindly remembrances of you."
"Ah, he's not forgotten here," said Mr. Inchbald. "He won't be
forgotten anywhere. Here's my sister, Mr. Landholm, -- my
sister, Mrs. Nettley. -- Now, my dear sir, before we sit down,
tell me, -- you haven't any other place to stay?"
"I have not, Mr. Inchbald, indeed."
"Then come up and see what we have to give you, before we
strike a bargain. Doll -- won't you give us a cup of tea by the
time we come down? Mr. Landholm will be the better of the
refreshment. You have had a tiresome journey this weather, Mr.
Landholm?"
As they mounted the stairs he listened to Winthrop's account
of his illness, and looked at him when they got to the top,
with a grave face of concern it was pleasant to meet. They had
come up to the very top; the house was a small and
insignificant wooden one, of two stories.
"This is your room," said Mr. Inchbald, opening the door of
the front attic, -- "this is the room your brother had; it's
not much, and there's not much in it; but now my dear friend,
_till_ you find something better, will you keep possession of
it? and give us the pleasure of having you? -- and one thing
more, will you speak of pay when you are perfectly at leisure
to think of it, and not before, or never, just as it happens;
-- will you?"
"I'll take you at your word, sir; and you shall take me at
mine, when the time comes."
"_That_ I'll do," said Mr. Inchbald. "And now it's a bargain.
Shake hands, -- and come let's go down and have some tea. --
Doll, I hope your tea is good to-night, for Mr. Landholm is
far from well. Sit down -- I wish your brother had the other
place."
That tea was a refreshment. It was served in the little back
room of the first floor, which had very much the seeming of
being Mrs. Nettley's cooking room too. The appointments were
on no higher scale of pretension than Mrs. Forriner's, yet
they gave a far higher impression of the people that used
them; why, belongs to the private mystery of cups and saucers
and chairs, which have an odd obstinate way of their own of
telling the truth. "Doll" was the very contrast to the lady of
the other tea-table. A little woman, rather fleshy, in a close
cap and neat spare gown, with a face which seemed a compound
of benevolent good-will, and anxious care lest everybody
should not get the full benefit of it. It had known care of
another kind too. If her brother had, his jovial, healthy,
hearty face gave no sign.
After tea Winthrop went back to Diamond St.
"We didn't wait for you," said Mr. Forriner as he came in, --
"for we thought you didn't intend probably to be back to tea."
"What success have you had?" inquired his better half.
"I have had tea, ma'am," said Winthrop.
"Have you found any place?"
"Or the place found me."
"You have got one! -- Where is it?"
"In Beaver St. -- the place where my brother used to be."
"What's the name?" said Mr. Forriner.
"Inchbald."
"What is he?" asked Mrs. Forriner.
"An Englishman -- a miniature painter by profession."
"I wonder if he makes his living at that?" said Mrs. Forriner.
"What do you have to pay?" said her husband.
"A fair rent, sir. And now I will pay my thanks for storage
and take away my trunk."
"To-night?" said Mr. Forriner.
"Well, cousin, we shall be glad to see you sometimes," said
Mrs. Forriner.
"At what times, ma'am?" said Winthrop.
He spoke with a straightforward simplicity which a little
daunted her.
"O," she said colouring, "come when you have an hour to spare
-- any time when you have nothing better to do."
"I will come then," he said smiling.