"At home. -- At Wut-a-qut-o."
"Wut-a-qut-o!" said Winnie; -- "is Karen there? I thought
Shahweetah was sold."
"It isn't sold yet -- it won't be till September -- and Karen is
there yet, keeping house with her brother Anderese."
"Anderese! -- is old Anderese there?" said Winnie. "O I should
like to go, Governor!" she said raising herself on her elbow.
"Can we?"
"Yes, if you like. Hildebrand Cowslip is down here with his
father's sloop -- how would you like to go up in her?"
"In the sloop? -- O how good!" said Winnie bringing her thin
hands together. "Can we? But dear Governor, you can't be
away?"
"Yes -- just as well as not. There isn't much doing in August --
everybody takes a resting time; and so you and I will,
Winnie," said he, bending down to kiss her.
Winnie looked up at him gratefully and lovingly with her
wistful large eyes, the more expressive from the setting of
illness and weakness in the face.
"I'd like you to have a rest, dear Governor."
He stood stroking back the ringlets from the thin blue-veined
temple.
"Wouldn't it do you good to see Wut-a-qut-o again?"
"O I am sure it would! -- And you too, wouldn't it?"
"I am good enough already," said Winthrop looking down at her.
"Too good," said Winnie looking up at him. "I guess you want
pulling down!"
She had learned to read his face so well, that it was with a
pang she saw the look with which he turned off to his work. A
stranger could not have seen in it possibly anything but his
common grave look; to Winnie there was the slight shadow of
something which seemed to say the "pulling down" had not to be
waited for. So slight that she could hardly tell it was there,
yet so shadowy she was sure it had come from something. It was
not in the look merely -- it was in the air, -- it was, she did
not know what, but she felt it and it made her miserable. She
could not see it after the first minute; his face and
shoulders, as he sat reading his papers, had their usual calm
stability; Winnie lay looking at him, outwardly calm too, but
mentally tossing and turning.
She could not bear it. She crawled off her couch and came and
sat down at his feet, throwing her arms around his knee and
looking up at him.
"Dear Governor! -- I wish you had whatever would do you good!"
"The skill of decyphering would do me a little good just now,"
said her brother. She could detect nothing peculiar in look or
word, though Winnie's eyes did their best.
"But somehow I don't feel as if you had," she went on to say.
"Where is your faith?" -- he said quietly, as he made a note in
the margin of the paper he was reading. Winnie could make
nothing of him.
"Governor, when shall we go?"
"Hildebrand moves his sloop off to-morrow afternoon."
"And shall we go to-morrow?"
"If you don't object."
Winnie left the floor, clapping her hands together, and went
back to her couch to think over at large the various
preparations which she must make. Which pleasant business held
her all the evening.
They were not large preparations, however; longer to think of
than to do; especially as Winthrop took upon himself the most
of what was done. One or two nick-nackeries of preparation, in
the shape of a new basket, a new book, and a new shawl, seemed
delightful to Winnie; though she did not immediately see what
she might want of the latter in August.
"We shall find it cooler when we get under the shadow of Wut-
a-qut-o, Winnie," said her brother; and Winnie was only too
glad of a pretext to take the pretty warm wrapper of grey and
blue worsted along.
She did not want it when they set out, the next afternoon. It
was very warm in the streets, very warm on the quays; and even
when the sloop pushed her way slowly out and left the quays at
her back, there was little air stirring and the August sun
beat down steadily on river and shore.
"This don't look much like gettin' up to Cowslip's Mill _this_
night," said the skipper. "Ain't it powerful!"
"The wind is coming off from the South," said Winthrop.
"Yes, I felt some little puffs on my cheek," said Winnie.
"Glad to hear it," said the sloop master, a tall, bony, ill-
set-together specimen of a shore and water man; -- "there ain't
enough now to send an egg-shell along, and I'd like to shew
you a good run, Mr. Landholm, since you're goin' along with
me. She looks smart, don't she?"
"If she'll only work as well," said Winthrop. "Hild', you
haven't got much cargo aboard."
"Only as much as'll keep her steady," answered the skipper.
"'Seems to me nobody ain't a wantin' nothin' up our ways. I
guess you're the heaviest article on board, Winthrop; -- she
never carried a lawyer before."
"Are lawyers heavy articles?" said Winnie laughing.
"'Cordin' to what I've heern, I should say they be; ain't
they, squire? -- considerable, -- especially when they get on
folks's hands. I hope you're a better sort, Winthrop, -- or
ain't there much choice in 'em?"
"You shall try me when you get into trouble," said Winthrop.
"Is this Mr. Cowslip's old sloop?" said Winnie.
"She don't look old, does she?" inquired Mr. Hildebrand.
"But I mean, is it the same he used to have? -- No, she looks
very handsome indeed."
"She's the old one though," said the skipper, "the same old
Julia Ann. What's the use o' askin' ladies' ages? -- she's just
as good as when she was young; and better dressed. I've had
the cabin fixed up for you, Mr. Landholm, -- I guess it'll be
pretty comfortable in there."
"It's a great deal pleasanter here," said Winnie. "There comes
the wind! -- that was a puff! --"
"Well we're ready for it," said the skipper.
And stronger puffs came after, and soon a steady fair
southerly breeze set up the river and sent the Julia Ann on
before it. Straight up the river their course lay, without
veering a point for miles. The sun was lowering towards the
horizon and the heat was lessening momently, even without the
south breeze which bade it be forgotten; and the blue waters
of the river, so sluggish a little while ago, were briskly
curling and rippling, and heading like themselves for Wut-a-
qut-o.
Winnie sat still and silent in the shadow of the huge sail.
Winthrop was standing close beside her, talking with the
skipper; but he knew that his little sister had hold of his
hand and had laid her unbonneted head against his arm; and
when the skipper left him he stooped down to her.
"What do you think of it, Winnie?"
"O Winthrop! -- how delicious! -- Aren't you glad it is such
beautiful world?"
"What are you thinking of in particular?"
"O everything. It isn't down here like Wut-a-qut-o, but
everything is so delicious -- the water and the shore and the
sunshine and the wind! --"
"Poor Winnie," said her brother stroking her hair, -- "you
haven't seen it in a good while."
She looked up at him, a glance which touchingly told him that
where he was she wanted nothing; and then turned her eyes
again towards the river.
"I was thinking, Governor, that maybe I shall never go up here
again."
"Well Winnie? --"
"I am very glad I can go this time. I am so much obliged to
you for bringing me."
"Obliged to me, Winnie!"
He had placed himself behind his little sister, with one hand
holding her lightly by each shoulder; and calm as his tone
was, perhaps there came a sudden thought of words that he knew
very well --
"There fairer flowers than Eden's bloom,
"Nor sin nor sorrow know;
"Blest seats! through rude and stormy seas
"I onward press to you." --
For he was silent, though his face wore no more than its
ordinary gravity.
"Governor," said Winnie half turning her head round to him, "I
wish these people were not all round here within hearing, so
that we could sing. -- I feel just like it."
"By and by, Winnie, I dare say we can."
"How soon do you think we shall get to Wut-a-qut-o."
"Before morning, if the wind holds."
The wind held fair and rather strengthened than lost, as the
evening went on. Under fine headway the Julia Ann swept up the
river, past promontory and bay, nearing and nearing her goal.
Do her best, however, the Julia Ann could not bring them that
night to any better sleeping advantages than her own little
cabin afforded; and for those Winthrop and Winnie were in no
hurry to leave the deck. After the skipper's hospitality had
been doubtfully enjoyed at supper, and after they had
refreshed themselves with seeing the sun set and watching the
many-coloured clouds he left behind him, the moon rose in the
other quarter and threw her 'silver light' across the deck,
just as duskiness was beginning to steal on. The duskiness
went on and shrouded the hills and the distant reaches of the
river in soft gloom; but on board the Julia Ann, on her white
sails and deck floor where the brother and sister were
sitting, and on a broad pathway of water between them and the
moon, her silver light threw itself with brightening and
broadening power. By and by Mr. Hildebrand's two or three
helpers disposed of themselves below deck, and nobody was left
but Mr. Hildebrand himself at the helm.
"Now we can sing!" exclaimed Winnie, when one or two turns of
her head had made her sure of this; and to Winthrop's surprise
she struck up the very words part of which had been in his own
remembrance.
"'Jerusalem! my happy home --
"'Name ever dear to me --
"'When shall my labours have an end,
"' In joy and peace in thee!"'
Winnie's voice was as sweet and clear as a bird's, if weakness
left it not much stronger; that of her brother was deep,
mellow, and exceeding fine; it was no wonder that the skipper
turned his head and forgot his tiller to catch the fulness of
every note. When the last had sounded, there was nothing to be
heard but the rippling of water under the sloop's prow; the
sails were steady and full, the moonlight not more noiseless;
the wind swept on with them softly, just giving a silent
breath to their cheeks; the skipper held his tiller with a
moveless hand.
"What next, Winnie?" her brother whispered. The soft gurgle of
the water had been heard for several minutes.
"How fond Karen is of that hymn," said Winifred. "Governor, do
you think I shall live long in this world?"
She was leaning, half lying, upon Winthrop, with his arm round
her. Her voice had put the question in precisely the same tone
that it had given the remark.
"Why do you ask me that, Winnie?"
"Because -- sometimes I think I sha'n't, -- and I want to know
what you think."
"You will live, I am sure, dear Winnie, till God has done for
you all he means to do; -- till he has fitted his child for
heaven; -- and then he will take her."
"I know that," said Winifred with a grateful half look up at
him; -- "but I mean -- you know I am not well quite, and weak,
and I don't think I get any better; -- don't you think that it
won't take a very great while, very likely?"
"How would you feel, Winnie, if you thought that was so?"
"I _do_ think it sometimes -- pretty often," -- said Winnie, "and
it don't make me feel sorry, Governor."
"You think heaven is better than earth."
"Yes, --and then -- that's one good thing of my sickness -- it
don't seem as if I ever could do much if I lived, so it
matters the less."
"Nobody knows how much he does, who does his duty," said
Winthrop.
"Why I can't do anything at all!" said Winnie.
"Every talent that isn't buried brings something into the
treasury," said Winthrop.
"Yes -- that's pleasant," said Winnie; -- "but I don't know what
mine is."
"The good that people do unconsciously is often more than that
they intend."
"Unconsciously! -- But then they don't know whether they do it
or not?"
"It don't hurt them, not to know," said her brother smiling.
"But what sort of good-doing is that, Winthrop?"
"It only happens in the case of those persons whose eye is
very single; -- with their eye full of the light they are
reflecting, they cannot see the reflection. But it is said of
those that 'their works do follow them.'"
Winnie was tearfully silent, thinking of the ingathering of
joy there would be for one that she knew; and if Winthrop's
arm was drawn a little closer round her little figure, perhaps
it was with a like thought for her. How bright the moonlight
shone!
"That's pleasant to think, Governor, -- both parts of it," said
Winifred softly, beating his hand slightly with one of her
own. He was silent.
"Now won't you sing something else? -- for I'm tired," she
said, nestling her head more heavily on his breast.
And he sang again. --
"'Vain are all terrestrial pleasures,
"' Mixed with dross the purest gold;
"'Seek we then for heavenly treasures,
"'Treasures never growing old.
"'Let our best affections centre
"'On the things around the throne;
"'There no thief can ever enter, --
"'Moth and rust are there unknown.
"'Earthly joys no longer please us,
"'Here would we renounce them all,
"'Seek our only rest in Jesus,
"'Him our Lord and Master call.
"'Faith, our languid spirits cheering,
"'Points to brighter worlds above;
"'Bids us look for his appearing,
"'Bids us triumph in his love.
"'Let our lights be always burning,
"'And our loins be girded round,
"'Waiting for our Lord's returning,
"'Longing for the joyful sound.
"'Thus the christian life adorning,
"'Never need we be afraid,
"'Should he come at night or morning,
"'Early dawn, or evening shade."'
The air was slow, tender, and plaintive, and borne by the deep
voice over all the breadth of the moon-lit river. Winnie's
breath was fuller drawn; the skipper held his, and forgot his
helm; and in every pause of the song, the sweet interlude was
played by the water under the sloop's prow.
"Governor --" said Winnie, when the bubbling water had been
listened to alone for a while.
"What?"
"Do you think those words are quite true?"
"Those words of the hymn?"
"Yes -- some of them. I think you like that hymn better than I
do. 'Earthly joys no longer please us'; -- do you think that is
right? -- They please me."
"It is only by comparison that they can be true, Winnie,
certainly; -- except in the case of those persons whose power
of enjoyment is by some reason or other taken away."
"But you like that hymn very much?"
"Yes. Don't you?"
"I like part of it very much, and I like the tune; but I like
to be able to say all the words of a hymn. How sweet that was!
-- Governor, don't you think it would be pleasant to stay here
all night?"
"Singing?"
"No -- but talking, and sleeping."
"I am afraid it would sadly hinder to-morrow's talk, and
oblige you to sleep instead."
"Then I'll go right away. Do you think we shall be at Wut-a-
qut-o in the morning?"
"If the wind holds."
By Winthrop's care and management the little cabin was made
not absolutely uncomfortable, and Winnie's bed was laid on the
floor between door and window so that she could sleep without
being smothered. He himself mounted guard outside, and
sleeping or waking kept the deck for the whole night.
"Governor," said Winnie cautiously putting her head out at the
door, just as the summer dawn was growing into day, --
"Governor! -- are we there?"
"We are _here_."
"Where?"
"Lying at Cowslip's Mill."
"Oh! --"
The rest of Winnie's joyous thought was worked into her shoes
and dress and bonnet-strings, and put away in her bag with her
night-cap. How fast it was all done! and she pushed open her
cabin door and stood on the deck with Winthrop.
Yes -- there was the green wooded shore -- how fresh to her
eyes! -- There was Mr. Cowslip's brown old house and mill;
there was the old stage road; and turning, there two miles off
lay Shahweetah, and there rose up Wut-a-qut-o's green head.
And with a sob, Winnie hid her face in Winthrop's arms. But
then in another minute she raised it again, and clearing away
the mute witnesses of joy and sorrow, though it was no use for
they gathered again, she looked steadily. The river lay at her
feet and stretched away off up to Shahweetah, its soft gray
surface unbroken by a ripple or an eddy, smooth and bright and
still. Diver's Rock stood out in its old rough outline, till
it cut off the west end of Shahweetah and seemed to shut up
the channel of the river. A little tiny thread of a north wind
came down to them from Home, over the river, with sweet
promise. And as they looked, the morning light was catching
Wut-a-qut-o's grave head, and then hill-top after hill-top,
and ridge after ridge of the high mountain land, till all of
them were alight with the day's warm hues, while all beneath
slept yet in the greys of the dawn. The brother and sister
stood side by side, perfectly silent; only Winnie's tears ran,
sometimes with such a gush that it brought her head down, and
sobs that could be heard came to Winthrop's ears. They stood
till they were hailed by the old miller.
"Ha! Winthrop -- glad to see ye! how do you do? Haven't seen
your face this great while. Winnie? is it? -- Glad to see ye!
She's growed a bit. Come right along into the house -- we'll
have something for breakfast by and by, I expect. I didn't
know you was here till five minutes ago -- I was late out
myself -- ain't as spry as I used to be; -- Come!" --
"Oh Governor, let's go straight home!" said Winnie.
"There's time enough yet, Mr. Cowslip, for your purposes. What
o'clock do you suppose it is?"
"Well, I s'pose it's somewhere goin' on to six, ain't it?"
"It has left five. We can breakfast with Karen yet, Winnie."
"Oh do, Governor!"
"If you'll give us a boat instead of a breakfast, Mr. Cowslip,
we will thank you just as much, and maybe take your
hospitality another time."
"But won't you stop and take just a mouthful first? you'd
better."
"No thank you. We shall have to take it up there; and two
breakfasts a day don't agree with me."
With some sorrow on Mr. Cowslip's part, this was submitted to.
The boat was got out; Hildebrand dropped into it and took the
oars, "guessing he wouldn't mind going himself;" and Winthrop
and Winnie sat close together in the stern. Not to steer; for
Hildebrand was much too accustomed an oarsman to need any such
help in coasting the river for miles up and down.
CHAPTER IV.
Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs --
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music, lest it should not find
An echo in another's mind.
SHELLEY.
Winnie drew a breath of gratification, as the oars began to
dimple the still water and the little boat rounded out from
behind the wharf and headed up the river; the very same way by
which Winthrop had taken Mr. Haye's two young ladies once long
before. The tide was just at the turn, and Hildebrand made a
straight run for the rocks.
"How pleasant it is to hear the oars again!" Winnie said.
Winthrop said nothing.
Swiftly they pulled up, dappling the smooth grey water with
falling drops from the oar-blades, and leaving behind them two
lines of spreading wavelets that tracked the boat's way.
Cowslip's Mill fell into the distance, and all that shore, as
they pulled out into the middle of the river; then they drew
near the old granite ridge of Diver's Rock on the other side.
The sun had got so low down as that now, and the light of
years ago was on the same grey bluffs and patches of wood. It
was just like years ago; the trees stood where they did, ay,
and the sunlight; the same shadows fell; and the river washed
the broken foot of the point with, it might be, the very same
little waves and eddies. And there, a mile further on, Wut-a-
qut-o's high green side rose up from the water. Winnie had
taken off her bonnet and sat with her head resting upon
Winthrop's side or arm, her common position whenever she could
get it. And she sat and looked, first at one thing and then at
another, with quiet tears running and some times streaming
down her face. Then the boat struck off from Diver's Rock and
pushed straight over for the rocks of Shahweetah. As it neared
them, the dear old trees stood forth more plainly to view,
each one for itself; and the wonted footholds, on turf and
stone, could be told and could be seen, apart one from the
other. Poor Winnie could not look at them then, but she put
her head down and sobbed her greeting to them all.
"Winnie," -- said Winthrop softly, and she felt his arm closer
drawn around her, -- "you must not do that."
It mattered little what Winthrop asked Winnie to do; she never
failed to obey him. She stopped crying now, and in another
moment was smiling to him her delight, through the drops that
held their place yet in her eyes and on her cheeks.
The little boat was shoved in to the usual place among the
rocks and the passengers got out.
"What's the fare, Hild'? -- sloop and all?"
The skipper stood on the rocks and looked into the water.
"Will you let me come to you to clear me out, the first time I
get into trouble?"
"Yes."
"Then we're square!" he said, preparing to jump back into his
boat.
"_Then_ hasn't come," said Winthrop; "let's keep things square
as we go along."
"All right," said the skipper. "Couldn't take nothin' from you
the first time, Governor."
And Hildebrand after giving Winthrop's hand a shake, into
which there went a sort of grateful respect which he would
never have yielded to one who had laid any manner of claim to
it, dropped into his seat again and pushed off. Winthrop and
Winnie turned their steps slowly towards the house.
Very slowly; for each step now was what they had come for. How
untravelled the road was!
"How it looks as if we didn't live here, Governor," Winnie
said with half a sigh.
"Old Karen and Anderese don't come this way very often,"
replied her brother.
"Governor, I am very sorry it has got to be sold!"
They walked a few more steps up the rocky path in silence.
"O Governor, look at that great limb of that cedar tree -- all
dragging! What a pity."
"Broken by the wind," said Winthrop.
"How beautifully the ivy hangs from that cedar -- just as it
did. Dear Governor, won't you get a saw while you're here, and
take off the branch and make it look nice again? -- as nice as
it can; -- and there's the top of that little white pine!" --
"Winter-killed," said Winthrop.
"Won't you put it in order, as you used to do, this one time
more?"
"If I can get a saw, I will, Winnie, -- or a hatchet."
"I'm sorry we can't do it but this one time more," said
Winnie, with a second and a better defined sigh, as they
reached the house level. "O how funny it looks, Governor! how
the grass has run up! and how brown it is! But the cedars
don't change, do they?"
"It is August, Winnie," was all Winthrop's remark.
The front of the house was shut up; they went round. Old
Anderese was cutting wood at the back of the house; but
without stopping to enlighten him, Winthrop passed on and led
Winnie into the kitchen. There the kitchen fire was burning as
of yore, and on the hearth before it stood Karen, stooping
down to oversee her cooking breakfast. At Winthrop's voice she
started and turned. She looked at them; and then came a long
and prolonged "Oh! --" of most mingled and varied tone and
expression; hands and eyes keeping it company.
"Karen, we have come to see you."
In perfect silence she shook the hand of each, and then sat
down and threw her apron over her face. Winnie stood still and
sobbed; Winthrop walked off.
"Oh, dear," said the old woman presently rising and coming up
to Winnie, -- "what's made ye come to see me again? What did
you come for, dear?"
The tone was wondering and caressing, and rejoicing, all in a
breath. Winnie dried her eyes and answered as well as she
could.
"Why we wanted to see the old place again, Karen, and to see
you; and Governor thought it would do me good to be in the
country a little while; and he couldn't come before, and so we
have come up now to stay a few days. And we've brought things
to eat, so you needn't be troubled about that."
"Ye needn't," said old Karen. "Anderese and me'd find
something for you to eat, in all the wide country -- do ye
think we wouldn't? And how are you, dear," said she scanning
Winnie's pale face; -- "are ye ever yet any stronger?"
Winnie shook her head smiling and answered, "Not much."
"I see ye ain't. Well -- ye're the Lord's child. He'll do what
he will with his own. Where did ye come from, dear?"
"Up from Mr. Cowslip's mill," said Winnie. "We came in his
sloop last night."
"The sloop!" said Karen. "Why then ye haven't had anything to
eat! -- and what was I thinking of! Sit down, dear -- take your
own chair, till I get the other room fit for ye; and you shall
have breakfast jus' so soon I can make it. Where's the
Governor gone to?"
He came in; and Karen's face grew bright at the sight of him.
All the while she was getting the breakfast he stood talking
with her; and all the while, her old face kept the broad gleam
of delight that had come into it with his entering the
kitchen. With what zeal that breakfast was cooked for him;
with what pleasure it was served. And while they were eating
it, Karen sat in the chimney corner and looked at them, and
talked.
"And isn't the place sold then, Governor?"
"Not yet, Karen -- in a few weeks it will be."
"And who's goin' to buy it?"
"I don't know."
"And ye ain't goin' fur to buy it yourself?"
"No Karen -- I am not rich enough to keep a country house."
"You had ought to have it," said Karen. "It don't belong to
nobody else but you. And you don't know who's a goin' to have
it, Governor?"
"I don't know."
"'Tain't likely they'll let the old woman stay in her corner,
whoever they'll be," said Karen. "Well -- 'tain't fur now to
the end, -- and then I'll get a better place where they won't
turn me out. I wish I was there, Governor."
"'There' will be better at the end of your way, Karen, than
at any other time."
"Ay -- O I know it, dear; but I get so impatient, days, -- I
want to be gone. It's better waiting."
"Perhaps you'll have something yet to do for us, Karen," said
Winnie.
"Ye're too fur off," said the old woman. "Karen's done all she
can for ye when she's took care of ye this time. But I'll find
what I have to do -- and I'll do it -- and then I'll go!" -- she
said, with a curious modulation of the tones of her voice that
came near some of the Methodist airs in which she delighted.
"Governor'll take care o' you, Winnie; and the Lord'll take
care o' him!"
Both brother and sister smiled a little at Karen's arrangement
of things; but neither contradicted her.
"And how do you manage here, Karen, all alone? -- do you keep
comfortable?"
"I'm comfortable, Mr. Winthrop," she said with half a smile; --
"I have lived comfortable all my life. I seem to see Mis'
Landholm round now, times, jus' like she used to be; and I
know we'll be soon all together again. I think o' that when
I'm dreary."
She was a singular old figure, as she sat in the corner there
with her head a little on one side, leaning her cheek on her
finger, and with the quick change of energetic life and
subdued patience in her manner.
"Don't get any dinner for us, Karen," said Winthrop as they
rose from table. "We have enough for dinner in our basket."
"Ye must take it back again to Mannahatta," said Karen. "Ye'r
dinner'll be ready -- roast chickens and new potatoes and
huckleberry pie -- the chickens are just fat, and ye never see
nicer potatoes this time o' year; and Anderese don't pick very
fast, but he'll have huckleberries enough home for you to eat
all the ways ye like. And milk I know ye like'm with,
Governor."
"Give me the basket then, Karen, and I'll furnish the
huckleberries."
"He'll do it -- Anderese'll get 'em, Mr. Winthrop, -- not you."
"Give me the basket! -- I would rather do it, Karen. Anderese
has got to dig the potatoes."
"O yes, and we'll go out and spend the morning in the woods,
won't we, Governor?" said his sister.
The basket and Winnie were ready together and the brother and
sister struck off into the woods to the north of the house.
They had to cross but a little piece of level ground and
sunshine and they were under the shade of the evergreens which
skirted all the home valley. The ground as soon became uneven
and rocky, broken into little heights and hollows, and strewn
all over with a bedding of stones, large and small; except
where narrow foot-tracks or cowpaths wound along the mimic
ravines or gently climbed the hilly ridges. Among these stones
and sharing the soil with them, uprose the cedars, pines,
hemlocks, and a pretty intermingling of deciduous trees; not
of very tall or vigorous growth, for the land favoured them
not, but elegant and picturesque in varied and sweet degree.
That it pleased those eyes to which it had been long familiar,
and long strange, was in no measure.
Leaving the beaten paths, the brother and sister turned to the
right of the first little ravine they had entered, just where
a large boulder crowned with a tuft of ferns marked the spot,
and toiled up a very rough and steep rising. Winthrop's help
was needed here to enable Winnie to keep footing at all, much
more to make her way to the top. There were steep descents of
ground, spread with dead pine leaves, a pretty red-brown
carpeting most dainty to the eyes but very unsure to the foot;
-- there were sharp turns in the rocky way, with huge granitic
obstacles before and around them; -- Winnie could not keep on
her feet without Winthrop's strong arm; although in many a
rough pitch and steep rise of the way, young hickories and
oaks lent their aid to her hand that was free. Mosses and
lichens, brown and black with the summer's heat, clothed the
rocks and dressed out their barrenness; green tufts of fern
nodded in many a nook, and kept their greenness still; and
huckleberry bushes were on every hand, in every spare place,
and standing full of the unreaped black and blue harvest. And
in the very path, under their feet, sprang many an unassuming
little green plant, that in the Spring had lifted its head in
glorious beauty with some delicate crown of a flower. A
stranger would have made nothing of them; but Winnie and
Winthrop knew them all, crowned or uncrowned.
"It's pretty hard getting up here, Governor -- I guess I
haven't grown strong since I was here last; and these old
yellow pines are so rotten I am afraid to take hold of
anything -- but your hand. It's good you are sure-footed. O
look at the Solomon's Seal -- don't you wish it was in flower!"
"If it was, we shouldn't have any huckleberries," said her
brother.
"There's a fine parcel of them, isn't there, Winthrop? O let's
stop and pick these -- there are nice ones -- and let me rest."
Winnie sat down to breathe, with her arm round the trunk of a
pine tree, drinking in everything with her eyes, while that
cluster of bushes was stripped of its most promising berries;
and then a few steps more brought Winthrop and Winnie to the
top of the height.
Greater barrenness of soil, or greater exposure to storms, or
both causes together, had left this hill-top comparatively
bare; and a few cedars that had lived and died there had been
cut away by the axe, for firewood; making a still further
clearance. But the shallow soil everywhere supported a
covering of short grass or more luxuriant mosses; and enough
cedars yet made good their hold of life and standing, to
overshadow pretty well the whole ground; leaving the eye
unchecked in its upward or downward rovings. The height was
about two hundred feet above the level of the river, and
seemed to stand in mid-channel, Shahweetah thrusting itself
out between the north and southerly courses of the stream, and
obliging it to bend for a little space at a sharp angle to the
West. The north and south reaches, and the bend were all
commanded by the height, together with the whole western shore
and southern and south-eastern hills. To the northwest was
Wut-a-qut-o, seen almost from the water's edge to the top; but
the out-jutting woods of Shahweetah impinged upon the
mountain's base, and cut the line of the river there to the
eye. But north there was no obstruction. The low foreground of
woods over which the hill-top looked, served but as a base to
the picture, a setting on the hither side. Beyond it the
Shatemuc rolled down from the north in uninterrupted view, the
guardian hills, Wut-a-qut-o and its companions, standing on
either side; and beyond them, far beyond, was the low western
shore of the river sweeping round to the right, where the
river made another angle, shewing its soft tints; and some
faint and clear blue mountains still further off, the extreme
distance of all. But what varied colouring, -- what fresh
lights and shades, -- what sweet contrast of fair blue sky and
fair blue river, -- the one, earth's motion; the other,
heaven's rest; what deep and bright greens in the foreground,
and what shadowy, faint, cloud-like, tints of those far off
mountains. The soft north wind that had greeted the travellers
in the early morning, was blowing yet, soft and warm; it
flickered the leaves of the oaks and chestnuts with a lazy
summer stir; white sails spotted the broad bosom of the
Shatemuc and came down with summer gentleness from the upper
reaches of the river. And here and there a cloud floated over;
and now and then a locust sang his monotone; and another soft
breath of the North wind said that it was August; and the
grasshoppers down in the dell said yes, it was.
Winnie sat or lay down under the trees, and there Winthrop
left her for a while; when he came back it was with flushed
face and crisped hair and a basket full of berries. He threw
himself down on the ground beside Winnie, threw his hat off on
the other side, and gave her the basket. Winnie set it down
again, after a word of comment, and her head took its wonted
place of rest with a little smothered sigh.
"How do you feel, Winnie?" said her brother, passing his hand
gently over her cheek.
"O I feel very well," said Winnie. "But Governor, I wish you
could keep all this! --"
"I couldn't live here and in Mannahatta too, Winnie."
"But Governor, you don't mean always to live in Mannahatta, do
you? -- and nowhere else?"
"My work is there, Winnie."
"Yes, but you can't play there, Governor."
"I don't want to play," he said gently and lightly.
"But why, Governor?" -- said Winnie, whom the remark made
uneasy, she couldn't tell why; -- "why don't you want to play?
why shouldn't you?"
"I feel more appetite for work."
"But you didn't use to be so," said Winnie, raising her head
to look at him. "You used to like play as well as anybody,
Winthrop?"
"Perhaps I do yet, Winnie, if I had a chance."
"But then what do you mean by your having more appetite for
work? and not wanting to play?"
"I suppose it means no more but that the chance is wanting."
"But _why_ is it wanting, Governor?"
"Why are your Solomon's Seals not in flower?"
Winnie turned her head to look at them, and then brought it
round again with the uneasiness in full force.
"But Governor! -- you don't mean to say that your life is like
that?"
"Like what, Winnie?" said he with a pleasant look at her.
"Why, anything so dismal -- like the Solomon's Seals with the
flower gone?"
"Are they dismal?"
"Why, no, -- but you would be, if you were like anything of
that kind."
"Do I look like anything of that kind?"
"No," said Winnie, "indeed you don't, -- you never _look_ the
least bit dismal in the world."
"I am not the least bit in the world, Winnie."
"I wish you had everything in the world that would give you
pleasure!" she said, looking at him wistfully, with a vague
unselfish consciousness that it might not all be for hers.
"That would be too much for any man's share, Winnie. You would
make a Prince in a fairy tale of me."
"Well, what if I would?" said Winnie, half smiling, half
sighing, and paying him all sort of leal homage in her heart's
core.
"That is not commonly the lot of those who are to reign
hereafter in a better kingdom."
Winnie rose up a little so that she could put both hands on
his shoulders, and kissed him on forehead and cheeks; most
loving kisses.
"But dear Governor, it isn't wrong for me to wish you to have
both things, is it?"
"I hope not, dear Winnie. I don't think your wishes will do
any mischief. But I am content to be here to-day."
"Are you? do you enjoy it?" she asked eagerly.
"Very much."
"I am so glad! I was afraid somehow you didn't -- as much as I
did. But I am sorry you can't keep it, Governor. Isn't it all
beautiful? I didn't know it was so delightful as it is."
And Winnie sighed her wish over again.
"You can't have your possessions in both worlds, Winnie."
"No, -- and I don't want to."
"You only wish that I could," he said smiling.
"Well, Winthrop, -- I can't help that."
"I am in better hands than yours, Winnie. Look at that shadow
creeping down the mountain."
"It's from that little white cloud up there," said Winnie. "O
how beautiful! --"
"You see how something that is bright enough in itself may
cast a shadow," he said.
"Was that what you thought of when you told me to look at it?"
"No, -- not at that minute."
"But then we can see the cloud and we know that it is bright."
"And in the other case we _don't_ see the cloud and we know that
it is bright. 'We _know_ that all things shall work together for
good to them that love God, to them who are the called
according to his purpose!'"
"But Governor, what are you talking of?"
"That little cloud which is rolling away from Wut-a-qut-o."
"But what cloud is over you, or rolling away from you?"
"I thought the whole land was in shadow to you, Winnie,
because I cannot buy it."
"Why no it isn't," said Winnie. "It never looked so bright to
me. It never seemed near so beautiful when it was ours."
"The other land never seemed so bright and never will seem so
beautiful, as when it is ours. 'Thine eyes shall see the King
in his beauty; they shall behold the land that is very far
off.'"
Winnie smiled a most rested, pleased, gratified smile at him;
and turned to another subject.
"I wonder what's become of your old little boat, Governor --
the Merry-go-round?"
"I suppose it is lying in the barn-loft yet," he replied
rather gravely.
"I wonder if it is all gone to pieces."
"I should think not. Why?"
"I was looking at the river and thinking how pleasant it would
be to go out on it, if we could."
"If we can get home, Winnie, I'll see how the matter stands."
"I don't want to go home," said Winnie.
"But I want to have you. And Karen will want the
huckleberries."
"Well -- I'll go," said Winnie. "But we'll come again, Governor
-- won't we?"
"As often as you please. Now shall I carry you?"
"O no!"
But Winthrop presently judged of that also for himself, and
taking his little sister on one arm, made his way steadily and
swiftly down to the level ground.
"_You're_ a good climber," was Winnie's remark when he set her
on her feet again. "And I don't know but I was once. I've
almost forgotten. But it's as good to have you carry me, and
to see you do it."
The Merry-go-round was found in good condition, only with her
seams a little, or not a little, opened. That trouble however
was got over by the help of a little caulking and submersion
and time; and she floated again as lightly as ever. Some days
still passed, owing to weather or other causes, before the
first evening came when they went out to try her.
That evening, -- it was the seventeenth of August, and very
fair, -- they went down to the rocks, just when the afternoon
had grown cool in the edge of the evening. Winnie put herself
in the stern of the little white boat, and Winthrop took his
old place and the oars. Winnie's eyes were sparkling.
"It will be harder work to pull than it used to be," she
remarked joyously, -- "you're so out of the habit of it."
Winthrop only replied by pushing the little skiff off.
"However," continued Winnie, "I guess it isn't much to pull me
anywhere."
"Which way shall we go?" said Winthrop, one or two slow
strokes of his oar sending the little boat forward in a way
that made Winnie smile.
"I don't know -- I want to go everywhere -- Let's go up,
Winthrop, and see how it looks -- Let's go over under Wut-a-
qut-o. O how beautiful it is, Winthrop! --"
Winthrop said nothing, but a repetition of those leisurely
strokes brought the boat swiftly past the cedars and rocks of
Shahweetah's shore and then out to the middle of the river,
gradually drawing nearer to the other side. But when the mid-
river was gained, high enough up to be clear of the
obstructing point of Shahweetah, Winnie's ecstatic cry of
delight brought Winthrop's head round; and with that he lay
upon his oars and looked too. He might. The mountains and the
northern sky and clouds were all floating as it were in a warm
flush of light -- it was upon the clouds, and through the air,
and upon the mountains' sides, -- so fair, so clear, but beyond
that, so rich in its glowing suffusion of beauty, that eyes
and tongue were stayed, -- the one from leaving the subject,
the other from touching it. Winthrop's oars lay still, the
drops falling more and more slowly from the wet blades. The
first word was a half awed whisper from Winnie --
"O Winthrop, -- did you ever see it look so?"
The oars dipped again, and again lay still.
"Winthrop, this isn't much like Mannahatta!" Winnie said next,
under breath.
The oars dipped again, and this time to purpose. The boat
began to move slowly onward.
"But Winthrop you don't say anything?" Winnie said uneasily.
"I don't know how."
"I wish I could keep a picture of that," she went on with
regretful accent as her eyes turned again to the wonderful
scene before them in the north, floating as it seemed in that
living soft glow.
"I shall keep a picture of it," said Winthrop.
Winnie sighed her regrets again, and then resigned herself to
looking with her present eyes, while the little boat moved
steadily on and the view was constantly changing; till they
were close under the shadow of Wut-a-qut-o, and from beneath
its high green and grey precipice rising just above them, only
the long sunny reach of the eastern shore remained in view.
They looked at it, till the sunset began to make a change.
"O Winthrop, there is Bright Spot," said Winnie, as her head
came round to the less highly coloured western shore.
"Yes," -- said Winthrop, letting the boat drop a little down
from under the mountain.
"How it has grown up! -- and what are all those bushes at the
water's edge?"
"Alders. Look at those clouds in the south."
There lay, crossing the whole breadth of the river, a spread
of close-folded masses of cloud, the under edges of which the
sun touched, making a long network of salmon or flame-coloured
lines. And then above the near bright-leaved horizon of
foliage that rose over Bright Spot, the western sky was
brilliantly clear; flecked with little reaches of cloud
stretching upwards and coloured with fairy sunlight colours,
gold, purple, and rose, in a very witchery of mingling.
Winthrop pushed the boat gently out a little further from the
shore, and they sat looking, hardly bearing to take their eyes
from the cloud kaleidoscope above them, or to speak, the mind
had so much to do at the eyes. Only a glance now and then for
contrast of beauty, at the south, and to the north where two
or three little masses of grey hung in the clear sky. Gently
Winthrop's oars dipped from time to time, bringing them a
little further from the western shore and within fuller view
of the opening in the mountains. As they went, a purplish
shade came upon the grey masses in the north; -- the sunlight
colours over Bright Spot took richer and deeper hues of purple
and red; the salmon network in the south changed for rose. And
then, before they had got far, the moon's crescent, two or
three days old, a glittering silver thread, hung itself out
amid the bright rosy flecks of cloud in the west just hard by
the mountain's brow. Winnie had to look sharp to find it.
"And there is Venus too," said Winthrop; -- "look at her."
"Where?"
"In the blue -- a little lower down than the moon; and further
to the south -- do you see? --"
"That white bright star? -- O how beautiful! -- in that clear
blue sky. O how bright! -- how much brighter than the moon,
Winthrop?"
"Yes, -- she has a way of looking bright."
"How did you know it was Venus, or how _do_ you know?"
"Very much in the same way that I know it is Winnie. I have
seen her before. I never saw those clouds before."
"Did you ever see _such_ clouds before! And how long they stay,
Winthrop. O what a place!"
Slowly the little boat pulled over the river, getting further
and further from Bright Spot and its bright bit of sky
scenery, which faded and changed very slowly as they sailed
away. They neared the high rocky point of Shahweetah, and then
instead of turning down the river, kept an easterly course
along the low woody shore which stretched back from the point.
As they went on, and as the clouds lost their glory, the sky
in the west over Wut-a-qut-o's head tinged itself with violet
and grew to an opal light, the white flushing up liquidly into
rosy violet, which in the northeast quarter of the horizon
melted away to a clear grave blue.
"It's more beautiful than the clouds," said Winnie.
"It is a wonderful evening," said Winthrop, as he set his oars
more earnestly in the water and the little boat skimmed along.
"But dear Governor, where are you going?"
"Going to land, somewhere."
"To land! But it'll be time to go home, won't it? We're a
great way from there."
"We'll take a short cut home," said Winthrop, looking round
for a place to execute his purpose.
"How can you?"
"Through the woods. Wouldn't you like it? You've had no
exercise to-day."
"O I'd like it. But what will you do with the boat? leave her
here? -- O in the Aegean sea, Winthrop!"
"That is what I am steering for," said her brother. "But I
want to see the after-glow come out first."
The 'Aegean Sea' was a little bay-like cove on the north side
of Shahweetah; to which a number of little rock-heads rising
out of the water, or some freak of play, had long ago given
its classic name. Winthrop pushed his boat to the shore there,
and made her fast; and then he and Winnie waited for the
after-glow. But it was long coming and the twilight grew on;
and at last they left the bay and plunged into the woods. A
few steps brought them to a path, which rough and untravelled
as it was, their knowledge of the land enabled them easily to
follow. Easily for all but their feet. Winnie's would have
faltered utterly, so rough, stony, and broken it was, without
her brother's strong arm; but helped and led and lifted by
him, she went on joyously through the gathering gloom and
under the leafy canopy that shut out all the sky and all
knowledge of the after-glow, if it came. But when they had got
free of the woods, and had come out upon the little open cedar
field that was on the river side of Shahweetah, near home, --
there it was! Over Wut-a-qut-o's head lay a solid little long
mass of cloud with its under edges close-lined with fine deep
beautiful red. The opal light was all gone; the face of the
heavens was all clear blue, in the gravity of twilight. Venus
and the moon were there yet, almost down -- bright as ever; the
moon more brilliant and bright; for now the contrast of her
sharp crescent was with Wut-a-qut-o's dark shadowy side.
That was the beginning of that August boating. And often again
as in old times the little skiff flew over the water, in the
shadow of the mountain and the sunlight of the bay, coasting
the shores, making acquaintance with the evergreens and oaks
that skirted them and looked over into the water's edge. Where
once Elizabeth had gone, Winthrop and Winnie with swifter and
surer progress went; many an hour, in the early and the late
sunbeams. For those weeks that they stayed, they lived in the
beauties of the land, rather than according to old Karen's
wish, on the fatness of it.
But she did her best; and when at last Winthrop must return to
his business, and they bid her good bye and left her and Wut-
a-qut-o once more, the old woman declared even while she was
wiping the eyes that would not be dry, that their coming had
"done both of 'em real good -- a power of it -- and her too."
"He hasn't his beat in _this_ country," she said to old Anderese
her brother, as she was trying to take up again her wonted
walk through the house. -- "And she, dear thing! ain't long for
this world; but she's ready for a better."
CHAPTER V.
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall at last a log, dry, bald, and sear.
A lily of a day
Is fairer far, in May.
BEN JONSON.
"What has become of the Landholms?" said Mr. Haye's young
wife, one evening in the end of December.
"Confound the Landholms!" -- was Mr. Haye's answering
ejaculation, as he kicked his bootjack out of the way of his
just-slippered foot.
"Why Mr. Haye!" said Rose, bridling over her netting-work.
"What have the Landholms done?"
"Done!"
"Well, what have they?"
"One of them won't pay me his dues, and the other is fighting
me for trying to get them," said Mr. Haye, looking at the
evening paper with infinite disgust.
"What dues?"
"And what fighting, Mr. Haye?" said Elizabeth and Rose in a
breath.
"I can't answer you if you both speak at once."
"Well, what do you mean by fighting, Mr. Haye?"
"Fighting."
"Well, but what sort?" said Rose laughing, while the other
lady laid down her book and waited.
"With his own cursed weapons."
"And what are those, Mr. Haye? you haven't told us which of
the Landholms you mean, yet."
"One of 'em hasn't any weapons but his fists and his tongue,"
said Mr. Haye. "He hasn't tried the first on me -- I have some
small knowledge of the last."
"What has the other done?" said Elizabeth.
"He is doing what he can, to hinder my getting my rights of
his brother."
"What does his brother owe you?"
"Money, --" said Mr. Haye shortly.
"I suppose so. But what for?"
"Business! What does it signify what for?"
"I should like to know, father. It must be something which can
be told."
"He bought cotton of me."
"Can he pay for it?"
"I suppose so. I'll try."
"But what is his brother doing?"
"Trying to hinder, as I told you."
"But how? How can he?"
"Don't ask me what lawyers can or can't do. They can put their
fingers into any dirty job that offers!"
Elizabeth sat silent a minute with a very disturbed look. Rose
had gone back to her netting, only glancing up once in a while
at the faces of the other two.
"Upon what plea does he pretend to hinder it, father?"
"A plea he won't be able to bear out, I fancy," said Mr. Haye,
turning round in his chair so as to bring his other side to
the fire, and not ceasing to look at the paper all this while.
"But what?"
"What does it signify _what!_ Something you can't understand."
"I can understand it, father; and I want to know."
"A plea of _fraud_, on my part, in selling the cotton. I suppose
you would like to cultivate his acquaintance after that."
Elizabeth sat back in her seat with a little start, and did
not speak again during the conversation. Rose looked up from
her mesh-stick and poured out a flood of indignant and
somewhat incoherent words; to which Mr. Haye responded
briefly, as a man who was not fond of the subject, and finally
put an end to them by taking the paper and walking off.
Elizabeth changed her position then for a low seat, and
resting her chin on her hand sat looking into the fire with
eyes in which there burned a dark glow that rivalled it.
"Lizzie," said her companion, "did you ever hear of such a
thing!"
"Not 'such a thing,'" she answered.
"Aren't you as provoked as you can be?"
"'Provoked' is not exactly the word," Elizabeth replied.
"Well you know what to think of Winthrop Landholm now, don't
you?"
"Yes."
"Aren't you surprised?"
"I wish I could never be surprised again," she answered,
laying her head down for an instant on her lap; but then
giving it the position it held before.
"You take it coolly!" said Rose, jerking away at her netting.
"Do I? _You_ don't."
"No, and I shouldn't think you would. Don't you _hate_ those
Landholms?"
"No."
"Don't you! You ought. What are you looking at in the fire?"
"Winthrop Landholm, -- just at that minute."
"I do believe," said Rose indignantly, "you like Winthrop
Landholm better than you do Mr. Haye!"
Elizabeth's eyes glared at her, but though there seemed a
moment's readiness to speak, she did not speak, but presently
rose up and quitted the room. She went to her own; locked the
door, and sat down. There was a moment's quiver of the lip and
drawing of the brow, while the eyes in their fire seemed to
throw off sparks from the volcano below; and then the head
bent, with a cry of pain, and the flood of sorrow broke; so
bitter, that she sometimes pressed both hands to her head, as
if it were in danger of parting in two. The proud forehead was
stooped to the knees, and the shoulders convulsed in her
agony. And it lasted long. Half hour and half hour passed
before the struggle was over and Elizabeth had quieted herself
enough to go to bed. When at last she rose to begin the
business of undressing, she startled not a little to see her
handmaid Clam present herself.
"When did you come in?" said Elizabeth after a moment's
hesitation.
"When the door opened," said Clam collectedly.
"How long ago?"
"How long have you been here, do you s'pose, Miss 'Lizabeth?"
"That's not an answer to my question."
"Not ezackly," said Clam; "but if you'd tell, I could give a
better guess."
Elizabeth kept a vexed silence for a little while.
"Well Clam," she said when she had made up her mind, "I have
just one word to say to you -- keep your tongue between your
teeth about all _my_ concerns. You are quite wise enough, and I
hope, good enough for that."
"I ain't so bad I mightn't be better," said Clam picking up
her mistress's scattered things. "Mr. Winthrop didn't give up
all hopes of me. I 'spect he'll bring us all right some of
these days."
With which sentence, delivered in a most oracular and
encouraging tone, Clam departed; for Elizabeth made no answer
thereto.
The next morning, after having securely locked herself into
her room for an hour or more, Elizabeth summoned her handmaid.
"I want you to put on your bonnet, Clam, and take this note
for me up to Mr. Landholm's; and give it with your own hand to
him or to his sister."
Clam rather looked her intelligence than gave any other sign
of it.
"If he's out, shall I wait till I see him?"
"No, -- give it to his sister."
"I may put on more than my bonnet, mayn't I, Miss 'Lizabeth?
_This_ won't keep me warm, with the snow on the ground."
But Elizabeth did not choose to hear; and Clam went off with
the note.
Much against her expectations, she found Mr. Winthrop at home
and in his room, and his sister not there.
"Mornin', Mr. Winthrop!" said Clam, with more of a courtesy
than she ever vouchsafed to her mistress or to any one else
whomsoever. He came forward and shook her hand very kindly and
made her sit down by the fire. The black girl's eyes followed
him, as if, though she didn't say it, it was good to see him
again.
"What's the word with you, Clam?"
"'Tain't with me -- the word's with you, Mr. Winthrop."
"What is it?"
"I don' know, sir. I've nothin' to do but to bring it."
"How do you do this cold day?"
"_I_ ain't cold," said Clam. "I bethought me to put my cloak on
my shoulders. Miss 'Lizabeth wanted me to come off with only
my bonnet."
And she produced the note, which Winthrop looked at and laid
on the table.
"How is Miss Elizabeth?"
"She's sort o'," said Clam. "She has her ups and downs like
other folks. She was down last night and she's up this mornin'
-- part way."
"I hope she is pleased with you, Clam."
"She ain't pleased with anything, much," said Clam; "so it
can't be expected. I believe she's pleased with me as much as
with anything else in our house. Last night she was cryin' as
if her head would split -- by the hour long."
"That is not part of your word to me, is it?"
"Not just," said Clam. "Mr. Winthrop, will you have me come
back for an answer?"
"Did Miss Elizabeth desire it?"
"I guess so," said Clam. "But she didn't tell me to come but
once."
"Then don't come again."
Clam rose to go and settled her cloak as she moved towards the
door.
"If she sends me I may come again, mayn't I, Mr. Winthrop?"
she said pausing.
"Yes," he said with a smile; but it was a very little bit of
one.
"How is Winifred?" said Clam.
"She is not well."
The smile had entirely passed away; his face was more grave
than ever.
"Is she more than common unwell?"
"Yes. Very much."
"Can I go in and see her, Mr. Winthrop?"
"Yes, if you please."
Clam went; and Winthrop took up Elizabeth's note.
"No 11 Parade, Dec. 20, 1821.
"I have just heard, briefly and vaguely, of the difficulties
between my father and your brother, and of the remedies you,
Mr. Landholm, are employing. I do not know the truth nor the
details of anything beyond the bare outlines. Those are
enough, and more than I know how to bear. I don't wish to have
anything explained to me. But Mr. Landholm, grant me one
favour -- you _must_ grant it, if you please -- do not let it be
explained any further to anybody. All you want, I suppose, is
to see your brother righted. I will pay the utmost of what is
due to him. I do not understand how the business lies -- but I
will furnish all the money that is wanting to set it right and
put an end to these proceedings, if you will only let me know
what it is. Please let me know it, and let me do this, Mr.
Landholm; it is _my right_; and I need not ask you, keep my
knowledge of it secret from everybody. I am sure you must see
that what I ask is my right.
"Elizabeth Haye."
Winthrop had hardly more than time to read this when Clam put
herself within his door again, shutting it at her back.
"If the Governor'll let me," she said, "I'll come and take
care of her; -- or I'll run up and down stairs, from the bottom
to the top, -- whichever's useful."
"It is very kind of you, Clam. Winnie and I thank you very
much. But your mistress will want you."
"She won't. She'll want me here. Let me come, Governor. I
shan't do nothin' for Miss 'Lizabeth if I stay with her."
"Go and do all she wants you to do. No, I can't let you come.
My sister is taken care of."
"She'd be that where you are," muttered Clam as she went out
and went down the stairs, -- "and so would anybody else. I wish
some of the rest of us had a chance. Well -- maybe we'll get it
yet! --"
She found Elizabeth at her desk where she had left her,
waiting.
"Did you find him?"
"Yes, miss."
"And you gave him the note?"
"No, miss -- I mean, yes, miss."
"Don't say 'miss' in that kind of way. Put a name to it."
"What name?" said Clam.
"Any one you like. Did you see anybody else?"
"I see the brother and the sister," said Clam. "The brother
was never lookin' better, and the sister was never lookin'
worse; -- she ain't lookin' bad, neither."
"Is she ill?"
"She's lyin' abed, and so far from bein' well that she'll
never be well again."
"She hasn't been well this great while, Clam; _that's_ nothing
new."
"_This_ is," said Clam.
"Does her brother think she is very ill?"
"He knows more about it than I do," said Clam. "I said I would
go to take care of her, and he said I wouldn't, for you'd be a
wantin' me."
"I don't want you at all!" said Elizabeth, -- "if you could be
of any use. Are you quiet and careful enough for a nurse?"
"Firstrate!" -- said Clam; -- "no, I guess I'm not ezackly,
here; but I were, up to Wutsey-Qutsey."
"Up where?" said Elizabeth.
"Yes, miss."
"I told you not to speak to me so."
Clam stood and gave no sign.
"Do you think you could be of any use up there, Clam?"
"Mr. Winthrop says everybody can be of use."
"Then go and try; I don't want you; and stay as long as they
would like to have you."
"When will I go, Mis' Landholm?"
"What?"
"I asked Mis' Landholm, when will I go."
"What do you mean, Clam!"
"You said call you any name I liked -- and I like that 'bout as
well as any one," said Clam sturdily.
"But it isn't my name."
"I wish 'twas," said Clam; -- "no, I don' know as I do,
neither; but it comes kind o' handy."
"Make some other serve your turn," said Elizabeth gravely. "Go
up this afternoon, and say I don't want you and shall be most
happy if you can be of any service to Miss Winifred."
"Or Mr. Winthrop --" said Clam. "I'll do all I can for both of
'em, Miss 'Lizabeth."
She was not permitted to do much. She went and stayed a night
and a day, and served well; but Winifred did not like her
company, and at last confessed to Winthrop that she could not
bear to have her about. It was of no use to reason the matter;
and Clam was sent home. The answer to Elizabeth's note came
just before her handmaiden, by some other conveyance.
"Little South St. Dec. 21, 1821.
"Your note, Miss Haye, has put me in some difficulty, but
after a good deal of consideration I have made up my mind to
allow the 'right' you claim. It is your right, and I have no
right to deprive you of it. Yet the difficulty reaches further
still; for without details, which you waive, the result which
you wish to know must stand upon my word alone. I dislike
exceedingly it should so stand; but I am constrained here also
to admit, that if you choose to trust me rather than have the
trouble of the accounts, it is just that you should have your
choice.
"My brother's owing to Mr. Haye, for which he is held
responsible, is in the sum of eleven hundred and forty-one
dollars.
"I have the honour to be, with great respect,
"Winthrop Landholm."
Elizabeth read and re-read.
"It is very polite -- it is very handsome -- nothing could be
clearer from any shadow of implications or insinuations -- no,
nor of anything but 'great respect' either," she said to
herself. "It's very good of him to trust and understand me and
give me just what I want, without any palaver. _That_ isn't like
common people, any more. Well, my note wasn't, either. But he
hasn't said a word but _just_ what was necessary. -- Well, why
should he? --"
She looked up and saw Clam.
"What's brought you back again?"
"I don' know," said Clam. "My two feet ha' brought me, but I
don' know what sent me."
"Why did you come then?"
"'Cause I had to," said Clam. "Nothin' else wouldn't ha' made
me. I told you it was good livin' with him. I'd stay as long
as I got a chance, if I was anybody!"
"Then what made you come home?"
"I don' know," said Clam. "He wouldn't let me stay. He don't
stop to make everything clear; he thinks it's good enough for
him to say so; and so it is, I suppose; and he told me to
come."
"I am afraid you didn't do your duty well."
"I'd like to see who wouldn't," said Clam. "I did mine as well
as he did his'n."
"How is Winifred?"
"She's pretty bad. I guess he don't think he'll have much more
of her, and he means to have all he can these last days. And
she thinks she's almost in Paradise when he's alongside of
her."
Elizabeth laid her face down and asked no more questions.
But she concerned herself greatly to know how much and what
she might do in the premises, to shew her kind feeling and
remembrance, without doing too much. She sent Clam once with
jellies; then she would not do that again. Should she go to
see Winifred herself? Inclination said yes; and backed its
consent with sundry arguments. It was polite and kind; and
everybody likes kindness; she had known Winifred, and her
brother, long ago, and had received kindness in the family,
yes, even just now from Winthrop himself; and though his
visiting had so long been at an end, this late intercourse of
notes and business gave her an opening. And probably Winifred
had very few friends in the city to look after her. And again
inclination said "Go." But then came in another feeling that
said "Go not. You have not opening enough. Mr. Landholm's long
and utter cessation of visits, from whatever cause, says
plainly enough that he does not desire the pleasure of your
society; don't do anything that even looks like forcing it
upon him. People will give it a name that will not please
you." "But then," said inclination on the other hand, "my
going could not have that air, to him, for he knows and I know
that in the existing state of affairs it is perfectly
impossible that he should ever enter the doors of my father's
house -- let me do what I will." "People don't know as much,"
said the other feeling; "err on the safe side if at all, and
stay at home." "And I don't care much for people," -- said
Elizabeth.
It was so uncommon a thing for her to find any self-imposed
check upon what she wished to do, that Miss Haye was very much
puzzled; and tried and annoyed out of all proportion by her
self-consultations. She was in a fidget of uneasiness all day
long; and the next was no better.
"What _is_ the matter, Lizzie?" said Rose, as she busily
threaded her netting-needle through mesh after mesh, and
Elizabeth was patiently or impatiently measuring the length of
the parlour with her steps. "You look as if you had lost all
your friends."
"Do I?"
"Yes. Why do you look so?"
"What is the difference between losing all one's friends, and
having none to lose?"
"Why -- haven't you any?"
"Whom have I?"
"Well, you might have. I am sure _I_ have a great many."
"Friends!" said Elizabeth.
"Well -- I don't know who you call friends," said Rose,
breaking her silk with an impatient tug at a knot, -- "There! --
dear! how _shall_ I tie it again? -- I should think you needn't
look so glum."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Why -- because. You have everything in the world."
"Have I?" said Elizabeth bitterly. "I am alone as I can be."
"Alone!" said Rose.
"Yes. I am alone. My father is buried in his business; I have
nothing of him, even what I might have, or used to have -- _you_
never were anything to me. There is not a face in the world
that my heart jumps to see."
"Except that one?" said Rose.
"'That one,' as you elegantly express it, I do not see, as it
happens."
"It's a pity he didn't know what effect his coming and looking
in at our windows might have," said Rose. "I am sure he would
be good enough to do it."
But Elizabeth thought a retort unworthy of the subject; or
else her mind was full of other things; for after a dignified
silence of a few minutes she left Rose and went to her own
quarters. Perhaps the slight antagonistic spirit which was
raised by Rose's talk came in aid of her wavering
inclinations, or brought back her mind to its old tone of
wilfulness; for she decided at once that she would go and see
Winifred. She had a further reason for going, she said to
herself, in the matter of the money which she wished to convey
to Winthrop's hands. She did not want to send Clam with it;
she did not like to commit it to the post; there was no other
way but to give it to him herself; and that, she said, she
would do; or to Winifred's hands for him.
She left home accordingly, when the morning was about half
gone, and set out for Little South Street; with a quick but
less firm step than usual, speaking both doubt and decision.
Decision enough to carry her soon and without stopping to her
place of destination, and doubt enough to make her tremble
when she got there. But without pausing she went in, mounted
the stairs, with the same quick footstep, and tapped at the
door, as she had been accustomed to do on her former visits to
Winifred.
No gentle voice said "come in," however, and the step which
Elizabeth heard withinside after her knock, was not
Winifred's. She had not expected that it would be; she had no
reason to suppose that Winifred was well enough to be moving
about as usual, and she was not surprised to see Winthrop open
the door. The shadow of a surprise crossed his face for an
instant, -- then bowing, he stepped back and opened the door
wide for her to enter; but there was not the shadow of a
smile.
"Well, you _do_ look wonderfully grave!" was Elizabeth's thought
as her foot crossed the threshold, -- "I wonder if I am doing
something dreadful --"
And the instant impulse was to account for her being there, by
presenting her business -- not the business she had intended to
mention first.
She came in and stood by the table and began to speak; then he
placed a chair for her, and after a second of hesitation she
sat down. She was embarrassed for a minute, then she looked up
and looked him full in the face.
"Mr. Landholm, I am exceedingly obliged to you for your
kindness in this late business, -- you were very good to me."
"It was not kindness -- I felt you had a right to ask what I
could not refuse, Miss Elizabeth."
"I have come to bring you the money which I did not like to
get to you by any other means."
She handed it to him, and he took it and counted it over.
Elizabeth sat looking on, musing how tremulous her own hand
had been, and how very cool and firm his was; and thinking
that whatever were said by some people, there certainly was
character in some hands.
"This will be handed to Mr. Haye," he said, as he finished the
counting, -- "and all the proceedings will fall to the ground
at once."
"Thank you."
"I cannot receive any thanks, Miss Elizabeth. I am merely an
agent, doing what I have been obliged to conclude was my
duty."
"I must thank you, though," said Elizabeth. "I feel so much
relieved. You are not obliged to disclose my name to Mr. Rufus
Landholm?"
"Not at all. To no one."
"That is all my excuse for being here," said Elizabeth with a
slight hesitation, -- "except I thought I might take the
privilege of old friendship to come and see your sister."
"Thank you," he said in his turn, but without raising his
eyes. Yet it was not coldly spoken. Elizabeth did not know
what to think of him.
"Can I see her, Mr. Landholm? Is she well enough to see me?"
He looked up then; and there was, hardly a smile, but a
singular light upon his whole face, that made Elizabeth feel
exceedingly grave.
"She is well, but she will not see you again, Miss Elizabeth.
Winnie has left me."
"Left! --" said Elizabeth bewildered.
"Yes. She has gone to her home. Winnie died yesterday morning,
Miss Haye."
Elizabeth met the clear intent eye which, she did not know
why, fixed hers while he spoke; and then dropping her own,
trembled greatly with constrained feeling. She could not tell
in the least how to answer, either words or look; but it would
have been impossible for her to stir an inch from the spot
where she stood.
"Does it seem terrible to you?" he said. "It need not. Will
you see her?"
Elizabeth wished very strongly not; but as she hesitated how
to speak, he had gently taken her hand and was leading her
forward out of the room; and Elizabeth could not draw away her
hand nor hinder the action of his; she let him lead her
whither he would.
"Are you afraid?" he said, as he paused with his hand upon the
door of the other room. Elizabeth uttered an incomprehensible
'no,' and they went in.
"There is no need," he said again in a gentle grave tone as he
led her to the side of the bed and then let go her hand.
Elizabeth stood where he had placed her, like a person under a
spell.
'There was no need' indeed, she confessed to herself, half
unconsciously, for all her thoughts were in a terrible whirl.
Winnie's face looked as though it might have been the prison
of a released angel. Nothing but its sweetness and purity was
left, of all that disease and weariness had ever wrought
there; the very fair and delicate skin and the clustering
sunny locks seemed like angel trappings left behind. Innocence
and rest were the two prevailing expressions of the face, --
entire, both seemed. Elizabeth stood looking, at first awe-
stricken; but presently thoughts and feelings, many and
different ones, began to rise and crowd upon one another with
struggling force. She stood still and motionless, all the
more.
"There is no pain in looking there?" said her companion
softly. Elizabeth's lips formed the same unintelligible 'no,'
which her voice failed to bring out.
"Little sleeper!" said Winthrop, combing back with his fingers
the golden curls, which returned instantly to their former
position, -- "she has done her work. She has begun upon her
rest. I have reason to thank God that ever she lived. -- I
shall see the day when I can quietly thank him that she has
died."
Elizabeth trembled, and in her heart prayed Winthrop not to
say another word.
"Does not this face look, Miss Haye, as if its once owner had
'entered into peace?'"
If worlds had depended on Elizabeth's answering, she could not
have spoken. She could not look at the eye which, she knew, as
this question was put, sought hers; her own rested only on the
hand that was moving back those golden locks, and on the white
brow it touched; she dared not stir. The contact of those two,
and the signification of them, was as much as she could bear,
without any help. She knew his eye was upon her.
"Isn't it worth while," he said, "to have such a sure foothold
in that other world, that the signal for removing thither
shall be a signal of _peace?_"
Elizabeth bowed her head low in answer.
"Have you it?" was his next question. He had left the bed's
side and stood by hers.
Elizabeth wrung her hands and threw them apart with almost a
cry, -- "Oh I would give uncounted worlds if I had! --"
And the channel being once opened, the seal of silence and
reserve taken off, her passion of feeling burst forth into
wild weeping that shook her from head to foot. Involuntarily
she took hold of the bedpost to stay herself, and clung to it,
bending her head there like a broken reed.
She felt even at the time, and remembered better afterwards,
how gently and kindly she was drawn away from there and taken
back into the other room and made to sit down. She could do
nothing at the moment but yield to the tempest of feeling, in
which it seemed as if every wind of heaven shook her by turns.
When at last it had passed over, the violence of it, and she
took command of herself again, it was even then with a very
sobered and sad mind. As if, she thought afterwards, as if
that storm had been, like some storms in the natural world,
the forerunner and usher of a permanent change of weather. She
looked up at Winthrop, when she was quieted and he brought her
a glass of water, not like the person that had looked at him
when she first came in. He waited till she had drunk the water
and was to appearance quite mistress of herself again.
"You must not go yet," he said, as she was making some
movement towards it; -- "you are cold. You must wait till you
are warmed."
He mended the fire and placed a chair for her, and handed her
to it. Elizabeth did as she was bade, like a child; and sat
there before the fire a little while, unable to keep quiet
tears from coming and coming again.
"I don't know what you must think of me, Mr. Winthrop," she
said at last, when she was about ready to go. "I could not
help myself. -- I have never seen death before."
"You must see it again, Miss Elizabeth; -- you must meet it
face to face."
She looked up at him as he said it, with eager eyes, from
which tears ran yet, and that were very expressive in the
intensity of their gaze. His were not less intent, but as
gentle and calm as hers were troubled.
"Are you ready?" he added.
She shook her head, still looking at him, and her lips formed
that voiceless 'no.' She never forgot the face with which he
turned away, -- the face of grave gentleness, of sweet gravity,
-- all the volume of reproof, of counsel, of truth, that was in
that look. But it was truth that, as it was known to him, he
seemed to assume to be known to her; he did not open his lips.
Elizabeth rose; she must go; she would have given a world to
have him say something more. But he stood and saw her put on
her gloves and arrange her cloak for going out, and he said
nothing. Elizabeth longed to ask him the question, "What must
I do?" -- she longed and almost lingered to ask it; -- but
something, she did not know what, stopped her and choked her,
and she did not ask it. He saw her down to the street, in
silence on both sides, and they parted there, with a single
grasp of the hand. _That_ said something again; and Elizabeth
cried all the way home, and was well nigh sick by the time she
got there.
CHAPTER VI.
How now?
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
TWELFTH NIGHT.
Miss Haye came down to breakfast the next morning; but after
little more than a nominal presentation of herself there, she
escaped from Rose's looks and words of comment and innuendo
and regained her own room. And there she sat down in the
window to muse, having carefully locked out Clam. She had
reason. Clam would certainly have decided that her mistress
'wanted fixing,' if she could have watched the glowing intent
eyes with which Elizabeth was going deep into some subject --
it might be herself, or some other. Herself it was.
"Well," -- she thought, very unconscious how clearly one of the
houses on the opposite side of the street was defined on the
retina of either eye, -- "I have learned two things by my
precious yesterday's expedition, that I didn't know before --
or that if I did, it was in a sort of latent, unrecognized
way; -- two pretty important things! -- That I wish I was a
Christian, -- yes, I do, -- and that there is a person in the
world who don't care a pin for me, whom I would lay down my
life for! -- How people would laugh at me if they knew it -- and
just because themselves they are not capable of it, and cannot
understand it. -- Why shouldn't I like what is worthy to be
liked? -- why shouldn't I _love_ it? It is to my honour that I
do! -- Because he don't like _me_, people would say; -- and why
should he like me? or what difference does it make? It is not
a fine face or a fair manner that has taken me -- if it were, I
should be only a fool like a great many others; -- it is those
things which will be as beautiful in heaven as they are here --
the beauty of goodness -- of truth -- and fine character. -- Why
should I not love it when I see it? I shall not see it often
in my life-time. And what has his liking of me to do with it?
How should he like me! The very reasons for which I look at
him would hinder his ever looking at me -- and ought. I am not
good, -- not good enough for him to look at me; there are good
things in me, but all run wild, or other things running wild
over them. I am not worthy to be spoken of in the day that his
name is mentioned. I wish I was good! -- I wish I was a
Christian! -- but I know one half of that wish is because he is
a Christian. --That's the sort of power that human beings have
over each other! The beauty of religion, in him, has drawn me
more, unspeakably, than all the sermons I ever heard in my
life. What a beautiful thing such a Christian is! -- what
living preaching! -- and without a word said. Without a word
said, -- it is in the eye, the brow, the lips, -- the very
carriage has the dignity of one who isn't a piece of this
world. Why aren't there more such! -- and this is the only one
that ever I knew! -- of all I have seen that called themselves
Christians. -- Would any possible combination ever make _me_ such
a person? -- Never! -- never. I shall be a rough piece of
Christianity if ever I am one at all. But I don't even know
what it is to be one. Oh, why couldn't he say three words more
yesterday! But he acted -- and looked -- as if I could do
without them. What did he mean! --"
When she had got to this point, Elizabeth left her seat by the
window and crossed the room to a large wardrobe closet, on a
high shelf of which sundry unused articles of lumber had found
a hiding place. And having fetched a chair in, she mounted
upon the top of it and rummaged, till there came to her hand a
certain old bible which had belonged once to her mother or her
grandmother. Elizabeth hardly knew which, but had kept a vague
recollection of the book's being in existence and of its
having been thrust away up on that shelf. She brought it down
and dusted off the tokens of many a month's forgetfulness and
dishonour; and with an odd sense of the hands to which it had
once been familiar and precious, and of the distant influence
under the power of which it was now in her own hands, she laid
it on the bed, and half curiously, half fearfully, opened it.
The book had once been in hands that loved it, for it was
ready of itself to lie open at several places. Elizabeth
turned the leaves aimlessly, and finally left it spread at one
of these open places; and with both elbows resting on the bed
and both hands supporting her head, looked to see what she was
to find there. It chanced to be the beginning of the 119th
psalm.
"BLESSED ARE THE UNDEFILED IN THE WAY, WHO WALK IN THE LAW OF
THE LORD."
By what thread of association was it, that the water rushed to
her eyes when they read this, and for some minutes hindered
her seeing another word, except through a veil of tears?
"Am I becoming a Christian?" she said to herself. "But
something more must be wanting than merely to be sorry that I
am not what he is. How every upright look and word bear
witness that this description belongs to him. And I -- I am out
of 'the way' altogether."
"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT KEEP HIS TESTIMONIES, AND THAT SEEK HIM
WITH THE WHOLE HEART."
"'Keep his testimonies,'" said Elizabeth, -- "and 'seek him
with the whole heart.' -- I never did, or began to do, the one
or the other. '_With the whole heart_' -- and I never gave one
bit of my heart to it -- and how is he to be _sought?_ --"
"THEY ALSO DO NO INIQUITY; THEY WALK IN HIS WAYS."
The water stood in Elizabeth's eyes again.
"How far from me! -- how very far I am from it! 'Do no
iniquity,' -- and I suppose I am always doing it -- 'They walk
in his ways,' and I don't even so much as know what they are.
-- I wish Mr. Winthrop had said a little more yesterday!" --
She pondered this verse a little, feeling if she did not
recognize its high and purified atmosphere; but at the next
she sprang up and went back to her window.
"THOU HAST COMMANDED US TO KEEP THY PRECEPTS DILIGENTLY."
Elizabeth and the Bible were at issue.
She could heartily wish that her character were that fair and
sweet one the first three verses had lined out; but the
_command_ met a denial; or at the least a putting off of its
claim. She acknowledged all that went before, even in its
application to herself; but she was not willing, or certainly
she was not ready, to take the pains and bear the restraint
that should make her and it at one. She did not put the case
so fairly before herself. She kept that fourth verse at arm's
length, as it were, conscious that it held something she could
not get over; unconscious what was the precise why. She rushed
back to her conclusion that the Bible teaching was
unsatisfactory, and that she wanted other; and so travelling
round in a circle she came to the point from which she had
begun. With a more saddened and sorrowful feeling, she stood
looking at Winthrop's character and at her own; more
certified, if that had been wanting, that she herself was
astray; and well she resolved that if ever she got another
chance she would ask him to tell her more about her duty, and
how she should manage to do it.
But how was she to get another chance? Winthrop never came,
nor could come, to Mr. Haye's; all that was at an end; she
never could go again to his rooms. That singular visit of
yesterday had once happened, but could never happen again by
any possibility. She knew it; she must wait. And weeks went
on, and still her two wishes lived in her heart; and still she
waited. There was nobody else of whom she chose to ask her
questions; either from want of knowledge, or from want of
trust, or from want of attraction. And there were few indeed
that came to the house whom she could suppose capable of
answering them.
One evening it happened that Mr. Satterthwaite came in. He
often did that; he had never lost the habit of finding it a
pleasant place. This time he threw himself down at the tea-
table, in tired fashion, just as the lady of the house asked
him for the news.
"No news, Mrs. Haye -- sorry I haven't any. Been all day
attending court, till I presume I'm not fit for general
society. I hope a cup of tea 'll do something for me."
"What's taken you into court?" said Rose, as she gave the
asked-for tea.
"A large dish of my own affairs, -- that is to say, my uncle's
and fathers and grandfather's -- which is in precious
confusion."
"I hope, getting on well?" said Rose sweetly.
"Don't know," said Mr. Satterthwaite contentedly. "Don't know
till we get out of the confusion. But I have the satisfaction
of knowing it's getting on as well as it _can_ get on, -- from
the hands it is in."
"Whose hands are they?" Elizabeth asked.
"In Mr. Landholm's. -- He'll set it right, if anybody can. I
know he will. Never saw such a fellow. Mrs. Haye -- thank you --
this bread and butter is all sufficient. Uncommon to have a
friend for one's lawyer, and to know he is both a friend and a
lawyer."
"Rather uncommon," said Elizabeth.
"Is Winthrop Landholm your friend?" said Rose dryly.
"Yes! The best friend I've got. I'd do anything in the world
for that fellow. He deserves it."
"Mr. Satterthwaite," said Elizabeth, "that bread and butter
isn't so good as these biscuits -- try one."
"He don't deserve it from everybody!" said Rose, as Mr.
Satterthwaite gratefully took a biscuit.
"Why not?"
"He don't deserve it from me. I've known him to do unhandsome
things. Mean!"
"Winthrop Landholm! -- My dear Mrs. Haye, you are under some
misapprehension. I'll stake my reputation he never did an
unhandsome or a mean thing. He _couldn't_."
"He did," said Rose.
"Will you favour me with the particulars you have heard?"
"I haven't _heard_," said Rose, -- "I _know_."
"You _have_ heard!" said Elizabeth sternly, -- "and only heard.
You forget. You may not have understood anything right."
The gentleman looked in a little astonishment from the bright-
coloured cheeks of one lady to the cloudy brow of the other;
but as neither added anything further, he took up the matter.
"I am almost certain Miss Elizabeth is right. I am sure Mr.
Landholm would not do what you suspect him of. He _could_ not do
it."
"He is mortal, I suppose," said Rose sourly, "and so he _would_
do what other mortals do."
"He is better than some other mortals," said Mr.
Satterthwaite. "I am not a religious man myself; but if
anything would make me believe in it, it would be that man."
"Don't you 'believe in it,' Mr. Satterthwaite?" asked
Elizabeth.
"In a sort of way, yes, I do; -- I suppose it's a thing one
must come to at last."
"If you want to come to it at last, I should think you would
at first," said Elizabeth, "_I_ would. I shouldn't think it was
a very safe way to put it off."
Mr. Satterthwaite mused over his tea and made no answer;
clearly the conversation had got upon the wrong tack.
"Are you going to be in court to-morrow again, Mr.
Satterthwaite?" asked the lady of the house.
"I don't know -- not for my own affairs -- I don't know but I
shall go in to hear Winthrop's cause come on against Mr.
Ryle."
"I never was in court in my life," said Elizabeth.
"Suppose you go, Miss Elizabeth -- If you'll allow me to have
the honour of taking care of you, I shall be very happy.
There'll be something to hear, between Chancellor Justice and
my friend Winthrop and Mr. Brick."
"Is Mr. Brick going to speak to-morrow?" said Rose.
"Yes -- he is on the other side."
"Let's go, Lizzie," said her cousin. "Will you take me too,
Mr. Brick? -- Mr. Satterthwaite, I mean."
Mr. Satterthwaite declared himself honoured, prospectively;
Elizabeth put no objection of her own in the way; and the
scheme was agreed on.
The morrow came, and at the proper hour the trio repaired to
the City Hall and mounted its high white steps.
"Don't you feel afraid, Lizzie, to be coming here?" said her
cousin. "I do."
"Afraid of what, Mrs. Haye?" inquired their attendant.
"O I don't know, -- it looks so; -- it makes me think of
prisoners and judges and all such awful things!"
Mr. Satterthwaite laughed, and stole a glance beyond Mrs. Haye
to see what the other lady was thinking of. But Elizabeth said
nothing and looked nothing; she marched on like an automaton
beside her two companions, through the great halls, one after
another, till the room was reached and they had secured their
seats. Then certainly no one who had looked at her face would
have taken it for an automaton. Though she was as still as a
piece of machine-work, except the face. Rose was in a fidget
of business, and the tip of her bonnet's white feather
executed all manner of arcs and curves in the air, within
imminent distance of Mr. Satterthwaite's face.
"Who's who? -- and where's anybody, Mr. Satterthwaite," she
inquired.
"That's the Chancellor, sitting up there at the end, do you
see? -- Sitting alone, and leaning back in his chair."
"_That?_" said Rose. "I see. Is that Chancellor Justice? A fine-
looking man, very, isn't he?"
"Well -- I suppose he is," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "He's a
_strong_ man."
"Strong?" said Rose; -- "is he? Lizzie! -- isn't Chancellor
Justice a fine-looking man?"
"Fine-looking?" -- said Elizabeth, bringing her eyes in the
Chancellor's direction. "No, I should think not."
"Is there _anybody_ that is fine-looking here?" whispered Rose
in Elizabeth's bonnet.
"Our tastes are so different, it is impossible for one to tell
what will please the other," replied Elizabeth coolly.
"Where's Mr. Landholm, Mr. Satterthwaite?"
"Winthrop? -- He is down there -- don't you see him?"
"'Down there?'" said Rose, -- "There are a great many people
down there --"
"There's Mr. Herder shaking hands with him now --"
"Mr. Herder? -- Lizzie, do you see them?"
"Who?"
"Winthrop Landholm and Mr. Herder."
"Yes."
"Where are they?"
"Hush --"
For just then proceedings began, and Rose's tongue for a few
minutes gave way in favour of her ears. And by the time she
had found out that she could not make anything of what was
going on, Mr. Herder had found his way to their side.
"Miss Elisabet'!" he said, -- "and Mistress Haye! what has made
you to come here to-day?"
"Mr. Satterthwaite wanted us to hear your favourite Mr.
Landholm," said Rose, -- "so I came. Lizzie didn't come for
that."
Elizabeth shook hands with her friend smilingly, but said
never a word as to why she was there.
"Winthrop is good to hear," said Mr. Herder, "when you can
understand him. He knows how to speak. I can understand _him_ --
but I cannot understand Mr. Brick -- I cannot make nozing of
him when he speaks."
"What are they doing to-day, Mr. Herder?" said Elizabeth.
"It is the cause of my brother-in-law, Jean Lansing, against
Mr. Ryle, -- he thinks that Mr. Ryle has got some of his money,
and I think so too, and so Winthrop thinks; but nobody _knows_,
except Mr. Ryle -- he knows all of it. Winthrop has been asking
some questions about it, to Mr. Ryle and Mr. Brick" --
"When?"
"O a little while ago -- a few weeks; -- and they say no, -- they
do not choose to make answer to his questions. Now Winthrop is
going to see if the Chancellor will not make that they must
tell what he wants to know; and Mr. Brick will fight so hard
as he can not to tell. But Winthrop will get what he wants."
"How do you know, Mr. Herder?"
"He does, always."
"What does he want, Mr. Herder?" said Rose.
"It is my brother-in-law's business," said the naturalist. "He
wants to know if Mr. Ryle have not got a good deal of his
money someveres; and Mr. Ryle, he does not want to say nozing
about it; and Winthrop and Mr. Brick, they fight; and the
Chancellor he says, 'Mr. Landholm, you have the right; Mr
Brick, you do what he tell you.'"
"Then why isn't the cause ended?" said Elizabeth.
"Because we have not found out all yet; we are pushing them,
Mr. Ryle and Mr. Brick, leetle by leetle, into the corner; and
when we get 'em into the corner, then they will have to pay us
to get out."
"You seem very sure about it, Mr. Herder," said Rose.
"I do not know," said the naturalist. "I am not much afraid.
My friend Winthrop -- he knows what he is doing."
And to that gentleman the party presently gave their
attention; as also did the sturdy strong face of Mr. Justice
the Chancellor, and the extremely different physiognomy of Mr.
Dustus Brick.
Winthrop and Mr. Brick spoke alternately; and as this was the
case on each point, or question, -- as Mr. Herder called them,
-- and as one at least of the speakers was particularly clear
and happy in setting forth his meaning, the listeners were
kept from weariness and rewarded, those of them that had minds
for it, with some intellectual pleasure. It was pretty much on
this occasion as Mr. Herder had given the general course of
the suit to be; after every opening of a matter on Winthrop's
part, the Chancellor would say, very curtly,
"I allow that exception! Mr. Brick, what have you got to say?"
--
Mr. Brick generally had a good deal to say. He seemed to
multiply his defences in proportion to the little he had to
defend; in strong contrast to his antagonist's short, nervous,
home-thrust arguments. The Court generally seemed tired with
Mr. Brick.
"Oh that man! -- I wish he would stop!" said Rose.
Elizabeth, who for the most part was as still as a mouse,
glanced round at these words, one of her few and rare
secondings of anything said by her cousin. She did not know
that her glance shewed cheeks of fire, and eyes all the power
of which seemed to be in full life.
"Can you understand that man?" said the naturalist.
"He don't understand himself," said Elizabeth.
"I don't understand anybody," said Rose. "But I like to hear
the Chancellor speak -- he's so funny, -- only I'm getting
tired. I wish he would stop that man. Oh that Mr. Brick! -- Now
see the Chancellor! --"
"I've decided that point, Mr. Brick!"
Mr. Brick could not think it decided. At least it seemed so,
for he went on.
"What a stupid man!" said Rose.
"He will have the last word," said Mr. Herder.
"Miss Haye, are _you_ tired?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite, leaning
past the white feather.
"I? -- No."
"I am," said Rose. "And so is the Chancellor. Now look at him
--"
"Mr. Brick -- I have decided that point!" came from the lips of
Mr. Justice, a little more curtly than before.
"Now he will stop, --" said Rose.
No -- Mr. Brick was unmoveable.
"Very well!" said the Chancellor, throwing himself half way
round on his chair with a jerk -- "you may go on, and I'll read
the newspaper! --"
Which he did, amid a general titter that went round the
courtroom, till the discomfited Mr. Brick came to a stand. And
Winthrop rose for his next point.
"Are you going to wait till it's all done, Mr. Herder?" said
Rose. "I'm tired to death. Lizzie -- Lizzie!" -- she urged,
pulling her cousin's shoulder.
"What!" said Elizabeth, giving her another sight of the same
face that had flashed upon her half an hour before.
"My goodness!" said Rose. "What's the matter with you?"
"What do you want? --" said Elizabeth with a sort of fiery
impatience, into which not a little disdain found its way.
"You are not interested, are you?" said Rose with a satirical
smile.
"Of course I am!" --
"In that man, Lizzie?"
"What do you want!" said Elizabeth, answering the whisper in a
plain voice.
"I want to go home."
"I'm not ready to go yet."
And her head went round to its former position.
"Lizzie -- Lizzie!" urged Rose in a whisper, -- "How can you
listen to that man! -- you oughtn't to. -- Lizzie! --"
"Hush, Rose! be quiet! -- I _will_ listen. Let me alone."
Nor could Rose move her again by words, whispers, or pulls of
her shoulder. "I am not ready," --she would coolly reply. Mrs.
Haye was in despair, but constrained to keep it to herself for
fear she should be obliged to accept an escort home, and
because of an undefined unwillingness to leave Elizabeth there
alone. She had to wait, and play the agreeable to Mr.
Satterthwaite, for both her other companions were busy
listening; until Winthrop had finished his argument, and the
Chancellor had nodded,
"I allow that exception, Mr. Landholm -- it is well taken -- Mr.
Brick, what have you to say?" --
Mr. Brick rose to respond. Elizabeth rose too then, and faced
about upon her companions, giving them this silent notice, for
she deigned no word, that she was willing Rose's pleasure
should take its course. Mr. Satterthwaite was quite ready, and
they went home; Elizabeth changed to an automaton again.
But when she got into her own room she sat down, without
taking off her bonnet, to think.
"This is that farmer's boy that father wouldn't help -- and
that he has managed to separate from himself -- and from me!
What did I go there for to-day? Not for my own happiness -- And
now perhaps I shall never see him again. But I am glad I did
go; -- if that is the last."
And spring months and summer months succeeded each other; and
she did not see him again.
CHAPTER VII
Since he doth lack
Of going back
Little, whose will
Doth urge him to run wrong, or to stand still.
BEN JONSON.
One of the warm evenings in that summer, when the windows were
all open of Winthrop's attic and the candles flared in the
soft breeze from the sea, Rufus came in. Winthrop only gave
him a look and a smile from his papers as he appeared; and
Rufus flung himself, or rather dropped down, upon the empty
couch where Winnie used to lie. Perhaps the thought of her
came to him, for he looked exceedingly sober; only he had done
that ever since he shewed his face at the door. For some
minutes he sat in absorbed contemplation of Winthrop, or of
somewhat else; he was certainly looking at him. Winthrop
looked at nothing but his papers; and the rustling of them was
all that was heard, beside the soft rush of the wind.
"Always at work?" said Rufus, in a dismal tone, half
desponding and wholly disconsolate.
"Try to be. --"
"Why don't you snuff those candles?" was the next question,
given with a good deal more life.
"I didn't know you wanted more light," said Winthrop, stopping
to put in order the unruly wicks his brother referred to.
"What are you at there?"
"A long answer in chancery."
"Ryle's?"
"No -- Mr. Eversham's case."
"How does Ryle's business get on?"
"Very satisfactorily. I've got light upon that now."
"What's the last thing done?"
"The last thing I did was to file a replication, bringing the
cause to an issue for proofs; and proofs are now taking before
an Examiner."
"You have succeeded in every step in that cause?"
"In every step."
"The steps must have been well taken."
Winthrop was silent, going on with his 'answer.'
"How much do you expect you'll get from them?"
"Can't tell yet. I somewhat expect to recover a very large
sum."
"Winthrop -- I wish I was a lawyer --" Rufus said presently with
a sigh.
"Why?" said his brother calmly.
"I should -- or at least I might -- be doing something."
"Then you think all the work of the world rests upon the
shoulders of lawyers? I knew they had a good deal to do, but
not so much as that."
"I don't see anything for me to do," Rufus said despondingly.
Rufus got off his couch and began gloomily to walk up and
down.
"How easily those who are doing well themselves can bear the
ill haps of their friends!" he said.
Winthrop went back to his papers and studied them, with his
usual calm face and in silence, for some time. Rufus walked
and cogitated for half an hour.
"I ought not to have said that, Winthrop," were his first
words. "But now look at me!"
"With pleasure," said Winthrop laying down his 'answer' -- "I
have looked at many a worse man."
"Can't you be serious?" said Rufus, a provoked smile forcing
itself upon him.
"I thought I was rarely anything else," said Winthrop. "But
now I look at you, I don't see anything in the world the
matter."
"Yet look at our different positions -- yours and mine."
"I'd as lieve be excused," said Winthrop. "You always made the
best show, in any position."
"Other people don't think so," said Rufus, turning with a
curious struggle of feeling in his face, and turning to hide
it in his walk up and down.
"What ails you, Will? -- I don't know what you mean."
"You deserve it!" said Rufus, swallowing something in his mind
apparently, that cost him some trouble.
"I don't know what I deserve," said Winthrop gravely. "I am
afraid I have not got it."
"How oddly and rightly we were nicknamed in childhood!" Rufus
went on bitterly, half communing with himself. -- "I for fiery
impulse, and you for calm rule."
"I don't want to rule," said Winthrop half laughing. "And I
assure you I make no effort after it."
"You do it, and always will. You have the love and respect and
admiration of everybody that knows you -- in a very high
degree; and there is not a soul in the world that cares for
me, except yourself."
"I do not think that is true, Will," said Winthrop after a
little pause. "But even suppose it were -- those are not the
things one lives for."
"What _does_ one live for then!" Rufus said almost fiercely.
"At least they are not what I live for," said Winthrop
correcting himself.
"What do _you_ live for?"
His brother hesitated.
"For another sort of approbation -- That I may hear 'Well
done,' from the lips of my King, -- by and by."
Rufus bit his lip and for several turns walked the room in
silence -- evidently because he could not speak. Perhaps the
words, 'Them that honour me, I will honour,' -- might have come
to his mind. But when at last he began to talk, it was not
upon that theme.
"Governor," -- he said in a quieter tone, -- "I wish you would
help me."
"I will -- if I can."
"Tell me what I shall do."
"Tell me your own thoughts first, Will."
"I have hardly any. The world at large seems a wretched and
utter blank to me."
"Make your mark on it, then."