How swiftly pass the beautiful months of summer; its flowers and its
fruits come and go in succession, and must be enjoyed in their season,
or not at all.
To our boys it seemed to have flown more rapidly than ever; the constant
occupation of every day and almost every working hour, caused the days
and weeks to pass away imperceptibly and pleasantly.
And now, the long wished-for period has arrived, when the great contract
with Major Morris is to be fulfilled. The boat is ready, and will carry
quite a load. The farmers are busy digging, and each is anxious to
deliver his quota as soon as possible. It was well for Jim that he
stipulated in the bargain to receive them only as he wanted them. Jim's
thinking habits were of great service to him.
A new hand must be obtained to assist in navigating their little vessel;
her size, the quantity of freight, and the season of the year, all
demanded it. Sam Oakum felt that this devolved upon him, but Jim
insisted upon it that they would unitedly pay for the extra help.
'I shall not allow that, Jim, no how. You give me now one-third of all
we make, and you do all the business. So you see I am going this very
night to speak to Sam Cutter; he will be a good fellow to row with me,
and you can steer, and I shall pay Sam out of my own money.'
He was as good as his word, and found Sam Cutter ready enough to go with
him; so a bargain was soon made, and as Mr. Cutter's potatoes were the
first engaged, twenty-five bushels of the lot were carted early in the
morning, and put on board. Jim was there ready to receive them, and as
soon as delivered, counted out the money.
'There, William, is six dollars and twenty-five cents. It is all in
quarters, but it is just as good. Give that to your father, and when I
take the next load I will pay for that in the same way. Twenty-five
bushels, at twenty-five cents a bushel, make just six dollars and
twenty-five cents, don't it?'
Jim said this because William Cutter seemed to be in a maze, as though
not exactly comprehending the matter.
'Oh yes, it's all right, no doubt; but I say, Jim Montjoy, where did you
get all this money from? I tell you what, I mean to work, see if I
don't, if it brings in money at this rate.'
'Why, we have had some pretty hard pulls for it, have we not, Sam?--or
rather you have.'
'Yes, we both have, but no matter for that; it makes the money all the
sweeter. You see now, William, how this thing works--your brother and
yourself have been busily engaged all summer, cultivating your potatoes
and other things; now you have dug them and received your money, that
pays you for your work; we now carry them off to a distance, where they
are wanted more than they are here, and sell them for enough to pay us
for our risk, and labor, and expense of freight. If you had not labored
and raised them, we should not have them to carry away, and make a
profit on; on the other hand, if we could not find a market for them
abroad, you would not have received half the value for them you now get;
so you see how your plough and hoe, and our boat, help one another.'
'And your _head_, you ought to have added, Jim; for my boat and his
potatoes would not have been worth much, without that head of yours.'
William Cutter was no great philosopher, and perhaps did not clearly
comprehend the drift of Jim's argument; but he felt the silver pieces in
his hand, and realized that it was a larger sum than had ever been there
before; and he was satisfied, that in some way it had been obtained by
the enterprise and labor of Jim and Sam and as he walked along towards
home he said to himself a great many times,
'If working will do it, I'll work, see if I don't; there will be more
potatoes and beans to sell another year, see if there ain't.'
The new boat proved her value on her first trip; she was not a fast
sailer, but she rode the waves well, and would bear a stiff breeze. How
rejoiced was Sam, as he sat at the helm, to witness the beautiful manner
in which she would meet the swell, and bound over it like a bird of the
water.
Old Peter had also much to say in her praise.
'He did not 'spect to see such a ship-shape craft; she ain't made to run
fast, but she'll bear the wind, and she'll ride the waves, and that's
what you want, my hearties. But what's her name?'
'Oh! we have not given her a name yet, we haven't thought about that!'
'Never thought about that? but you must think about it; what is a boat
without a name? but I s'pose it ain't worth while to do no such thing on
this craft o' your'n, seeing she is launched, and in sailing trim; but I
tell you what, if you ain't given her a name, I'll do it; you must call
her Susie, do you hear?'
'Would you?'
'Yes would I; and where can you get a prettier name, or one that will
bring you better luck than that?'
'Well, if you say so; it's a pretty name, ain't it, Jim?'
Old Peter was determined to see that his favorite name was fastened to
the boat; and in a manner that could not have been expected from him,
printed it, in very legible characters, on the inside of her stern.
'Now, good luck to her! and don't you, boy, ever leave her while there's
a plank to stand on; hear that?'
'Yes, sir; I shall not leave her for a trifle.'
The potatoes and beans proved very satisfactory to Major Morris. Jim
received his money for each load, and was thus enabled to carry out his
plan of paying for them. No sooner was a quantity brought down to him,
measured and put into the boat, than he was ready with the pay; it was
counted out to them in good silver money. Many wondered where it came
from, and made up their minds that Mr. Montjoy had left his family quite
a property, for all that was said about his dying poor.
No time was lost by Jim in completing the contract; every day that would
answer was seized upon to carry a load. He neither counted profits, nor
indulged in the least recreation, until the whole matter was settled.
A full month passed, using their utmost diligence, before they took on
board the last load, and had the satisfaction of delivering it safely,
and receiving from Major Morris, not only the full balance due, but an
expression of his perfect satisfaction with the whole affair. One
hundred dollars Jim and Ned could now call their own, for although Ned
said that it ought to belong to Jim, he would hear of no such thing;
Ned, he said, had worked as hard as either of them, and sometimes
harder.
'Well, Jim, what would all the working have amounted to without those
thoughts of yours? and only to think how I laughed at you.'
'We won't mind that now, Ned; but if you won't laugh, I will tell you
what I have been thinking about again.'
'Do tell, Jim? I will never ridicule any of your thoughts after this.'
It happened that the boys were sitting on their favorite rock, enjoying
the calm decline of one of autumn's loveliest days.
'Come, Jim, I promise you I won't laugh.'
'Why, to tell you the truth, Ned, I have been thinking whether there was
no way that we might be supplied with such things as we need from a
store, without going to Grizzle's; I am tired of it, for my part.'
'There is no use of thinking about that, Jim, or talking about it
either; we have had that over long enough; we cannot help ourselves, and
there's the end of it.'
'I don't know that; I think we might help ourselves.'
'How, Jim? Come, let me hear.'
'Do you remember, Ned, I once told you about a boat I saw at the fort,
which had come from a distance with stores for the garrison? there were
large square chests of tea, just as they came from China, and barrels of
molasses and sugar, and casks of rice, and a great variety of things,
enough to have completely filled Mr. Grizzle's store.'
'Yes; I remember you told us about it, when you came home. But what of
it, Jim? What good will they do us?'
'I do not expect that those particular articles will benefit us,
especially, but I have thought a great deal about the matter since then;
and now, what I was going to propose is, to put your money with mine,
and let me lay it out in tea, and molasses, and sugar and some other
things.'
'Why, Jim, now you _are_ crazy. Why, when should we ever eat up a
hundred dollars' worth of such things?'
'But you are too fast, Ned; you don't wait to hear what I have to say. I
intended, when we had procured these things, to let the neighbors know
of it, and when they wanted, we could sell to them for a small profit. I
know many would prefer buying of us rather than of Grizzle.'
'Why, Jim!' and Ned jumped down from the rock, and placing himself
immediately before his brother, looked up at him with great earnestness.
'You mean that we should set up a little store--don't you, Jim?'
'Yes, it would be something like that.'
'And then, perhaps, after a while we should have a great many things,
and a great many people would come to buy of us; I know they would, for
they all like you so much.'
'I don't know about that, Ned; but I think we could sell things cheaper
than they have been accustomed to buy them, and, if so, they will
surely come; and if we can take such little things from them as we have
sold at the fort, and give them a fair price--'
'Oh, Jim, only think of it--hurra, hurra!'
'Do, Ned, stop; you will frighten all the folks.'
'What is to pay now, Ned?'
'Oh, Sam, is that you? hurra, Sam.'
'What ails him, Jim?'
'Oh, he has got into one of his tantrums again.'
'I tell you what, Sam Oakum, you don't know what Jim has been thinking
about this time; it beats his _old_ thinking, I tell you.'
'Why, what is it, Ned? Come, tell.'
'Oh, Sam, Jim is going to set up a store, and do all manner of things.'
Jim and Sam could stand no more; so they broke out into a hearty fit of
laughter. Sam, supposing it to be a joke, took no farther notice of the
matter.
'You make me laugh, Ned, whether I will or no; but I don't feel much
like laughing just now.'
'Why, what's the matter, Sam?' said both boys at once.
'There has nothing happened to me; but I have just been talking with
Bill Andrews--he feels pretty bad. Bill is in trouble.'
'There, Jim; I told you so. Don't you remember the day your boat was put
into the water, Sam? I saw then that something was the matter with
Bill.'
'I hope he has not taken to any of his old ways.'
'Oh, no, Jim; I don't think Bill will ever take to them again. But you
know Bill's mother?'
'She has not turned him away, has she?'
'No, Ned, not exactly; but I am afraid he will go away.'
'Oh, Sam! don't say so, for Bill is such a clever fellow.'
'I know he is'--and Sam's eyes began to glisten, and his lip to
tremble--'he is a real clever fellow; and to think how well he has
behaved, and how different he is from what he once was. I should not
think his mother could do so.'
'Has she been scolding him, Sam?'
'Pretty much so, Ned. You know how Bill used to let things go--almost
any how--he says he did. Bill is sorry for all that; he is very sorry--I
know he is. But I tell you what I believe, boys, that when we have done
wrong, even if we are sorry for it, and try to do better, something or
other comes up after a while to make us smart for it; perhaps we did
not feel sorry enough, or may be it is to make us sorry all our lives; I
suppose we ought to be. Well, as I was saying, Bill used to be much at
Grizzle's, and Grizzle let him run in debt as much as he pleased.'
'I tell you what, Sam Oakum, I would not go in debt for any thing. I had
rather live on raw clams and sea-weed.'
'So would I, Ned. But, as I was saying, Grizzle knew well enough that
Bill's mother had land. He knew he should get his pay.'
'But don't you remember, Sam, when you and I went there last summer to
engage potatoes, Bill said he only owed Grizzle a trifle?'
'I know he did, Jim, and so he thought, but Bill has been careless. He
has taken potatoes there every year, as he thought, enough to square his
account; but he never saw how it was, nor had any settlement made, and
it has run on until lately; and when Bill asked him, for the first time,
for his account--what do you think? Grizzle up's with a bill of more
than eighty dollars.'
'Eighty dollars!'
'Yes, Jim, eighty dollars and upwards. Bill said when he saw it, he felt
as if he should drop down.'
'Did he pay any of it? I would not have paid one cent of it until it had
been pretty well examined. You remember your father's account?'
'Bill says he was confounded by it, and so afraid that his mother should
hear any thing about it--for you know she is such a queer woman--that he
paid Grizzle all the money that he received from you--thirty dollars.'
'Oh, what a pity!'
'Well, you see, Jim, Bill was so afraid his mother would know it he said
it would make her about crazy.'
'Yes; but for all that, he ought to have told his mother.'
'I suppose he ought; but she soon knew it. For what did Grizzle do, but
send Dick Tucker there; and he has taken the cattle, and other things,
to pay the bill.'
'Oh, Sam, I am sorry for Bill. I wonder what his mother did say?'
'Bill says she called him every thing she could think of; and then she
cried and hallooed so loud, that he had to go for the Widow Brown to
come and pacify her. But he says he can stay at home no longer; so he is
going across the barrens to see a Mr. Rutherford, who promised to be a
friend to him; and he says he never means to come back, until he gets
money enough to pay that account; and he is coming here to bid you good
bye.'
'Sam Oakum, this is too bad. I have been thinking how Bill might be a
great help to us, and himself too.'
'It is no use; he is done for--his cattle are gone, and so there is an
end of it. But don't say any thing to Bill about this, nor let him see
that you feel bad towards him.'
'We don't feel bad towards him. Why, Sam Oakum, we like Bill Andrews
almost as well as we do you; but there he comes.'
Bill never appeared to better advantage than he did that evening: his
countenance was naturally one of those bright and playful ones, over
which there could always be seen some streaks of sunshine. He had really
been through a severe trial; and had not his principles been well
established, he might have been driven by desperation to his old habits;
but his resolution against those evil ways was strong. And although
Hettie had been for some time absent, yet her advice was before him,
lifting his mind to better things, and creating a true disgust for what
was low and corrupting. His look was sad, but not cast down. He gave his
hand to the boys, and shook theirs with great cordiality. His eye indeed
glistened, and his lip quivered; but these were only tokens of the pain
it gave him to part from friends whom he loved so well. Few words were
spoken. Ned had an abhorrence for tears. He therefore turned suddenly
away, and began throwing stones very violently at some invisible object.
Jim and Sam were not made of such stern material; and I do not suppose
it ought to be set down against them, that, as soon as Bill's back was
fairly turned, and on his way, they had between them quite a time of it.
On the morrow, just as the sun was beginning to pour forth a flood of
glorious light, Bill shut the little gate that led from his mother's
door-yard, and turning round as he did so, gave a smile through the
tears which were flowing to his mother and sister, who stood wringing
their hands and weeping aloud, on the little stoop that projected from
their front door. He smiled, to let them see that he had no unkindness
in his heart; and his tears were witness that he was on no errand of
pleasure. Yet he lingered not, but, brushing away the tears, and putting
his bundle closer under his arm, walked with a firm step straight on his
way. The sky was clear and blue, except where the beautiful sun-light
was expanding in the east, and imparting a rich golden tint. The earth
was whitened with the autumnal frost, and crisped under his footsteps,
and the thick leaves rustled as he brushed along and disturbed their
repose. His course was directed towards the Widow Brown's, where he must
stop and say 'Good-bye,' and perhaps get a message to Hettie, whom he
expected to meet before the day was over.
He walked briskly on; the sun had not yet penetrated the thick pines,
and the cold air of the night still floated undisturbed as he entered
the barrens. A lively fire was crackling on the widow's hearth, and at a
plain, but clean-looking table, sat Mrs. Brown and her son. Coarse but
wholesome was the fare spread out upon it; and both arose as William
entered, urging him to sit down and partake with them; having had but a
little appetite when he left his home, the keen air and the walk had
prepared him to enjoy refreshment. Their meal ended, a little parcel
taken for Hettie, a warm shake of the hand, and God's blessing implored
upon him, and he was off.
This going to seek one's fortune is no trifling matter; the battle of
life, where each is striving for his own particular benefit, and cares
not who sinks so long as he himself securely floats, demands all the
vital strength; and little else must claim our care or notice, save the
great struggle.
Bill was yet a stranger to life, only as it glided along in the quiet
seclusion, and that seclusion not the best adapted to bring forth man's
noblest efforts; beyond a bare support, and perhaps sometimes a thought
of sharing his humble portion with her who had been a sort of guardian
angel to him, his wishes had not hitherto aspired. No wonder, then, if
trifles had a power to disturb him, which, to those immersed in scenes
of busy life, would be but as an insect's buzz--a gentle brush, and it
is gone. William Brown had left the cottage with him, and pleasant had
been their chat together for a few miles; when about to separate, he
merely said,
'Well, I wish you good luck; and if you see Hettie, please say to her
that Dave Cross will be along by Rutherford's next week, and that he
will stop and bring any word home that she wishes to send; but I guess,
between you and me, it is only an excuse to have a chat with Hettie.'
Immediately after parting, Bill crossed the old bridge by the mill, and
went on his way; but something had disturbed the inner man, for, as he
ascended the hill, he paused where two roads met, one leading to Mr.
Rutherford's, the other to the nearest town. A large stone lay at the
point where they met: he threw his little bundle down, with an air that
might mean, perhaps it did,
'I don't care what becomes of you or me either;' and then took a seat on
the stone, leaned his chin on the head of his hickory staff, and looked
at the grass and the stones and the old fence, and occasionally at a
stray bird, as though there was something wrong about them. He waited a
good long hour, in thinking, and hesitating, and vexing himself, and
then trying to make the best of it; and finally picked up his bundle and
started off, not in the direction of the town, but straight towards Mr.
Rutherford's. It was late in the afternoon before he accomplished his
journey, and found himself entering the gate which opened into the
extensive grounds surrounding, as it was commonly called, the Rutherford
House. He had never seen any thing like it before, and a more pleasant
or home-looking place was seldom to be met with. There was a beautiful
green lawn, with a long broad gravel road extending to the house; and
there were large trees, spreading their long and drooping branches,
scattered thickly over the lawn and lining the road, and the house was
nestled beneath the shelter of some of the very largest and most
graceful of the trees. It made no pretensions to architectural beauty,
but it was large and well built; and the multitude of outhouses, and
extensive range of barns and sheds, all in good order, spoke of room for
man and beast, and of comfort too. Bill thought nothing of all this, his
heart was full of misgivings as to how he should be received; to him it
was all fine, too fine for the like of him; and he looked at some of the
outbuildings, as he passed along, to see if there was any place he could
feel at home in, for the night.
George Rutherford, the inheritor of this lovely spot, had of earthly
goods a bounteous store; but he had, also, what many an inheritor of
earthly substance does not possess, a noble heart, large in its embrace
of his fellow-man in all conditions, ever going out in its kindly
feelings towards some object of benevolence; humble in every thought
connected with himself, and with devoted zeal seeking to aid, to
comfort, and to gratify the most menial of his dependents, and the most
degraded and sorrow-stricken of his neighbours, far or near. Although
rich blessings crowned his days, and sweet was the cup of life he
quaffed, he felt most truly that no desert of his had earned them. Gifts
of mercy he called them all; abounding gifts--too good, but as the
tokens of Infinite Benevolence to the most unworthy.
He wanted, with all this, something of that shrewdness so essential to
the getting or preserving property; this world so teems with those who
covet all their eyes behold, who ask no counsel from the law of heaven
or the code of earthly justice, so long as forms of law will screen them
in their sly grasping after acres and goods, that a man needs, with all
the piety of a saint, something of the serpent's cunning. It is not
enough that he covets no man's silver or gold, that he wrongs no man of
his due, that he extends his hand to the helpless, that he be ever ready
to lift to his own level those who are struggling below him: he must
take care for himself. Riches are fleeting substances, with wings ever
ready for flight; he who enjoys the blessings they can bring, must give
all diligence to 'see well to his flocks and herds; for riches are not
for ever'; nor do they descend to many generations. Mr. Rutherford had
already experienced some trials in this way; his confidence had been too
strong, his sensibility for others' feelings too acute, and there was
great danger that he might yet be a heavy sufferer, because he did not
learn wisdom, as he might, from some of the trials he had already passed
through.
Whatever doubts may have disturbed Bill's mind as he was walking up the
broad avenue, they were all dissipated the moment he was recognized by
Mr. Rutherford. He grasped his hand with the cordiality of a friend,
took him at once into the house, and into the presence of his lovely
wife.
'You remember, my dear, the young man who so kindly assisted us at the
time of the accident to our carriage.'
'Indeed I do,' said Mrs. Rutherford, rising and bidding him a hearty
welcome.
Bill was put at once at ease; he never before could have supposed, that
persons who lived so very differently from what he had been accustomed
to, could be so affable; they seemed to him to feel and act as if he was
as good as any of them; asked him as many questions as old Sam Cutter
would have done, and seemed as pleased with all the little news he
communicated, as though he had been a city resident, loaded with tidings
from the gay and stirring world. The little children, too, in all their
sprightliness and beauty--those speaking images of the parent's
heart--came fondling round him; his plain rough garments were unheeded
by them, and he was soon as familiar with the little prattlers as though
they had been the children of his nearest neighbor.
But where was Hettie? Bill wondered much why she was not among the first
to come and greet him. He did not ask; he heard her name spoken by the
little ones, and his heart would beat and his breath grow short, and
once he thought he heard her light step in the passage; and then sad
thoughts would come and sink his spirits, so buoyant from his kind
reception. But Bill had yet to learn some lessons in the school of life.
Mr. Rutherford soon invited him to walk abroad, thus affording an
opportunity to unburthen his mind, for he evidently had come for some
express object. With much patience Mr. R. listened to his whole story,
making no reply whatever until the budget was empty, nor, indeed, until
some time after. Poor William thought that he had come to little
purpose, and was anything than a welcome visitor. Mr. Rutherford,
however, was only thinking in what way he could best serve the young
man. He might indeed have taken him into his own family, and given him
such employment as he had been accustomed to; but he thought he could
perceive talents fitting him for a different sphere of life.
'How would you like to go to the city, and try your hand in a store?'
'I don't care where I go, sir, nor what the employment; if I can only
have a chance to take care of myself honestly.'
'It will be very different from anything you have been accustomed to;
the work may not be any harder, but it will be very constant, and
without much chance for relaxation, merchants think that business is a
substitute for everything else.'
But William was not to be daunted by any prospect of toil; and Mr.
Rutherford, after telling him all he knew of the routine of business,
proposed to give him a letter to a friend of his in an extensive
business.
'He will do all that can be done to procure you a situation, and then
you must do the rest yourself; but remember, William, that the most
strict attention to everything you are called to do, an unflinching
integrity, and a determined perseverance, will be requisite to gain
success; and unless you have made up your mind to exert every energy,
you had better return and engage yourself with whatever you can best at
home.'
William's fine countenance was animated with an expression that told how
his heart was touched.
'So far, sir, as any exertions, day or night, to make myself useful and
acceptable will do it, I fear not; and I hope my friends will never have
to regret any efforts in my favor. A sense of gratitude, if nothing
else, I trust will keep me watchful over myself.'
'Well, William, I will write this evening; I hope you will succeed, and
I think you will.'
As they entered the house on their return, Hettie was just coming into
the hall. Her appearance seemed to be accidental; perhaps it was. She
blushed deeply, smiled a very little, and gave her hand to William in
rather a timid manner. He was prepared to accost her warmly, but the
peculiarity of her address chilled him; he felt a restraint he could not
overcome, and his greeting was much like her own. She asked after her
mother's health, thanked him for his trouble in bringing the little
parcel for her, and then withdrew, leaving him to follow Mr. Rutherford,
who was waiting at the parlor door to receive him.
William was tired enough that night to have slept soundly, but his
thoughts would not be quiet; so he hailed the dawn with delight, and was
ready immediately after breakfast to go on his way. Mr. Rutherford took
him into a small room adjoining the parlor, and handing him the letter,
'There, William, I hope you will find this sufficient, and here is a
trifle for you in case of need; if ever you become a rich man, you can
return it: let me hear from you how you succeed.' So saying, he placed a
little roll of bills in his hand, and bidding him God-speed, at once
opened the door, apparently wishing to avoid the shower of thanks which
he saw beaming from the eye of the young man.
'Oh, sir, I never shall forget your kindness, and I hope I may yet prove
it to you.'
Mr. Rutherford made no reply; he was not indifferent to gratitude, but
he did not care to be thanked personally. It was reward enough for him
that he had made a fellow creature happy, and done what he could to give
a helping hand to one just venturing on the deep waters. Long may that
heart enjoy such draughts of pure happiness; and when, in years to
come, you meet reverse of fortune, if such shall be thy fate, these
stores, laid by in heaven's chancery, will be a refuge at your utmost
need; and little deeds of love like this, long, long forgotten, will
come like heavenly messengers, and with interest accumulated beyond the
miser's compound gain. In the dark hour when clouds, blacker than the
tempest's murky robe, shroud all the prospects of your earthly comfort,
when hope of all deliverance that man may bring has gone, and your
sickened heart turns away from earth, then shall you know that good
deeds are not lost, even here below; and what your generous heart,
inspired from above, devised to aid, to comfort, and to bless your
fellows, has been a hidden treasure reserved against the time of deepest
need.
William went joyfully on his way, he had unrolled his little treasure,
and counted fifty dollars. How his heart blessed the noble man; what a
spring of love and hope burst forth from it, sending a quickening
influence through all his frame; how elastic his step; what a cheerful
light sparkles from his eye. The prospect before him is no longer dark.
Immediately after passing the house, the road wound gradually around the
premises; on one side skirted by a clump of woods, and on the other by a
heavy stone wall, surmounted by shrubbery, so thick that nothing could
be seen through it. Suddenly a little gate opened, and Hettie came down
the steps, her face wearing that sweet smile with which she had in days
past always met him.
'I was afraid, William, that you would be past before I could get here,
and I felt as if I must see you, just to say, good-by.'
William was taken by surprise; he seized her offered hand, and grasped
it warmly, but he could not speak.
'I have wanted to see you very much, William, and to have a long talk
with you about many things; but I suppose you must be going, and I must
be back to my work. But, William, do you think you will like it in the
city? You know things are so different from what you have been used to.'
He was intending to be very stiff in all his bearing towards Hettie, but
he made awkward work of it. There was she, looking up into his face with
all her wonted interest, and how could he meet those eyes, and not
return their look of pure and kindly feeling? So he gave it up: all his
bad intentions flew off like mist, and his eye glanced as kindly as
hers, and his voice softened into the old tones of friendship.
'I know, Hettie, that they will be different; but I think I shall soon
get used to them, and then I feel like taking care of myself, and who
knows but I may get along as well as some others who go there, and come
back with plenty of money in my pocket? I think, then, that some of my
friends will not be ashamed to speak to me, or to acknowledge old
friendships.' And as William said this, he looked at Hettie with so much
meaning, that she could not mistake its reference to her.
'If you think, William, that your prosperity will make a difference in
the feelings of your friends towards you, or, at least, of some of them,
you are mistaken. You may succeed as you anticipate, or you may not; you
may return wealthy or poor, as you now are; if you only bring back as
true and kind a heart, William, you will find some to welcome you, who
will rejoice more in that, than in any great change in your
circumstances.'
And Hettie cast such a meaning in her look, too, as she fixed her eye
full upon him, that he could not mistake its reference either. He saw
the tears glistening in her mild eyes, and he could have done all manner
of things to himself for speaking as he did.
'Forgive me, Hettie, forgive me, if I have said any thing to trouble
you; I know that you, at least, will not be affected by my condition, if
my character is only good.'
'I cannot say any thing more about the future, William, than that I am
very sure I shall ever feel a deep interest in your welfare, and my
ardent prayer shall be, that you may be kept from the many evils which I
am told lurk around one going into the city, as you do, a stranger to
its temptations.'
'I know, Hettie, they say that I shall run a great risk in many ways,
and I feel that I need something to keep my mind fastened on that will
help me to avoid the evil, whatever it may be, and that will strengthen
me in doing right. You have been such a helper to me, Hettie; you know
from what a dreadful state you once delivered me; you have great power
over me. I am now going from you; will you not let me carry along with
me that promise which I have often asked? If you would only say that it
_might_ be one of these days, I should go away happy; the hope would be
like your presence with me.'
Hettie cast down her eyes as William continued talking; she heard him
quietly through, and then replied, in a voice that trembled indeed, but
the words were well chosen, and came from her heart.
'That promise, William, I cannot make now any more than I could have
done before this; you and I are to be separated for many years perhaps;
great changes may take place in that time; you will see many things very
unlike what you have been accustomed to; your views about persons and
things may change with your circumstances, I shall think of you as a
dear friend, as a brother, if you wish it; I will pray for you when I do
for myself, and as earnestly, William; but farther than this, you must
not ask me.'
William ceased, for he knew Hettie well enough to be certain that she
would yield nothing more. He parted from her as a brother might leave a
sister, dearly loved; he saw the deep color mantling in her cheek, and
the tear that artlessly rolled over it; he could not say the parting
word. She stepped back through the little gate, and as it closed, he
went on his way to seek that fortune, which, at times, played before his
fancy in all the witching forms of earthly prosperity. How often will
this parting scene haunt his waking and sleeping dreams, through the
long years that will intervene ere a sight of one so dear to him now
will bless his eyes again; and how often will he admire the firmness and
prudence of this earthly friend of his heart!