MOVING.
Mr. Southwode went away, his letter was locked up in a drawer, and both
were soon forgotten. The little family he left had enough else to think
of.
As the warm weather turned to cold, it became more and more evident that
the head of the family was not to be with it long. Mr. Carpenter was ill.
Nevertheless, with failing strength, he continued to carry the burden
that had been too much for him when well. He would not spare himself. The
work must be done, he said, or the interest on the mortgages could not be
paid. He wrought early and late, and saw to it that his hired people did
their part; he wore himself out the quicker; but the interest on the
mortgages was not paid, even so. Mrs. Carpenter saw just how things were
going, saw it step by step, and was powerless to hinder.
"They will foreclose!" Mr. Carpenter said with a half groan. It was late
in the winter; towards spring; his health had failed rapidly of late; and
it was no secret either to him or his wile that his weeks were numbered.
They were sitting together one evening before the fire; he in his easy
chair, and she beside him; but not holding each other's hands, not
touching, nor looking at one another. Their blood was of a genuine New
England course; and people of that kind, though they would die for one
another, rarely exchange kisses. And besides, there are times when
caresses cannot be borne; they mean too much. Perhaps this was such a
time. Mrs. Carpenter sat staring into the fire, her brow drawn into fine
wrinkles, which was with her a sign of uncommon perturbation. It was
after a time of silence that her husband came out with that word about
foreclosing.
"If I had been stronger," he went on, "I could have taken in that twenty
acre lot and planted it with wheat; and that would have made some
difference. Now I am behindhand--and I could not help it--and they will
foreclose."
"They cannot do it till next fall," said Mrs. Carpenter; and her secret
thought was, By that time, nothing will matter!
"No," said her husband,--"not until fall. But then they will. Eunice,
what will you do?"
"I will find something to do."
"What? Tell me now, while I can counsel you."
"I don't know anything I could do, but take in sewing." She spoke calmly,
all the while a tear started which she did not suffer to be seen.
"Sewing?" said Mr. Carpenter. "There are too many in the village already
that do sewing--more than can live by it."
"If I cannot here," his wife said after a pause, overcoming herself,--"I
might go to New York. Serena would help me to get some work."
"Would she?" asked her husband.
"I think she would."
"Your charity always goes ahead of mine, Eunice."
"You think she would not?"
"I wouldn't like to have you dependent on her.--This is what you get for
marrying a poor man, Eunice!"
He smiled and stretched out his hand to take the hand of his wife.
"Hush!" she said. "I married a richer man than she did. And I have wanted
for nothing. We have not been poor."
"No," he said. "Except in this world's goods--which are unimportant.
Until one is leaving one's wife and child alone!"
I suppose she could not speak, for she answered nothing. The fingers
clasped fingers fast and hard; wrung them a little. Yet both faces were
steady. Mrs. Carpenter's eyes looked somewhat rigidly into the fire, and
her husband's brow wore a shadow.
"I wish your father had left you at least the old place at Tanfield. It
would have been no more than justice. Serena might have had all the rest,
but that would have given you and Rotha a home."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Carpenter gently. "I am content with my share."
"Meaning me!" And he sighed.
"The best share of this world's goods any woman could have, Liph."
"We have been happy," he said, "in spite of all. We have had happy years;
happier I could not wish for, but for this money trouble. And we shall
have happy years again, Eunice; where the time is not counted by years,
but flows on forever, and people are not poor, nor anxious, nor
disappointed."
She struggled with tears again, and then answered, "I have not been
disappointed. And you have no need to be anxious."
"No, I know," he said. "But at times it is hard for faith to get above
sense. And I am not anxious; only I would like to know how you are going
to do."
There was a silence then of some length.
"Things are pretty unequal in this world," Mr. Carpenter began again.
"Look at Serena and you. One sister with more than she can use; the other
talking of sewing for a livelihood! And all because you would marry a
poor man. A poor reason!"
"Liph, I had my choice," his wife said, with a shadow of a smile. "She is
the one to be pitied."
"Well, I think so," he said. "For if her heart were as roomy as her
purse, she would have shewn it before now. My dear, do not expect
anything from Serena. Till next fall you will have the shelter of this
house; and that will give you time to look about you."
"Liph, you must not talk so!" his wife cried; and her voice broke. She
threw herself upon her husband's breast, and they held each other in a
very long, still, close embrace.
Mr. Carpenter was quite right in some at least of his expectations. His
own life was not prolonged to the summer. In one of the last days of a
rough spring, the time came he had spoken of, when his wife and child
were left alone.
She had till fall to look about her. But perhaps, in the bitterness of
her loneliness, she had not heart to push her search after work with
sufficient energy. Yet Mrs. Carpenter never lacked energy, and indulged
herself selfishly no more in grief than she did in joy. More likely it is
that in the simple region of country she inhabited there was not call
enough for the work she could do. Work did not come, at any rate. The
only real opening for her to earn her livelihood, was in the shape of a
housekeeper's situation with an old bachelor farmer, who was well off and
had nobody to take care of him. In her destitution, I do not know but
Mrs. Carpenter might have put up with even this plan; but what was she to
do with Rotha? So by degrees the thought forced itself upon her that she
must take up her old notion and go to the great city, where there were
always people enough to want everything. How to get there, and what to do
on first arriving there, remained questions. Both were answered.
As Mr. Carpenter had foreseen, the mortgages came in the fall to
foreclosure. The sale of the land, however, what he had not foreseen,
brought in a trifle more than the mortgage amount. To this little sum the
sale of household goods and furniture and stock, added another somewhat
larger; so that altogether a few hundreds stood at Mrs. Carpenter's
disposal. This precisely made her undertaking possible. It was a very
doubtful undertaking; but what alternative was there? One relation she
would find, at the least; and another Mrs. Carpenter had not in the wide
world. She made her preparations very quietly, as she did everything; her
own child never knew how much heart-break was in them.
"Shall we go first to aunt Serena's, mother?" Rotha asked one day.
"No."
The "no" was short and dry. Rotha's instinct told her she must not ask
why, but she was disappointed. From a word now and then she had got the
impression that this relation of theirs was a very rich woman and lived
accordingly; and fancy had been busy with possibilities.
"Where then, mother?"
"Mr. Forbes," he was the storekeeper at the village, "has told me of the
boarding house he goes to when he goes to New York. We can put up there
for a night or two, and look out a quiet lodging."
"What is New York like, mother?"
"I have never been there, Rotha, and do not know. O it is a city, my
child; of course; it is not like anything here."
"How different?"
"In every possible way."
"_Every_ way, mother? Aren't the houses like?"
"Not at all. And the houses there stand close together."
"There must be room to get about, I suppose?"
"Those are the streets."
"No green grass, or trees?"
"Little patches of grass in the yards."
"No trees?"
"No. In some of the fine streets I believe there are shade trees."
"No _gardens_, mother?"
"No."
"But what do people do for vegetables and things?"
"They are brought out of the country, and sold in the markets. Don't you
know Mr. Jones sends his potatoes and his fruit to the city?"
"Then if you want a potato, you must go to the market and buy it?"
"Yes."
"Or an apple, mother?"
"Yes, or anything."
"Well I suppose that will do," said Rotha slowly, "if you have money
enough. I shouldn't think it was pleasant. Do the houses stand _close_
together?"
"So close, that you cannot lay a pin between them."
"I should want to have very good neighbours, then."
Rotha was innocently touching point after point of doubt and dread in her
mother's mind. Presently she touched another.
"I don't think it sounds pleasant, mother. Suppose we should not like it
after we get there?"
Mrs. Carpenter did not answer.
"What then, mother? Would you come back again, if we did not like it
there?"
"There would be no place to come to, here, any more, my child. I hope we
shall find it comfortable where we are going."
"Then you don't know?" said Rotha. "And perhaps we shall not! But,
mother, that would be dreadful, if we did not like it!"
"I hope you would help me to bear it."
"I!" said Rotha. "You don't want help to bear anything; do you, mother?"
An involuntary gush of tears came at this appeal; they were not suffered
to overflow.
"I should not be able to bear much without help, Rotha. Want help? yes, I
want it--and I have it. God sends nothing to his children but he sends
help too; else," said Mrs. Carpenter, brushing her hand across her eyes,
"they would not last long! But, Rotha, lie means that we should help each
other too."
"I help you?"
"Yes, certainly. You can, a great deal."
"That seems very funny. Mother, what is wrong about aunt Serena?" said
Rotha, following a very direct chain of ideas.
"I hope nothing is wrong about her."
And Mrs. Carpenter, in her gentle, unselfish charity, meant it honestly;
her little daughter was less gentle and perhaps more logical.
"Why, mother, does she ever do anything to help you?"
"Her life is quite separate from mine," Mrs. Carpenter replied evasively.
"Well, it would be right in her to help you. And when people are not
right, they are wrong."
"Let us take care of our own right and wrong, Rotha. We shall have enough
to do with that."
"But, mother, what _is_ the matter with aunt Serena? Why doesn't she help
you? She can."
"Our lives went different ways, a long time ago, my child. We have never
been near each other since."
"But now you are going to be where she is, mother?"
"Rotha, did you rip up your brown merino?"
"Not yet."
"Then go and do it now. I want it to make over for you."
"You'll never make much of that," said the girl discontentedly. But she
obeyed. She saw a certain trait in the lines of her mother's lips; it
might be reserve, it might be determination, or both; and she knew no
more was to be got from her at that time.
The brown merino disappointed her expectation; for when cleaned and made
over it proved to be a very respectable dress. Rotha was well satisfied
with it. The rest of Mrs. Carpenter's preparations were soon
accomplished; and one day in November she and her little daughter left
what had been home, and set out upon their journey to seek another in the
misty distance. The journey itself was full of wonder and delight to
Rotha. It was a very remarkable thing, in the first place, to find the
world so large; then another remarkable thing was the variety of the
people in it. Rotha had known only one kind, speaking broadly; the plain,
quiet, respectable, and generally comfortable in habitants of the village
and of the farms around the village. They were not elegant specimens, but
they were solid, and kindly. She saw many people now that astonished her
by their elegance; few that awakened any feeling of confidence. Rotha's
eyes were very busy, her tongue very silent. She was taking her first
sips at the bitter-sweet cup of life knowledge.
The third-class hotel at which they put up in New York received her
unqualified disapprobation. None of its arrangements or accommodations
suited her; with the single exception of gas burners.
Close, stuffy, confined, gloomy, and dirty, she declared it to be.
"Mother," she said half crying, "I hope our house will not be like this?"
"We shall not have a house, Rotha; only a few rooms."
"They'll be rooms in a house, I suppose," said the girl petulantly; "and
I hope it will be very different from this."
"We will have our part of it clean, at any rate," answered her mother.
"And the rest too, won't you? You would not have rooms in a house that
was not all clean, would you, mother?"
"Not if I could help it."
"Cannot you help it?"
"I hope so. But you must not expect that things here in a big city can
ever be bright and sweet like the fields at home. That can hardly be."
Rotha sighed. A vision of dandelions came up before her, and waving grass
bent by summer wind. But there was hope that the morrow's search would
unfold to her some less unpromising phases of city life, and she
suspended judgment.
Next day, wonder and amusement for a time superseded everything else. The
multitude of busy people coming and going, the laden carts and light
passing carriages, the gay shops, and the shops that were not gay, filled
Rotha's eye and mind. Even the vegetables exposed at a corner shop were a
matter of lively interest.
"O mother," she cried, "is this a market?"
"No. It is a store for groceries."
"Well, they have got some other things here. Mother, the cabbages don't
look nice." Then soon after coming to a small market store, Rotha must
stand still to look.
"They are a little better here," she judged. "Mother, mother! they have
got everything at this market. Do see! there are fish, and oysters, and
clams; and eggs; and what are those queer things?"
"Lobsters."
"What are they good for?"
"To eat."
"They don't look as if they were good for anything. Mother, one could get
a very good dinner here."
"With plenty of money."
"Does it take much?--to get one dinner?"
"Are you hungry?" said her mother, smiling faintly. "It takes a good deal
of money to get anything in New York, Rotha."
"Then I am afraid we ought to have staid at Medwayville."
A conclusion which almost forced itself upon Mrs. Carpenter's mind. For
the business of finding a lodging that would suit her and that she could
pay for, soon turned out to be one of difficulty. She and Rotha grew
weary of walking, and more weary of looking at rooms that would suit them
which they could not pay for, and other rooms which they could pay for
and that would not do. All the houses in New York seemed to come under
one or the other category. From one house agency to another, and from
these to countless places referred to, advertised for hire, the mother
and daughter wandered; in vain. One or the other difficulty met them in
every case.
"What will you do, mother, if you cannot find a place?" Rotha asked, the
evening of the first day. "Go back to Medwayville?"
"We cannot go back."
"Then we must find a place," said Rotha.
And driven by this necessity, so they did. The third day, well tired in
body and much more in mind, they did at last find what would do. It was a
long walk from their hotel, and seemed endless. No doubt, in the country,
with grass under their feet, or even the well beaten foot track beside
the highway, neither mother nor daughter would have thought anything of
the distance; but here the hard pavement wearied them, and the way
measured off by so many turns and crossings and beset with houses and
human beings, seemed a forlorn pilgrimage into remote regions. Besides,
it left the pleasanter part of the city and went, as Rotha remarked,
among poor folks. Down Bleecker St. till it turned, then following the
new stretch of straight pavement across Carmine St., and on and on into
the parts then called Chelsea. On till they came to an irregular open
space.
"This must be Abingdon Square," said the mother.
"It isn't square at all," Rotha objected.
"But this must be it. Then it's only one street more, Rotha. Look for
Jane Street."
Beyond Abingdon Square Jane Street was found to be the next crossing.
They turned the corner and were at the place they sought.
The region was not one of miserable poverty and tenant houses. Better
than that; and the buildings being low and small did not darken the
streets, as Mrs. Carpenter had found in some parts of the city. A decent
woman, a mantua-maker, had the house and offered Mrs. Carpenter the
second floor; two little rooms and a closet off them. The rooms were
furnished after a sort; but Mrs. Marble could give no board with them;
only lodging. She was a bright, sharp little woman.
"Yes, I couldn't," she said. "It wouldn't pay. I couldn't mind my
business. I take _my_ meals in a corner; for I couldn't have grease and
crumbs round; but where one person can stand, three can't sit. You'll
have to manage that part yourself. It'll be cheaper for you, too."
"Is anything cheap here?" Mrs. Carpenter asked wearily. She had sat down
to rest and consider.
"That's how you manage it," said the other, shewing a full and rather
arch smile. She was a little woman, quick and alert in all her ways and
looks. "My rooms aint dear, to begin with; and you needn't ruin yourself
eating; if you know how."
"I knew how in the country," said Mrs. Carpenter. "Here it is different."
"Aint it! I guess it is. Rents, you see; and folks must live, landlords
and all. Some of 'em do a good deal more; but that aint my lookout. I'd
eat bread and salt sooner than I'd be in debt; and I never do be that. Is
it only you two?"
"That is all."
"Then you needn't to worry. I guess you'll get along."
For Mrs. Marble noticed the quiet respectability of her caller, and
honestly thought what she said. Mrs. Carpenter reflected. The rooms were
not high; she could save a good deal by the extra trouble of providing
herself; she would be more private, and probably have things better to
her liking. Besides, her very soul sickened at the thought of looking for
any more rooms. She decided, and took these. Then she asked about the
possibilities of getting work. Mrs. Marble's countenance grew more
doubtful.
"Plain sewing?" she said. "Well, there's a good many folks doing that,
you see."
"I thought, perhaps, you could put me in the way of some."
"Well, perhaps I can. I'll see what I can think of. But there's a many
doing that sort o' thing. They're in every other house, almost. Now, when
will you come?"
"To-morrow. I suppose I cannot tell what I want to get till I do come."
"I can tell you some things right off. You'd better do part of it to-day,
or you'll want everything at once. First of all, you'd better order in
some coal. You can get that just a block or two off; Jones & Sanford;
they have a coal yard. It is very convenient."
"Where can it be put?"
"In the cellar. There's room enough. And if I was you, I wouldn't get
less than half a ton. They make awful profits when they sell by the
basket. You will want a little kindling too. Hadn't you better get a
little bit of a stove? one with two places for cooking; or one place. It
will save itself six times over in the course of the winter."
"Where can I get it?"
"I guess you're pretty much of a stranger here, aint you?"
"Entirely a stranger."
"I thought so. Folks get a look according to the place they live. You
aint bad enough for New York," she added with a merry and acute smile.
"I hope there are some good people here," said Mrs. Carpenter.
"I hope so. I haven't passed 'em all through my sieve; got something else
to do; and it aint my business neither. Well--only don't you think there
aint some bad ones in the lot, that's all. There's plenty of places where
you can get your stove, if you want to. Elwall's in Abingdon Square, is a
very good place. Some things goes with the stove. I guess you know what
you want as well as I do," she said, breaking off and smiling again.
"I shall need bedding too," said Mrs. Carpenter, with a look at the empty
bedstead.
"You can't do everything at once, if you're to come in to-morrow. I'll
tell you--I've a bed you can have, that I aint using. It'll cost you
less, and do just as well. I aint one of the bad ones," she said, again
with a gleam of a smile. "I shan't cheat you."
The arrangement was made at last, and Mrs. Carpenter and Rotha set out on
their way back. They stopped in Abingdon Square and bought a stove, a
little tea-kettle, a saucepan and frying pan; half a dozen knives and
forks, spoons, etc., a lamp, and sundry other little indispensable
conveniences for people who would set up housekeeping. Rotha was glad to
be quit of the hotel, and yet in a divided state of mind. Too tired to
talk, however, that night; which was a happiness for her mother.
The next day was one of delightful bustle; all filled with efforts to get
in order in the new quarters. And by evening a great deal was done. The
bed was made; the washstand garnished; the little stove put up, fire made
in it, and the kettle boiled; and at night mother and daughter sat down
to supper together, taking breath for the first time that day. Mrs.
Carpenter had been to a neighbouring grocery and bought a ham and bread;
eggs were so dear that they scared her; she had cooked a slice and made
tea, and Rotha declared that it tasted good.
"But this is funny bread, mother."
"It is baker's bread."
"It is nice, a little, but it isn't sweet."
"Let us be thankful we have got it, Rotha."
"Yes; but, mother, I think I should be _more_ thankful for better bread."
"I will try and make you some better," Mrs. Carpenter said laughing.
"This is not economical, I am sure."
"Mother," said Rotha, "do you suppose aunt Serena takes in sewing?"
"She? no. She gives it out."
"You would not like to do _her_ sewing?"
"I shall not ask for it," said the mother calmly.
"Does she do her own cooking, as you do?"
"No, my child. She has no need."
"Do you think she is a better woman than you are, mother?"
"That's not a wise question, I should say," Mrs. Carpenter returned. But
something about it flushed her cheek and even brought an odd moisture to
her eyes.
"Because," said Rotha, wholly disregarding the animadversion, "_if she
isn't_, I should say that things are queer."
"That's what Job thought, when his troubles came on him."
"And weren't they?" asked Rotha.
"No. He did not understand; that was all."
"I should like to understand, though, mother. Not understanding makes me
uneasy."
"You may be uneasy then all your life, for there will be a great many
things you cannot understand. The better way is to trust and be easy."
"Trust what?" Rotha asked quickly.
"Trust God. He knows."
"Trust him for what?" Rotha insisted.
"For everything. Trust him that he will take care of you, if you are his
child; and let no harm come to you; and do all things right for you, and
in the best way."
"Mother, that is trusting a good deal."
"The Lord likes to have us trust him."
"But you are his child, and he has let harm come to you?"
"You think so, because you know nothing about it. No harm can come to his
children."
"I don't know what you call harm, then," said Rotha half sullenly.
"Harm is what would hurt me. You know very well that pain does not always
do that."
"And can you trust him, mother, so as to be easy? Now?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Carpenter. "Most days."
Rotha knew from the external signs that this must be true.
"Are you going to see aunt Serena, mother?"
"Not now."
"When?"
"I do not know."
"Where does she live?"
"Rotha, you may wash up these dishes, while I put things a little to
rights in the other room."
The next day Mrs. Carpenter set about finding some work. Alas, if there
were many that had it to give, there seemed to be many more that wanted
it. It was worse than looking for rooms. At last some tailoring was
procured from a master tailor; and Mrs. Carpenter sat all day over her
sewing, giving directions to Rotha about the affairs of the small
housekeeping. Rotha swept and dusted and washed dishes and set the table,
and prepared vegetables. Not much of that, for their meals were simple
and small; however, with one thing and another the time was partly filled
up. Mrs. Carpenter stitched. It was a new thing, and disagreeable to the
one looker-on, to see her mother from morning to night bent over work
which was not for herself. At home, though life was busy it was not
slaving. There were intervals, and often, of rest and pleasure taking.
She and Rotha used to go into the garden to gather vegetables and to pick
fruit; and at other times to weed and dress the beds and sow flower
seeds. And at evening the whole little family were wont to enjoy the air
and the sunsets and the roses from the hall door; and to have sweet and
various discourse together about a great variety of subjects. Those
delights, it is true, ceased a good while ago; the talks especially. Mrs.
Carpenter was not much of a talker even then, though her words were good
when they came. Now she said little indeed; and Rotha missed her father.
An uneasy feeling of want and longing took possession of the child's
mind. I suppose she felt mentally what people feel physically when they
are slowly starving to death. It had not come to that yet with Rotha; but
the initial fret and irritation began to be strong. Her mother seemed to
be turned into a sewing machine; a thinking one, she had no doubt,
nevertheless the thoughts that were never spoken did not practically
exist for her. She was left to her own; and Rotha's thoughts began to
seethe and boil. Another child would have found food enough and amusement
enough in the varied sights and experiences of life in the great city.
They made Rotha draw in to herself.