"Peace and good-will."
Who hath enchanted Goliath? He sleeps with a smile on his face, but his
secret is hid from the charmer. The treacherous will looks abashed on
the calm of his slumber, and laments, "The thing that I would I do not!"
Now while the halcyon broods through the Sabbath-days of winter, and,
looking from her nest, sees the waves of a summer calm and
brightness,--now while she meditates, with the eggs under her wings, of
a fast-approaching time when she shall teach her song to the little
flock that's coming,--let us also dream. The thing that hath been shall
be. Contentment, peace, and love! Fairy folk shall not personate this
blessedness for us. Who is your next-door neighbor? One face shines
serenely before me, and says, "The world is redeemed!" One voice,
sounding clear through all discords, has an echo, fine, true, and
eternal, in the midst of the Seraphim's praise.
Therefore, thou blue-winged halcyon, shall I sit beneath the dead
sycamore in whose topmost branches thy great nest is built,--finding
death crowned here, as everywhere, with life; here shall be told the
Christmas tale of contentment, peace, and love.
No tremulous tale of sorrow, of wrong endured and avenged; no report of
that Orthodox anguish which, renouncing the present, hopes only by the
hereafter; no story of desperate heroic achievement, or of
long-suffering patience, or even of martyrdom's glory. The sea is calm,
and the halcyon broods, and only love is eternal.
Let us not stint thee, as selfishness must; nor shame thee with praise
inadequate; nor walk with shod feet, as the base-bred, into thy palaces;
nor as the weak, nor as the wise, who so often profane thee, but as the
loving who love thee, holy Love, may we take thy name on our lips, and
lay our gift on thine altar! It is a Christmas offering, fashioned,
however rudely, from an absolute truth. If thou deem the ointment
precious, when I break the unjewelled box, I pour it on thy feet. Let
others crown, I would only refresh thee.
Children play on this white, shining, sandy beach, under the leafless
sycamore; they look for no shade, they would find no shade; there is
neither rock, nor shrub, nor evergreen-tree,--nothing but the white
sand, and the dead sycamore, and in the topmost branches the halcyon's
great nest.
Is it not a place for children? A little flourish of imagination, and we
see them,--Silas, who beats the drum, and Columbia, who carries the
flag, manifest leaders of the wild little company, mermen and mermaids
all; and the music is fit for the Siren, and the beauty would shame not
Venus.
Suppose we stroll home to their fathers, like respectable earth-keeping
creatures: the depths of human hearts have sometimes proved full of
mystery as the sea; and human faces sometimes glisten with a majesty of
feeling or of thought that reduces ocean-splendor to the subordinate
part of a similitude.
There is Andrew, father of Silas,--Andrew Swift, says the sign. He
dwells in Salt Lane, you perceive, and he deals in ship-stores,--a
husband and father by no means living on sea-weed. A yellow-haired
little man, shrewd, and a ready reckoner. Of a serious turn of mind.
Deficient in self-esteem; his anticipations of the most humble
character. A sinner, because fearful and unbelieving: for what right has
a man to be such a man as to inspire himself with misgiving? But his
offences offset each other: for, if he doubted, Andrew was also
obstinate. And obstinacy alone led him into ventures whose failure he
expected: as when he laid out the savings of years in the purchase of
goods, wherewith he opened those ship-stores in Salt Lane. Ship-stores!
that sounds well. One might suppose I referred to blocks of marble-faced
buildings, instead of three shelves, three barrels, and their contents!
The obstinacy of Andrew Swift was the foundation of his fortune. Men
have built on worse.
His opposite neighbor was one Silas Dexter, a flag- and banner-maker,
who went into business in Salt Lane sometime during that memorable year
of Andrew's venture. Apparently this young man was no better off than
Swift, between whom and himself a friendly intercourse was at once
established; but he had the advantage of a quick imagination and a
sanguine temperament; also the manly courage to look at Fortune with
respectful recognition, as we all look at royalty,--even as though he
had sometime been presented,--not with a snobbish conceit which would
seem to defy her Highness.
Indeed, he was such a man as would find exhilaration of spirit even in
the uncertainties of his position. The sight of his banners waving from
the sign-post, showing all sorts of devices, the flags flowing round the
walls of his shop, enlivening the little dark place with their many
gorgeous colors, sufficed for his encouragement. Utter ruin could not
have ruined the man. He could not have failed with failure. Some sense
of this fact he had, and he lived like one who has had his life insured.
Not a creature looked upon him but was free to the good he might derive.
The sparkling eyes, quick smile, and manly voice, the active limbs and
generous heart, seemed at the service of every soul that breathed.
Trashy thought and base utterance could not cheat his soul of her
integrity; the vileness of Salt Lane had nothing to do with him.
And I cannot account for this by bringing his wife forward. For how came
he by this wife, except by the excellence and soundness of the virtue
which preferred her to the world, and made him preferred of her? Still,
you see the ripe cherry, one half full, beautiful, luscious, the other a
patch of skin stretched over the pit, worthless and sad to view. This,
but for his choice and hers, might have served as an emblem of Dexter.
She was her husband's partner in a twofold sense: for it was DEXTER &
CO. on the sign-board, and Jessie was represented by the Company. Of
that woman I cannot refrain from saying what was so gracefully said of
"the fair and happy milkmaid,"--"All the excellences stand in her so
silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her knowledge."
The effect of these diverse influences, his wife Jessie in the house,
and his neighbor Andrew to the opposite, kept the spirit of Silas Dexter
at work like a ploughing Pegasus. He was full of pranks as a boy, but
malice found poor encouragement of him. Andrew was his garden, and he
was Andrew's sun: he shone across the lane with a brightness and a
warmth sufficient to quicken the poorest earth; and the crops he
perfected were various, all of the kind that flourish in heavy soil, but
various and good. Do you think the good Samaritan could take the
leprosy?
The sort of connection a man is bound to make between the everlasting
spirit-world and this transient mortal state Dexter proved in his humble
way. I doubt if spiritualists would have accepted his service as a
medium. He was neither profane nor imbecile; but he sat at the foot of a
ladder the pure ones could not fail to see, and by which they would not
disdain to descend. If they chose to come his way, the white robes would
take no taint.
Success attended Dexter with a modest grace, and Swift shared in the
good fortune. I do not say the profits of either shop were forty
millions a year. "Keep the best of everything," said Silas to Andrew;
"don't be too hard on 'em; they'll come after they've found your way."
And Swift proved the wisdom of such counsel, and tried to get the better
of his grim countenance while waiting on the customers Dexter directed
to his side: gradually succeeding,--proving down there in Salt Lane the
truth of that ancient saying, "Art is the perfection of Nature."
So these two men lived like brothers; and if it was a pleasant thing to
listen to Dexter's jokes and laughter, scarcely less profitable was it
to hear Swift praise the flag- and banner-maker when he was out of
sight.
Dexter's popularity had a varied character. Sea-captains and
ship-builders, circus-men, aeronauts, politicians, engineers,
target-companies, firemen, the military, deputies of all sorts, looked
over his goods, consulted his taste, left their orders. His interest in
the several occupations represented by the men who frequented his shop,
his ingenuity in devising designs, his skill and expedition in supplying
orders, his cheerful speech, and love of talk, and fun, gave the shopman
troops of "friends." He could read the common mass of men at a glance,
and he was justifiable in the devices he made use of in order to bring
his customers into the buying mood: for what he said was true,--they
could satisfy themselves in his store, if anywhere.
Dexter understood himself, and Jessie understood him: such folk make no
pretences; they are ineffably real.
"Principles, not Men," was the banner-maker's motto. You might have seen
the flag on which it was painted with a mighty flourish (and very poor
result) in his old shop in the old time. That painting was his first
great effort, that flag his first possession; he could not have parted
with it, so he _said_, and so he believed, for any sum whatever.
"Principles, not Men": he studied that sentiment in all his graver
moments, when he chanced to be alone in his shop,--you may guess with
what result, moral and philosophical.
Andrew Swift used to say to his wife, that, when Dexter was studying his
thoughts, it was better to hear him than the minister: and verily he did
put time-serving to shame by the distinct integrity of his warm speech,
and his eloquence of action.
Dexter married Jessie the day before he opened his flag-shop. She had
long been employed by his employer, and when she promised to be his, she
drew her earnings from the bank, and invested all with him. This was not
prudence, certainly, but it was love. Dexter might have failed in
business the first year,--might have died, you know, in six months, or
even in three, as men do sometimes. It was not prudence; but
Jessie--young lady determined on settlements!--Jessie was looking for
life and prosperity, as the honest and earnest and young have a right to
look in a world God created and governs. And if failure and death had in
fact choked the path that promised so fair, clear of regret, free of
reproaches, glad even of the losses that proved how love had once
blessed her, she would have buried the dead, and worked for the
retrieval of fortune.
They began their housekeeping-romance back of the shop in two little
rooms. Do you require the actual measurement? There have been wider
walls that could contain greatly less.
"How big was Alexander, pa?
The people called him _great_."
They considered the sixpences of their outlay and income with a purpose
and a spirit that made a miser of neither. But there was no delusion
indulged about the business. Jessie never mistook the hilarity of Silas
for an indication of incalculable prosperity. Silas never understood her
gravity for that of discontent and envy. They never spent in any week
more than they earned. They counted the cost of living, and were
therefore free and rich. "She was never alone," as Sir Thomas Overbury
said of that happy milkmaid, "but still accompanied with old songs,
honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones." And Dexter loved her with
a valiant constancy that spoke volumes for both.
His days were spent, according to the promise advertised, in endeavors
to please the public; but, oh, if the public that traded with and liked
to patronize him, if the young lads and the old boys who hung about his
counters, could have seen him when he shut his shop-door behind him, and
went into the back-room where Jessie and he devised the patterns, where
she embroidered and lived, where she cooked and washed and ironed, where
she nursed Columbia, their daughter, one glance at all this, made with
the heart and the understanding, would--ah! _might_, have been to some
of them worth more than all Dexter's pleasant stones, and all the
contents of the shop, and all the profits the flag-maker would ever make
by trading.
For I can hardly believe, though this story be but of "_common_ life,"
when I take up the newspapers and glance along the items I am
constrained to doubt, that such people as Silas and Jessie live in every
house, in every alley, lane, and street, in every square and avenue, on
every farm, wherever walls inclose those divine temples of which
Apostles talked as belonging to God, which temples, said they, are holy!
I can hardly believe that Love, void of fear and of selfishness, speaks
through all our domestic policy, and devises those curious arrangements,
political, theological, social, whose result has approval and praise, it
may be, in the regions of outer darkness.
Dark faces, whose sleekness hides a gulf of waters more dead than those
of the dreadful Dead Sea, rise between me and the honest, brave face of
Silas,--dreary flats, whose wastes are not figured in utter barrenness
by the awful African deserts, where ranks upon ranks of women, like
Jessie at least in love and fidelity, must stand, or--"where is the
promise of His coming?"
The daughter of Silas and Jessie was called Columbia in honor of some
valiant enterprise, nautical or other, which charmed the patriotic
spirit of the father; and as he was not a fighting man or a speaking
man, he offered this modest comment on the brilliant event by way of
showing his appreciation.
Columbia Dexter was a great favorite with the children of Salt Lane for
various reasons, and among them this, that in all parades and
processions she supplied the banners. Columbia's friend of friends was
Silas, son of Andrew Swift,--and thus we come among the children of the
neighbors.
They were not dependent on Salt Lane for a play-ground. They had the
Long Wharf. Ships from the most distant foreign shores deposited their
loads of freightage there, and the children were free to read the
foreign brands, to guess the contents, and to watch the sailors,--free
to all brain-puzzling calculations, and to clothes-soiling,
clothes-rending feats, among the treasures of the ship-hold and the
wharf: no mean privileges, with the roar of ocean in their ears, and
great ships with their towering masts before their eyes. They had the
wharf for bustle, confusion, excitement,--and for this they loved it;
but the beach that stretched beyond they had for quiet, and there, for
miles and miles, curious shells and pretty pebbles, fish-bones and crabs
and sand, sea-weed fine and fair, and the old sycamores, the old dead
trees, in the tops of whose white branches the halcyon built its nest.
Well the children knew the winter days, so bright and mild, when the
brave birds were breeding. Well they knew when the young kingfisher
would begin to make his royal progress, with such safe dignity
descending, branch by branch, until he could no longer resist Nature,
but must dash out in a "fine frenzy" for the bounding waves!
Silas Swift, Dexter's namesake, was a grave, sturdy, somewhat
heavy-looking fellow, whose brain teemed with thoughts and projects of
which his slow-moving body offered no suggestion. Whoever prophesied of
them did so at his hazard. Let him play at his will, and the children
even were amazed. But this could not happen every day. Set him at work,
and the sanguine were in despair. This was because, when work must be
done, he deliberated, and did the thing that must be; so that, while
misapprehension fretted gently sometimes because of his dulness, he was
preparing for that which was not hoped. Celerity enough when he had come
to a decision, but no sign or token till he had come to that.
The first exercise of his imagination trusted to the inspection of
others was in behalf of Columbia Dexter, with intent to moderate her
grief over a dead kitten which they buried in the sand under the
sycamore-tree, the procession carrying banners furled and decorated with
badges of mourning. Silas made a monument then and there in the high
noon of a halcyon day: carved on a pine board which had served for a
bier was the face of Tabby, surrounded with devices intended to
represent the duration of her virtues. His work consoled Columbia, and
inspired him to a more ambitious enterprise, namely, the carving of the
same in a block of gypsum, which work of art Dexter obtaining sight of
declared that it would have done credit to an artist, and set it on his
mantel-shelf between two precious household cards lettered in gilt as
follows "_Union is Strength_," and "_Principles, not Men_."
I suppose no children ever led a happier life,--the special joy of
childhood being in sport, and food, and liberty, and the love of those
who own them. They basked in the sun; they were busy with sport, fretted
by no cares; kind words directed them. They lived in the midst of
illusions, like princes, or fairies, or spirits,--like _children_. They
followed about with processions, training in the rear of every
train-band, keeping time with the march of the happy Sunday-schools,
when they had their celebrations. Young Silas could be trusted with the
care of Columbia, and hand in hand, like brother and sister, they went.
Especially were they proud, if the procession carried one of Dexter's
flags. Silas, no doubt, had suggested a point of the device, or Columbia
had worked a corner.
When Dexter would go on board ship, or to some lodge, with the flags
which had been ordered of him, in anticipation of voyages and
processions, the children often accompanied him. I see them walking
shyly in the rear, and looking up to the father of the little girl with
the reverence he deserved. By-and-by would they grow wise and feel
ashamed of this? Will you see the fair Columbia, whom the captain pats
so kindly on the head, smiling broadly when he hears her name, will you
see her, a woman grown, attending her father on such errands? And if you
see her not, will the reason be such as proves her worthy to be old
Dexter's daughter? Will you hear her saying to her friends, as now,
"Guess who worked those flowers," while the target-shooters march past,
carrying their blue silk banner, royal with red roses? She and Silas
often run panting in the wake of great processions; they would not for
the world miss seeing the wide, fluttering folds of the Stars and
Stripes, or it might be the conquering St. George, or the transparencies
they were all so busy over a day or two ago. Their speed will soon
abate, and why?
Human beings are not children forever. Maturity must not manifest itself
as childhood does. Ah, but "Principles, not Men"! Is any truth involved
in that beyond what Silas recognizes in his trade? Is there another
reason which shall have power to make Columbia some day stand coolly on
the sidewalk, while her heart is beating fast,--which shall induce her
to point out the mottoes on the banners, and the various devices, to
another, without trembling in the voice or tears in the eye? If ever she
shall glide along the streets, she whose early race-course was Salt
Lane, if ever like a lady she shall walk there, will it be at the price
of forgetfulness of all this humble sport and joy,--as a sustainer of
feeble "social fictions," and a violator of the great covenant?
To the boy and girl it was not a question whether all their lives these
relations should continue, and this play go on; but even to them, as
children, a question that seriously concerned them, and in whose
discussion they bore serious part, arose.
The old building Dexter occupied was becoming unfit for tenants. It had
been patched over and over, until it was no longer safe, and agents
refused to insure it. The proprietor accordingly determined to pull it
down.
A change to a better locality had often been suggested to Dexter; but
his invariable reply was, that "people shouldn't try to run before they
were able to walk,--he was satisfied with Salt Lane and his neighbors":
though of late he had made such replies with gravity, thinking of his
daughter.
And now that the necessity was facing him, he met it like a man. He
talked the matter over with his wife, and the claim of their child was
urgent in the heart of each while they talked, and it could not have
surprised either when suddenly their hopes met in her benediction. For
Columbia's sake they must find a pleasant place for the new nest, some
nook where beauty would be welcome, and gentle grace, and quiet, and
light, and fair colors, and sweet odors would be possible; so pure and
fair a child she seemed to father Dexter, so did the mother's heart
desire to protect her from all odious influences and surroundings, that,
when the prospect of change was before them, it was in reference to her,
as well as trade, that the Company would make it.
Swift was taken into their confidence, and he walked with the pair
around the streets one evening to see the shop Dexter's eyes had fixed
on. It was a modest tenement in a crowded quarter, on whose door and
windows "_To Let_" was posted. Silas had been out house-hunting in the
afternoon, and this place appeared to meet his wishes; he had inquired
about the rent, it did not seem too high for a house so comfortable, and
it was probable that by to-morrow night the family would, after a
fashion, be settled within those walls.
They sat down on the door-step and talked about the change with serious
gravity, mindful that the old tenement they were about to leave had
sheltered them since their marriage-day, that they had prospered in Salt
Lane, and that the change they were about to make would be attended with
some risk. Andrew Swift sighed dolefully while Jessie or Silas Dexter
alluded to these matters of past experience: it was no easy matter to
talk him into a cheerful mood again; but the brave pair accomplished it
on their way home, when certainly either of them had as much need of a
comforter as he.
To have heard them, one might have supposed that no tears would be shed
when the tenement so long occupied by the flag-maker should come down.
Old Mortality will not be hindered in his thinking.
Andrew offered his son Silas to assist his neighbors in the labor of
removal, and his wife came with her service; and the rest of Salt Lane
was ready at the door to lend a helping hand, when it was understood
that the life and soul of the lane was going away to High Street.
Dexter's face was unusually bright while the work of packing went on. He
knew that for everybody's sake more light than usual must be diffused by
him that day. You know how it is that the brave win the notable
victories, when their troops have fallen back in despair, and would fain
beat a retreat. It is the living voice and the flashing eye, the courage
and the will. What is he, indeed, that he should surrender,--above all,
in the worst extremity?
How is death even swallowed up in victory, when the beleaguered spirit
dashes across the breach, and, unarmed, possesses life!
Dexter told Andrew Swift that Silas was worth a dozen draymen, and in
truth he was, that day; for he, and every one, were animated by the
spirit of the leader. Courage! at least for that day, though they dared
not look beyond it.
Thus these people went to High Street: into the house with many rooms,
four at least; into the rooms with many windows, and high ceilings,
which you could _not_ touch with your uplifted hand,--rooms whose walls
were papered, and whose floors should have carpets, for Dexter said the
house was leased for ten years, and they would make their home
comfortable. What ample scope they had! Many a fancy they had checked
before it became a wish in the old quarters, they were so cramped there,
though never in danger of suffocation, Heaven knows. Grandly the great
arch lifted over the old moss-grown roof. But now they need stifle no
fancy of all that should come to them; there was room in the house, and
behind it,--yes, a strip of ground in the rear, and against the brick
wall an apricot-tree and a grape-vine! Very Garden of Eden: was it big
enough for the Serpent?
It was a sight to see the happy family while they talked over their
possessions.
Over the shop, fronting the street, was a large apartment, by common
consent to be used for parlor and show-room: young Swift was to decorate
this, Dexter said, Columbia should be his helper, and he and his wife
would criticize the result. Dexter talked with a purpose when he made
these arrangements, but he kept the purpose secret until the work was
done.
In the three windows ornamental flags were hung, which should serve for
signs from the street: this was young Swift's design. In the middle
window, Columbia responded, should be the George Washington flag. Yes,
and to the left Lafayette, with Franklin for the right. Even so. Then
above the middle window they secured the gilded American eagle. Oh, the
harmony that prevailed among the young decorators!
Then "_Principles, not Men_" remained to be disposed of. They did it in
such a way that the gilded motto shone on the white wall. The mantel was
a masterpiece of arrangement, and solely after Columbia's suggestions.
There was the monumental cat for a centre-piece, with the more recent
creations of Silas Swift for immediate surroundings, and a banner at
either end floating from the shelf.
You can imagine, if your imagination is genial and kindly, how very
queer and fanciful the room looked with these decorations; and the
gentle heart will understand the loving humility, the pleasure, with
which Jessie surveyed all, when the children's work was done.
It was a pretty scene when Dexter came up, sent by Silas for an opinion,
while the latter kept the shop. At first he laughed a little, and
exclaimed, while he walked about; then Jessie turned away, and gave him
an opportunity to brush the tears from his eyes unobserved; but
presently she began to circle round him, unconsciously it seemed, till
she stood close beside him; then he took her hand and held it, and she
knew what he was thinking, and that he was proud and happy.
"It beats all!" he said more than once. And Columbia was talking of
Silas, showing his work, and repeating his words, till Dexter broke
out,--
"We must keep Silas! We can't get along without Silas! He mustn't go
back to Salt Lane. I'll teach him business in High Street."
And the father did not seem to notice when his child slipped away down
the stairs, to the shop, to the lad, who was thinking rather sadly,
that, now his work was done, there was no more chance for him here: she
had come to make him smile as much by her own delight as by his
satisfaction.
But all this excitement must pass off. And in spite of the general
gladness and gratulation, probably a more lonely, homesick party could
not have been easily found than the Dexter family in their new home.
Dexter could not reproach himself for his removal, as he thought the
matter seriously over. It was a forced removal, and certainly he would
have been without excuse, had he gone into worse quarters instead of
better, since better he could afford. It was not extravagance, but
homesickness, that tormented him.
He was too generous, when all was done, to torment his wife with such
misgivings as he had; and erelong the trouble, for want of nursing,
died, as most of this life's troubles will, after their shabby fashion.
But, indeed, how can they help it? that, too, is the will of Nature.
And was not Dexter himself, in the new neighborhood as in the old? His
customers were still of the same class. But his surroundings were of a
superior character,--there was a better atmosphere prevailing in High
Street, and more light in his house. He did not love darkness better.
Pretty and well-dressed women were to be seen in High Street, and they
never, except by mistake or disaster, wandered through Salt Lane.
Standing in his door, and observing them according to his thoughtful
fashion, Dexter remembered that his daughter was growing rapidly into a
tall, handsome girl, and foresaw that she could not always be a child.
He saw young misses going past with their school-books in their hands,
and if he followed them with his eyes as far as eyes could follow, it
was not for any reason save such as should have made them love and trust
the man. He was thinking so seriously about his daughter, up-stairs at
work with her mother, embroidering scarfs and banners.
He had only Columbia. She learned fast, when she went with Silas Swift
to the school in Salt Lane,--so they all said, and he knew she was fond
of her book. He had no ambition to make a lady of Columbia,--oh, no! But
he was looking forward, according to his nature, and--who could tell
what future might wait on her? He based his expectations for his child
on his own experience. Neither he nor Jessie had ever looked for such
good fortune as they had; and a step farther, must it not be a step
higher, and accordingly new prospects?
Prophecy is unceasing. In what does the prescience of love differ from
inspiration?
One morning Dexter was sent for by the principal of the seminary of the
town, to assist in the decoration of her school-room preparatory to the
examination and exhibition of her pupils.
While at work there, aided by Silas Swift, who was now his assistant in
business, and notable for his skill as a designer and painter and
painter of transparencies, and whatsoever in that line was desired for
public festivities, processions, illuminations, and general jubilation
of any character,--while at work in the great school-room, Mr. Dexter
was unusually silent.
This was no occasion for, there was no need of, much speaking or of
merriment. It was not expected of him. He was not dealing with, while he
worked for, others now, but he was dealt with constantly, to an extent
that confounded and embarrassed him. He did not make the demonstrations
people sometimes do in such a case, but was silent, and half sad.
Everything that passed before him he saw, it made an impression rapid
and deep on his mind. The pictures drawn and painted by the pupils, and
hung around the walls for exhibition, the pupils themselves, passing in
and out,--girls of all ages, ladies to look at, all of them,--suggested
anew the question, Why should his daughter be shut off from the
privileges of these? He felt ashamed when he asked. Yet the question
would be answered; and without palliation, self-excusing, or retort, he
meditated.
Finally he said to Silas Swift, who worked with him in silence broken
only by question and answer that referred merely to their business,--
"Look!"--and his eyes followed a young girl who had been hunting for
several minutes among the desks for a book.
The youth obeyed,--he looked, but seemed not to understand the
flag-maker as quickly or as clearly as was expected of him.
"Columby," said Dexter, with a wink and a nod, that to his mind
expressed everything.
"Oh, yes," said Silas, as if he understood.
His penetration was not put to further proof. The mere supposition of
his apprehension satisfied his employer, who could now go on without
embarrassment.
"She ought to come to school," said Dexter.
"Oh!" exclaimed Silas, with surprise sufficient to convince the father
that the young man had not attempted to practise a deceit.
"Yes," said Dexter, "she ought, she's old enough,"--as if that were all
he had been waiting for.
"I think so," answered Silas Swift, with a decision encouraging to hear,
and final as to influence.
"You do? Yes, I ought to afford it, if I lived on a crust to manage the
bills. Why not? What's the difference 'twixt her and the rest, I'd like
to know?"
"She could beat the whole batch at her books," said Silas, not doubting
that he spoke with moderation.
"Pretty quick, wasn't she?" said the pleased father. "Yes, I know
Columby!"
"And she deserves it."
"Deserves! You don't think I've been waiting to find that out! Well,
Sir, put it that way, I say, Yes, she does deserve it."
Dexter and young Swift, having spoken thus far, thought on in their
several directions, with serious, steady, strong, far-reaching looks
into the future.
Thus it was that Columbia Dexter took her place in the great school,
where girls, it was said, were regarded and taught as responsible human
beings.
Silas Swift looked so grave, whenever the families mentioned Dexter's
resolution, that Columbia, who had made him repeat already many times
his reflections and observations in the school-room that day when he and
her father were employed in its decoration, said to him one morning,
when they happened to be alone together,--
"I'm afraid you don't think well of what we're going to do."