University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

WE were to spend Christmas at Daisy Lea with all the
neighbourhood. This was the invariable custom, Miss
Avarintha informed us: Farmer Collingwood never accepted
any invitations himself, but always insisted upon this
annual gathering at his own house. For the last two years
indeed his health had been so poor that he seldom could go
anywhere, except as he now and then made a short visit in
the course of his daily exercise; and this, as we learned
from the same authority, was the cause of Mr. Rodney's
being at home from college.

“He won't hear of anything else,” said Miss Avarintha,
“though he was getting along so finely,—nothing could persuade
him to go back after he had once found his father not
quite well; and now he just stays at home and does everything
and sees to everything, and studies himself to death
besides. I doubt,” she added confidentially, “whether their
circumstances are over good;—that is a fine farm too; but
the oldest son was desperately extravagant, and I know
that Mr. Rodney supported himself at college; so sometimes
I think that all this writing isn't for nothing. Easy
could tell you, if she would; but she never will talk about
Mr. Rodney except to say that there is nobody like him,—
which may be all very true you know, Mrs. Howard, and
still one likes to hear something more.”

It was the perfection of winter weather,—that is of winter
weather in clouds; for the sky was softly covered with
the grey forerunners of snow, and the wind which had been

piercing for the last few days, had now lost both coldness
and activity—not a leaf stirred. At least of those that
still clung to the trees; but many a one rustled and crumbled
under our feet as we and the two ladies from the
Bird's Nest walked to the Lea together. Miss Easy was
an embodiment of merino and fur, with the tiniest indication
of black silk below all; while Miss Avarintha's dress
was as usual of the same edition but gilt and illustrated.

“The Lea house,” as it was called, was neither very large
nor magnificent. It stood near the extreme horn of the
lake, but set a little back in what seemed a mere clearing—
so thickly did the forest close in around it. This was but
a belt of woodland, however, through which little leafy
paths led to the farm which was thus fenced off; the trees
being now bare, we could see the background of hill and
meadow and stubble-fields, with the barns and other farm
buildings which were grouped just at the far side of the
belt. The house had only one story, but the dark roof
seemed to stretch away over enough of that, while most
hospitable curls of smoke welcomed us from the four corners.
No coal-bin here, but a great wood-shed—filled as
if winter were in truth a besieger. Late as it was the turf
kept somewhat of its green, and one or two hemlocks
thrust out a well-clothed arm from among their winterbound
companions. A broad gravel walk surrounded the
house on all sides and was overhung by its roof; and the
perfect order of everything seemed to have infected even
the aforesaid blue telegraphing, which went on softly and
steadily as if it had never heard of vagaries.

“But they don't keep house for themselves,” said Mrs.
Howard with a sudden look and tone of pity for the two
gentlemen that were to stand such an inroad of ladies.

“O no ma'am!” cried Miss Avarintha,—“my dear Mrs.
Howard! bless me, no! They have an English housekeeper
who has lived with them always for what I know,—
Mrs. Crown—she's a most excellent person. You'll see
her at the door—she'll come to meet us.”

And she did, and ratified the lady's praise. To say nothing
of the snowy apron and jingling keys (to both of which
I am partial) Mrs. Crown's face and manner took your
fancy at once.

“How do you do ladies?” she said with a tone as fresh
as the open air; “I am glad to see you indeed! Come in
pray—it's right cold; or seems so to me who have come
from the fire. But it's handsome weather for young faces,”
she added with a smile as she looked at our flushing
cheeks.

“How is the farmer, Mrs. Crown?” said Miss Easy.

“But poorly ma'am, I thank ye—this last starving
weather doesn't agree with him. But Mr. Rodney is well.”

And leading the way into a room which owned one of
the four chimneys and an unusual complement of books,
she took off our wrappers and shoes with all the good will
in the world.

“My mind misgave me it would snow to-day,” Mrs.
Crown continued, “and to be sure I think it will to-morrow;
but it's held off for Christmas. And somehow I've always
thought a stormy twenty-fifth brought ill-luck. Miss Howard
there's a death of cold comes in at that casement! I
would have stopped it out but Mr. Rodney says the room's
warm enough,—he has his table this side mostly, in winter.
Won't you please to take that chair till I can undo these
fastenings for Miss Caffery?”

“Come here,” said the lady referred to, as Kate somewhat
unwillingly left the fine view down the lake; “come
here and look at the room—I think it is the pleasantest in
the house.”

“I can't imagine how you can let all these people come
into it!” cried Miss Bain with a glance at the cloaks and
hoods and muffs that lay helter-skelter upon sofa and chairs,
and which were strangely at war with the spirit of home
and tasteful comfort which dwelt everywhere else. “I
should think it would put you out of all patience, Mrs.
Crown.”

“Dear me, ma'am!” said the housekeeper, “if Mr. Rodney
keeps his I can't say a word,—and he never lost it yet,
I do believe. To be sure I wouldn't let that black muff
lie on his desk—that did make me feel a little lofty. Thinks
I to myself—! And I did speak to Mr. Rodney about it
this morning, but he just smiled as you know he does, Miss
Easy, and said that when ladies come so far in the cold
there couldn't be anything in the house too good for them.”

“Has Mr. Carvill arrived?” said Miss Bain.

“No ma'am he has not.”

“But I thought he was to be here by this time!”

Mrs. Crown's loquacity was however suddenly checked;
and bending down by Miss Easy she seemed to have
concentrated all her faculties upon a sleeve button and
loop.

“This button is a thought too large, ma'am—or the loop
too small. Now is there anything more I can do for you,
ladies?”

“Not for me, thank you Mrs. Crown,” said Kate, to
whose eyes the appeal had rather been made. And thereupon
Mrs. Crown gave it as her opinion that “there was
nothing in the house too good for some of the ladies—certainly!”

We crossed the hall, and filed into a room of very different
moral atmosphere from the one we had left. The physical
atmosphere was even warmer, for in the huge fireplace
there blazed with that slight, quiet noise which denotes
good wood, logs enough for a week's supply of an ordinary
family and chimney. But instead of the silent sensible
books, there was a buzz that one knew was not all about
fruits and flowers. The room was well filled when our five
selves were added to the Bulgers and Suydams and Browns
and McLoons, whom the fire had already driven to the
verge of desperation and the wall.

Farmer Collingwood sat in his arm-chair by the hearthstone,
and Wolfgang lay at his feet—paws stretched out
and nose upon them,—occasionally raising his eyes but not
his head at some extra noise or bustle. Mr. Rodney was
everywhere and nowhere,—at least I never could find him
where I looked for him. Now with Miss Easy, now with
Mrs. Howard, first with his father and then with mine,—
then coming to my quiet corner to smooth down my hair
and ask after my little felina, and once to bring me forward
and find me a seat by Kate. Then he would be moving
some Miss Bulger's chair from a door-crack, or shielding
some Miss Suydam's face from the fire; and at last he
took a stand by us “to refresh himself,” as he said, “with
a little reasonable conversation.”

“O Mr. Collingwood!” said Kate,—“you to say that!

`A little reasonable conversation'—when you have been
talking to ever so many people that we do not know!”

He laughed and answered,

“You may suppose, Miss Howard, that I wish to think
myself a friend, and you and Miss Grace very judicious.
But what if I were to follow your example, and beg an explanation
of something you said that night?”

“With all my heart—if I said anything needing or worth
an explanation.”

“I am supposing that we are friends you know, and one
likes to have a friend's opinion even in slight matters.
You said you had `no right' to reprove me—do you think
friends have not that right?”

“Yes and no,” said Kate laughing; “but you must remember
Mr. Collingwood, that I was almost an entire
stranger, and—”

“And you see that your shot glances,” he said with a
smile, for Kate had stopped short in some confusion. “Ah
I have your opinion now about one thing at least. But in
the abstract, Miss Howard—do you not like frankness and
simple plain speaking?”

“Very much.”

“Then why should it not be practised?”

“It should,” said Kate hesitating a little, “there is nothing
I love better, only—”

“Only the laws of etiquette forbid?”

“No, not at all, or if they do it makes no difference,—I was
not going to say anything so silly as that. But I can't talk
about it Mr. Collingwood,” she added laughingly, “for you
will make some other side-application of my words, and be
as far from my opinion as you were at first.”

“Set me right where I am mistaken, then,” he said smiling.
“If I understand you Miss Howard, you think the
privilege of plain speaking should be confined to very intimate
friends. Now I go a little further, and think that
true friendly interest may confer the right, when neither
age nor circumstances forbid. If I know myself, I would
take reproof most kindly even from a stranger—if it were
given in that spirit which is of charity and not of meddling.”

“If—but there is the difficulty; and people so generally

do meddle that one is afraid of being misunderstood and
classed with them.”

“Granted; and yet Miss Howard if appearances are to
be the rule of right and wrong, do you know where that
would land us?”

“But,” ventured I, “mightn't one do harm sir if one was
even thought to be meddling?”

“Perhaps so,” he said smiling, “though I think I always
feel the spirit with which advice or reproof is given,—there
is much less danger of being misunderstood than people
fear—the chief point is, to be sure of one's own motives.
But I do not think Miss Gracie, that it is best to peril even
appearances for a trifle,—in matters of importance `let
every man stand or fall to his own conscience!'”

“And how of things that are but incidentally important
—that you would neither put first nor last?” said Kate.

“Such as?”—he answered with a look of keenness and
amusement that rather indisposed Kate to answer. “Nay,
if you will not give me an instance, how can I tell?—perhaps
we should not agree in our division of classes.”

“I am sure you think you would not agree with mine,”
said Kate laughing and colouring a little;—“but Mr. Collingwood
there are cases of minor importance, and in such
what would you do with public opinion?”

“What would I do with it?” he said with a smile and
a bright lighting of the eye,—“defer to it always Miss
Kate—where I could without compromising better things;
and where I could not—give it to the winds! Public opinion
must be kept in its place; and when it runs counter
to my own sense of right, the question is or ought to be
easily settled.”

“In other words one ought to have a great deal of moral
courage. But that is an uncommon quality, and not easy
to get.”

“Because people take the wrong way to get it, I think,”
said Mr. Collingwood. “The man who is brave for nothing,
hardly deserves the name; but men will dare every
bodily risk for what they love, or rather than desert their
standard. And so with moral courage,—let the cause be
but precious enough—let the mind but fairly take in the
need there is that all lovers of truth should be not only

steadfast but active on her side; and that phantom of the
world's approval will vanish before the reality of its lost and
suffering condition.”

“You have got back to the more important things again,”
said Kate. “But I think the same rule applies to all, except
as you said, to mere trifles.”

“I think so. The division of classes would never be
fixed. And after all the matter comes very near home.

“That is just what you were telling papa the other day,
that you liked so much, Katie,” I said.

“Do you always remember everything your sister says
and does, Miss Gracie?” said Mr. Rodney with a smile at
me or my information—I wasn't sure which.

“Not quite, sir,—I wish I could.”

We had been too earnestly engaged with our own talk
to notice that of other people; but in the pause that followed
these last words, Miss Bain's voice demanded attention.

“Isn't it very strange my dear sir that your son never
thought of acting up to his name?”

“Up to his name!” echoed Farmer Collingwood.

“Why yes sir,—it's always a wonder to me that Mr. Rodney
should have been anything but a sailor. Now there's
Captain De Camp went into the army for nothing in the
world but his name being Wellington.”

“He might better have staid out of it then,” was the reply.

“But that's nothing to do with Mr. Rodney, nor why he
shouldn't make a noise in the world,” pursued the lady.
“Just think sir! he might have been another Admiral Collingwood.”

“We don't have Admirals in this country, Miss Avarintha,”
said the person spoken of, wheeling about;—“and
if ever I trod quarter-deck it would be under the stars and
stripes.”

“Then you might have been Commodore, which is just as
good. Commodore Collingwood has a very distinguished
sound—extremely so; and I wonder you never thought of

it. There's something so stirring in a sea life—don't you
think so, sir?”

“Very stirring indeed,” said the Farmer with a look and
tone of voice that spoke of some discomfort.

“And it's so good for young men to knock about in the
world!” added the lady complacently.

“Miss Avarintha,” said Mr. Rodney in his way of quiet
determination, “will you take my arm and let me find you
a seat by Squire Suydam? He made me promise an introduction,
and I would bring him here, but you see there are
neither chairs nor good place for them.”

“Distinguished!” said Farmer Collingwood in a low sad
tone, and looking after his son with unspeakable affection,—
“Rodney will find it hard to distinguish himself if he spends
all his young life in taking care of me!”

“That depends upon what meaning you attach to the
word, sir,” said my father who was standing quietly before
the fire. “The noisy applause of the crowd he may miss;
but if the smile of God be distinction, Mr. Rodney is in a
fair way for it.”

The Farmer took my father's hand with one look of
thanks.

“You are right sir,” he said, “and yet I am so prone to
forget it,—so sure to remember all he might and would do
in more active life.”

And the last touch of anxiety vanished before Mr. Rodney's
word and smile as he came back.

It were needless to describe the dinner,—everybody has
seen a Christmas entertainment, or read of one, or imagined
it. Enough that we had whatever the season could suggest
or furnish, prepared and served with all Mrs. Crown's
skill and taste. Paper ruffles graced the hams, and “bits
o' Christmas” the mince pies; and if the “Alderman in
chains” did not look like a goose, it was only because he
was contrasted with the original. Parsley and lemons and
bread crumbs were at a discount; while pleasanter yet to
the eye, was that exquisite neatness and arrangement of
table furniture which tells at least one of the family characteristics.
“Bits o' Christmas” were bestowed all about the
room in every pattern and variety of decoration; the cedar
and hemlock beautifully set off with pipsissiwa and laurel

and arbutus berries; while the evergreen eagle at the upper
end of the room had his eyes of the bright orange capsules
of the bittersweet, and looked quite glaring. He played
only second fiddle after all, for on a stand opposite the fireplace
was a real bald-headed eagle which had been shot in
some stoop after a lamb, and then stuffed; and he now
stood with wings outspread and measuring more than seven
feet from tip to tip, as if to guard all American liberty that
was then and there represented. A most superb creature
he was; his dark brown plumage well contrasted by the
white head and tail, his legs, eyes, and hooked beak of a
bright yellow; while the crooked brown talons told of
many an encounter with living and dead prey. And so
watched we sat down to dinner.

How some people reined up on plum pudding, and some
upon trifle; and how my father helped a Miss Bulger to
the — piece of pumpkin pie, with a degree of gravity
that did him credit. How it grew dark as we proceeded,—
how the eagles shone out by candle-light,—how we adjourned,
took a recess, and then came down upon coffee and
wafers and waffles and kisses, until the aforesaid Miss Bulger
rode

Then there is a general clearance; and amid bustling and
talking and wrapping they all go off,—all but ourselves
and the ladies from the Nest, who having not far to go have
been begged to go the later. And as the last carriage
wheels become indefinite, we draw our chairs about the big
fire which has somewhat spent its strength by this time, and
do what is popularly called “cracking nuts,”—in other
words enjoy ourselves.

“Mr. Rodney,” says my father, “did you ever realize the
importance of a coat?”

“Sir!” says Mr. Rodney looking surprised.

“Did you ever realize, ever appreciate the importance of
a coat?” repeated my father.

“Really sir,” said Mr. Rodney smiling, “I believe I
have a sufficient appreciation of it.”

“Sufficient! but there is the very point,” said Mr. Howard.
“Now what part of a man is his coat, sir?”

There was such a laugh raised at this question, that speech
was impossible; but as soon as he could be heard my
father began again with all gravity.

“I know if I were to ask De Camp—(I never saw a
name less acted up to than his) he would say to me, “A
coat, sir, is that without which man is only a framework.”
But now Mr. Rodney, you are a scholar and a hard student
—give me some satisfactory answer,—what part of a man
is his coat? is it the seat of his wits, or his affections, or his
business faculties?”

We were all too curious and interested even to laugh.

Mr. Rodney looked in the fire with a very serio-comic
face, and then said.

“I should call it only a reflection, sir,—sometimes of
his sense and sometimes upon it.”

“Then you would not be disposed to adopt a slight alteration
of Mr. Pope and say,

“On no account!” was the laughing reply.

“You see,” continued my father drawing a long breath
as if he felt himself relieved, “my mind has been ill at ease
on this point for the last six months; and I am very glad
to have you agree with my own unfledged opinions.”

“But Mr. Howard,” said Mr. Rodney, “am I to have no
satisfaction about this mysterious string of questions? It
is hardly fair, sir, to set one mind at rest at the expense of
another.”

“You must explain,” said the Farmer.

“Yes sir, we are very curious indeed,” said Miss Easy.

But Kate had sprung up, and placing her hand before my
father's mouth she exclaimed,

“Now papa! if you say any more!—”

And Stephanie ejaculated,

“O Mr. Howard, pray do not! I don't know what Mr.
Collingwood thinks of me already.”

“I don't believe he knows himself,” said my father drily,
as he took hold of Kate's hands; then looking up, he told
her smiling, that “she might either stand there handcuffed or

go back to her seat;” and having so dismissed all opposition,
he proceeded.

“It's nothing very extraordinary good friends, and I'm
afraid not at all uncommon. One day last summer I went
into the hayfield, and the day being warm I laid aside my
coat—unsuspecting mortal that I was!—and not realizing,
as I said, its importance. And these two silly girls came
over (shall I say what for, Kate?) and there to be sure they
found me working without a coat. Well sir, it might a'most
as well have been my head. Stephanie quoted Captain De
Camp, and Kate gave me an abstract of other people and
fairly charged me with having left off to be notional!—
which from her lips is a grave imputation. I denied that of
course; but not being able to think of any one else of whose
common sense I was sure except you two gentlemen,—I
declared my firm conviction that at that very moment you
were making hay in as comfortable gear as I was. And
then afterwards, naturally enough, I began to debate my
question—what part of a man is his coat?”

“Well Mr. Howard,” said the Farmer with a very indulgent
smile, “you have taught us at least one thing—there
are no mistakes in Miss Kate's temper.”

“No one could be long at finding that out,” said my father
affectionately.

“But papa—” I said, “Kate did not mean that she thought
so,—only that other people did.”

“O you gipsey!” said Mr. Howard,—“to come in with
your elucidations!—Never spoil a good story my dear—if
it cuts your friends to pieces.”

“I don't believe Mr. Rodney would agree with you there,
papa.”

“I'll tell you what we had better agree upon, all round,”
said my father,—“that an invitation to spend the day does
not mean to stay all night. Miss Easy—I don't wish to
hurry you ma'am, but Mr. Collingwood will think we are all
singing privately the old song of

“I wish you would sing it,” said the Farmer.

“My dear sir,” said Miss Easy, “I am quite ready—and

very much obliged to you, yes sir, for reminding me. But
I waited for Mrs. Howard.”

“I did have some such wild notion too,” said my father,
“but I recollected that `time and space' are trifles to a
lady.”

“O papa,” said Kate laughing and stopping short at the
door, “I have an indefinite recollection of a gentleman who
always writes a page after he is called to dinner!”

We were soon ready, and leaving the other ladies in
consultation with Mrs. Crown, Kate and I went back to
the room where we had spent the evening and to the three
figures standing before the fire.

“And so Miss Kate,” said Farmer Collingwood taking her
hand as she came up to him, and looking in her face with a
very gentle amusement and interest; “and so you think that
books must of necessity grow mouldy in a farm-house?”

“I have said nothing of the sort, Katie,” said my father
laughing, as her quick glance brought the accusation.

“Is not that your opinion?” said her questioner, still detaining
her hand, but very gently.

“No sir—” said Kate. “At least,” she added colouring
exceedingly. “I suppose it is not true—whatever I
thought.”

“I am quite sure you are true”—was the satisfied rejoinder—and
there were no eyes there that were not well
pleased.

“I should not venture to be anything else here, sir,” said
Kate trying to rally a little,—“Mr. Rodney will think I
have profited by his lessons.”

“No I shall not,” said he smiling.

“Lessons!” said Miss Bain. “Who has been giving
lessons? You, Mr. Rodney?”

“No ma'am.”

“Who then?”

But nobody claimed the question.

“Did you never hear of taking what is not given, Miss
Bain?” said my father. “Mr. Rodney you need not stir—
I will see these ladies home.”

That however was not listened to; so we sallied forth
eight strong.

There had been a flurry of snow, but it had passed over;

and now the stars were shining out, though dimly; while
in the west they were entirely concealed by the thick black
curtain of a cloud that hung there. The air had grown
cooler and our steps fell quick, and our spirits were as light
as the untrodden, unsoiled snow that our dresses brushed
from the path. Mr. Rodney walked first with his two companions,
then Kate and Stephanie, then Mr. and Mrs. Howard;
while Wolfgang and I joined them all by turns.