 | CHAPTER XII. Dollars and cents |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too;
Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat,
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet.
Byrom.
IT was easy to have patience in that beautiful winter
weather,—easier still when the spring came with its new
treasures. When one day we found the soft willow catkins,
and another the yellow tresses of the black birch; and
another the dainty little squirrel-cups that rose from their
brown bed of leaves before Bunny himself was visible.
When robins and sparrows and phœbes and catbirds, came
like a winged fleet at the opening of navigation in some icebound
river; and there were
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky.”
Who could lack patience to wait for anything that lay
beyond?—surely none of spring's denizens. And such
were we.—Our eyes saw no cloud, no ruffling of the stream
of affairs,—could not even discern that increased swiftness
of current which experience knows is near the fall. To
three at Glen Luna all was absolutely lovely and placid;
but those to whom Time had given the freedom of his great
city of life, had their trials—hope disappointed and fears
confirmed. Mr. Howard might say to himself “if I can
have patience!” To take a little wisdom along with it
never occurred to him, and improvements went on as fast
as ever. Mill was finished, mill-dam in progress, fruit-walls
were already decked with dwarfs and riders; and the
rocks for the stone cottages were blasting, blasting, till our
ears were tired. But—in short it was a bad honey season,
and lest the workers should starve, the little swarm at home
were very careful not to overeat themselves—figuratively
speaking.
Despite Mrs. Howard's fears the cattle had survived the
winter,—how, Ezra Barrington best knew, and it was
doubtless owing to his exceeding good care and management.
But feed had not been always plenty nor easy to
get, and Snowdrop's hide had certainly lost some of its
marks of high living. Lady Bulger had roughed it better
than the rest, being of a rougher nature to begin with; and
now that grass was to be had for the cropping, all difficulty
on that score was over. It was a difficulty which had hardly
reached our apprehension.
“Will anybody bear me company in a long walk?”
said Mr. Rodney as he entered our sitting-room one April
morning.
“One body will,” said I.
“And another,” said Kate.
“Are you going up the hill difficulty—or discretion?”
said Stephanie. “Because if it's the last, Mr. Collingwood,
I never shall get to the top, so it's no use to try,—I may as
well stay where I am, in the valley of `fits and starts'.”
“Let one of the starts take you with us Miss Holbrook,”
he answered smiling, “and I will promise to help you up
every hill we come to.”
“Don't attempt to help me up that one,” said Stephanie,
“for I tell you it's no use. If you dragged me up, I should
roll right down again—the first thing I did,—if I didn't take
a wilful start and run.”
“I have no opinion of dragging, up any hill,” he replied;
and we went to get ready.
“Are you going to the Brown bluff, Mr. Collingwood?”
I said.
“No, not this morning,—unless some of you wish it.”
“I don't—I like a new walk better. O you should have
seen the flag I had up there last summer!”
“I did!” said he with a smile, “and thought of Purrer-purrer
immediately.”
“Purrer-purrer! what could make you think of her? I'm
sure my white flag didn't look much like pussy.”
“Not much,—but extremely like pussy's mistress.”
“So I thought,” said Kate. “It went about as straight
to my heart, Gracie, as if I had been eyeing you through a
telescope,—or had caught some shadow or reflection of the
little figure that was out of sight.”
“Mr. Collingwood,” said Stephanie, “do you know everything?”
“Not quite,” said he smiling,—“I am in no danger of
leading an idle life for want of something to learn.”
“But don't you know most things that other people
don't know?”
“I am not very well acquainted with other people's acquirements.”
“Look here,” said Stephanie, “you're dragging me up
the patient hill at present, and in the most roundabout way
that can be. Won't you just give me a plain answer?
—didn't you ever study strange out of the way things?”
“Sometimes—a few,”—said Mr. Collingwood with a
rather comical play of the mouth. “What do you want
to know, Miss Stephanie?—I'm sure that is straightforward.”
“I want to know why that white flag looked like this
young one,—for it certainly did, even to my unsentimental
eyes.”
“Unsentimental—yes, none other could see it. Sentimental
eyes look rather at the effect of matter upon mind
than of mind upon matter.”
“I confess that my eyes look into obscurity at present,”
said Stephanie.
“To come into daylight then—I think that every work
not purely mechanical bears the stamp of the author's character.
A very country-seat will shew whether ignorance
or education be at the head of it,—whether its owner have
cultivation and refinement as well as taste.”
“Do you think they can be separated?” said Kate.
“Not if you take the word taste in its true sense. There
is a sort, current in the world, which sometimes knows
strange associates; and many persons have a key to the
streams of beauty, who can by no means unlock the secrets
of the fountain-head.”
“But Grace and the flag—I was not talking of country-seats,”
said Stephanie.
“I said every work,—there was so much of Miss Grace's
character in the flag, that it was not very hard to imagine
it a personification of her own little self.”
“In other words to make a dissolving view—Vanish the
flag into thin air, leaving Grace on the top of a pine-tree!
—If I had followed out that train of reasoning in the stagecoach,
I should have been desperately uncomfortable!”
“You are disposed of now, Miss Gracie,” said Mr. Collingwood
laughing.
“But I think you are all wrong,” I said,—“the flag made
me think of Kate, so it must have looked like her. You
didn't see straight, Mr. Collingwood.”
“Maybe I did,” he answered with a smile.
“After all,” said Stephanie, “Grace didn't put up the flag
—we ought to have seen Andy.”
“No indeed!” said Kate,—“the plan is the work, to all
intents and purposes.”
“To all intents, if you please,” said Stephanie,—“I demur
to the purposes. Instance Squire Bulger's saw-mill
yonder—built over a stream that didn't exist. Looks like
him, doesn't it, Mr. Collingwood?”
“I think you would make a difficult pupil, Miss Holbrook.
I should need to study one or two more out of the
way things if I had to give you lessons.”
Thus talking and discussing, we had followed a winding
foot-path to the very top of what was called the Green hill
—from the crops of winter grain which there shewed their
beauty. The owner never planted it with anything else,
except where a short alternation became absolutely necessary;
and in the spring Green hill was the prettiest sight
that could be. A small clump of hickories grew near the
top, and there we sat us down to rest and look about.
We were to the north-east of our own Glen, which lay
full in sight; as did also the Bird's Nest, shadowed by its
great tree. The lake lay beyond, visible from horn to
horn, and gleaming in the soft spring sun; and on the further
gently sloping shore the white houses at the Moon
shone clean and bright, as if their spring confusion were
already over. Between us and the level ground there was
nothing but winter grain,—some three inches high now,
and covering the swells and hollows with a surpassing verdure
bent before the breeze or stood breathlessly waiting its approach.
There was not a sound, there was not a stir, except
in nature's pure kingdom,—the faint “haw!” to some
distant team seemed hardly to belong to any other; and
now and then a bird in the tree-top above us
“Shook out of his little throat floods of delirious music—”
Far to the west stood the little brown church; and somewhat
nearer, a faint touch of blue against the budding trees
told of the Lea fireside. There Mr. Rodney's eyes were
fixed,—fixed with such thoughtful, grave expression, that
no one cared to interrupt his musings. And the phœbes
called to each other, and the song sparrows uttered their
joyous allegro; and breeze and sun and song seemed to
pass on like a flood—ever varying, ever the same,—a
kind of mingled sweetness for which the mind had no
prism.
On all sides of us a well-cultivated country stretched
away to the blue distance. Long rolls of grass and stubble
and ploughed fields, with here and there a patch of dark
forest, or the white spot of some farmhouse and the sanguinary
hue of its barn. Often both buildings were of the
same uniform no-paint colour, and hardly discernible in the
distance. There was little rough ground to be seen, and
what appeared so by contrast, would hardly have deserved
the name in a ruder region. A few heights of “sterner
stuff” than their neighbours were left to choose and enjoy
their own tenants,—stones, and wild plants, and trees that
disdained cultivation and shewed the want of it; while
their tumbling brooks felt the power of influence when they
reached the lower grounds, and flowed gently and with fertilizing
leisure. These rude spots were but few. Farms
and farm-houses, mills, water-courses, rail fences, a stone
wall or two, and a mere sprinkling of pleasure grounds,
made up the landscape. In the extreme south a short line
of blue pyramids checked the soft cultivation, and told us
that such was not all the world.
“Mr. Collingwood,” said I, as his look came back to the
things near him, “did you ever read `Evenings at Home'?”
“I believe I have, Miss Gracie. How should daylight
out of doors make you think of evenings at home?”
“Those blue mountains, you know—they're like those the
squirrel wanted to get to.”
“I don't think the squirrel was so far wrong after all,”
said Kate—“seeing he didn't know any better,—blue
mountains are some of the most attractive things in the
world.”
“Why?” said Mr. Collingwood.
“They look so pure and peaceful—so resting,—as if
rough winds could not blow there,—as if there one could
never be weary.”
“It is but earth still,” he answered, “and a fair type of
earth's power to satisfy; so inviting in the distance, so cold
when reached. Many a one has proved the squirrel's experience.
The only land
`Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,'
more striking words written than those few, `I shall be
satisfied!'”
He spoke with a grave realization that seemed an echo
from the very land he referred to.
“But it's so pleasant to take a bright view of things!”
said Stephanie breaking through a silence she had no liking
for.
“So pleasant that I would seek for the brightest.—If my
words bear any gloomy construction, Miss Holbrook, I expressed
myself ill.”
“But Mr. Collingwood,” said Kate rather timidly, “do
you think aerial perspective is meant to serve no purpose?
that one ought to disregard its effect as much as
possible?”
“By no means—either in the physical or mental world.
It would be a sorrowful thing if all the chequer work of
life were as distinct at a distance as near by. And yet Miss
Kate it is good sometimes to look through a telescope,—
good always to approach hope's blue mountains with a
mind braced for possibilities. No joy was ever less sweet
for a moderated expectation.”
“I don't believe in your telescopic view,” said Stephanie.
hermitage instead of a hut?”
“And that huts and misery do not exist?”
“In my neighbourhood—they may be somewhere in the
world, of course.”
“Why shouldn't a physician try to think all his patients
in perfect health?”
“Fiddle-de-dee! they're in his charge, and have called
for his help.”
“And did you never hear an appeal from a mere outside
of wretchedness? Ah Miss Stephanie—that will not do!
I wish I had a spy-glass to give you a nearer view of that
same brown speck. You would think it spoke pretty
plainly.”
“I wish you hadn't! Don't it make you sad to go to
such places?”
“Yes.”
“Then why should one go?—I don't like to feel sad.
Now the physician knows he can do something.”
“I beg your pardon—he only knows that he can try,—
whether he shall succeed or not is a matter quite out of his
hands. Miss Kate, will you not give us the result of this
long meditation?”
“I was thinking that one does not always know how to
try.”
Mr. Collingwood smiled.
“But one can always use those powerful simples, encouragement
and sympathy,—and Miss Kate,” he added
gently, “one ought to know how to apply the catholicon.”
“Yes, that is very true.”
“They are such dreadful places to go to!” said Stephanie,—
“I don't suppose one in fifty keeps a broom, and even the
farmhouses are curious enough.”
“I have always thought,” said Mr. Collingwood, “that
there is nothing more beautiful about the sunlight, than its
seeking the darkest places and giving at least a passing
notice to all that is most shunned and despised. And nobody
ever thought that those pure rays compromised their
dignity.”
“But after all,” said Stephanie with a mixture of seriousness
more than one sun in a neighbourhood.”
Mr. Collingwood coloured a little, but then lightly answered
her according to the letter.
“If you charge me with being fanciful, I must fall back
upon George Herbert. He says,
`Shine like the sun in every corner.'”
“He is fanciful—I don't like him.”
“I do,” said Kate. “But Mr. Collingwood, the sun has
a power of going about which very much assists his benevolence.”
“I know that very well,” said he smiling, “but remember
too, Miss Kate, the sun is felt where he cannot be
seen.”
“Does your telescope say that is water or mud down
yonder?” said Stephanie as we began to descend the hill.
“Mud—decidedly.”
“Are there no springs hereabouts?”
“There is one not far off,” he answered somewhat comically;
“but unluckily it is in a garden, and the garden
surrounds a house—painted red! and the front door has a
horizontal division.”
“How absurd you are!” said Stephanie while Kate and
I laughed. “Is it a hut?”
“No—a farmhouse.”
“That is bad. I could go to a hut for water, but these
farmhouse people would pull us in and put us in rocking-chairs.”
“And the consequences, Miss Stephanie?”
“The consequences would be that we should have to sit
and talk to them.”
Mr. Collingwood stood with folded arms as if awaiting
further information.
“Don't you see!” said Stephanie—“they would take it
as a visit.”
“And perhaps come and see us in turn,” said Kate.
Mr. Collingwood laughed and walked on.
“You are quite beyond me now!” he said. “I thought I
could answer all your objections, but I am out of my depth.
However if you will wait for me at a safe distance, I will
tumbler; for unfortunately,” he added with a smile that
was keen as well as bright, “I have some acquaintance with
the family.”
“We do not need it in the least,” Kate said,—“you
need not take the trouble—we can wait till we get home.”
“It is no trouble Miss Kate—you will be quite safe if
you stand here. There is very little passing on this road,
and I shall be back in a moment.”
He went before we could hinder it, and we stood rather
thoughtfully eyeing the dell and the red house and Mr.
Rodney and the divided front door—which had certainly
opened to admit him with all the unanimity of good will.
It was but a moment as he said before he brought us a
pitcher of the brightest and coldest water, and glasses which,
if not cut, were admirably clean. They were scarce filled
before a messenger came running from the hut. A little
girl—with a very pretty face, bare feet, and toilet arrangements
that spoke an abundance of out-door play.
“Mr. Rodney,” she said in a shy half whisper, and
looking at us between words, “Granny said to tell the
ladies if they'd drink some milk, I'd fetch it to 'em right
away.”
“Why don't you ask the ladies themselves, Susie?”
The child looked up at Kate, but did not open her lips
except to smile; and the answer she got was so very smiling
and pleasant, that her next question was somewhat
startling—though spoken low as at first.
“Mr. Rodney who is the pretty lady?”
Stephanie took her tumbler from her lips and laughed,
while Kate reversed that action and blushed; and Mr. Collingwood
with perfect gravity gave our names in the order
of seniority.
“I should like to kiss her, so much!” said the child folding
her hands together.
“You may kiss me, Susie,” said Mr. Collingwood quickly,—“will
not that do as well? Or, if you like it better, I
will kiss you.”
But Susie did not choose to wait for that, and after a
little twisting of herself about she turned round and scampered
back to the house, while Mr. Collingwood followed
presently resumed our walk.
“Do farmhouse children usually exhibit such discernment?”
said Stephanie with the delight of annoying one of
her companions and the hope of annoying two. But that
failed.
“As what, Miss Stephanie?”
“As this little rustic we have just seen.”
“And as how exhibited?”
“Why did you interfere to hinder the child's wish?”
said Miss Holbrook abruptly.
“I trust my interference was not unwarrantable nor ill-timed.
I am sure Miss Kate forgave me.”
“Only half,”—said Kate, looking up as if she meant to
have her question answered,—“it was not more than half
out of good nature to me, Mr. Collingwood?”
“Yes, rather more,” he said with a smile.
“Weren't you afraid I would refuse, and so hurt the
child's feelings?”
“A little.”—
We had paused upon a rising ground to look back, and
the farmhouse dell showed very fairly in the distance;
but now we saw a figure approaching the door whom we
all recognized at once,—indeed as Kate said afterwards,
“it could be nobody but Miss Easy.” Mr. Rodney said
nothing, he neither called our attention to the lady nor told
us who it was; but as she reached the door and went in,
among the little troop that had rushed out to meet her, his
eye wore a look of singular brightness and pleasure; and
so much of the glow remained when we turned again to our
walk, that Stephanie lost patience.
“Then you would absolutely encourage uppishness!” she
said. “Well I wouldn't!”
“Nor I,—and therefore”— he stopped short.
“You may just as well go on—`and therefore you
wouldn't practise it.'—You are mistaken for once in your
life.”
“Don't you think such people are apt to presume, Mr.
Collingwood?” said Kate.
“Very apt if you give them a chance. But if we meet
the poor now and then on their own ground, they will care
of position which makes them feel looked down upon;
and then naturally they try for a stand where that shall
seem less possible. The silk slipper never hurt itself by a
step off the dais.”
“Not even into the mud?”
“If people cannot keep out of the mud,” said Mr. Collingwood
laughing, “they had better put on hob-nailed shoes
at once, and keep off the dais. Why Miss Stephanie I have
seen a delicate slipper pass through city streets as if they
were carpeted!”
“Then on the whole you like farmhouses?”
“On the whole I prefer large mirrors if any, and ungarnished
with asparagus—also I confess to a predilection for
other than rag-carpets.”
And then as he bade us good-morning Mr. Rodney said
with a smile,
“You do not like George Herbert—will you quarrel with
Shakespeare or with me, if I remind you of Portia's `little
candle'?”
| CHAPTER XII. Dollars and cents | |