 | CHAPTER XV. Dollars and cents |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
He must be very wise that can forbear being troubled at things very troublesome.
—Tillotson.
“WHAT can that light be?” I exclaimed as we passed
the hall-window on our way to bed. It was late
at night, but some happy combination of circumstances and
wakefulness had allowed me to sit up with the rest; and
we now stood all together looking out and wondering. A
steady red light shone to the north of us, beyond intervening
woods and hills, deepening and fading, now clouded
and now clear, as smoke and flame chased and displaced
each other. In town, so far off a fire would have fixed no
eye that was not quick to appreciate the beautiful; but
here there were no visions of warring streams of water—the
fire burned on in solitude; and instead of bells and rattling
engines, there was the soft whirr of a multitude of insects.
The flickering light seemed a more wild and fearsome thing
in that silence, and we looked with a not untinged admiration.
Perhaps men never feel what a weaker and more
timid nature feels so readily,—that undefined fear with
which mystery can invest even a beautiful object. My
father had been called to Baltimore by the illness of his
brother; and we left alone, felt all the influences of a simple
but unexplained phenomenon.
“Wise people we are!” said Stephanie at length,—“of
course it's just a house at Wiamee!”
“Wiamee is more to the west, and the houses are too
small to make such a light.”
“Not too small to burn up, are they?” said Stephanie,—
“and it may be the whole village; you can't tell west from
east in the dark.”
“But it does not spread nor move on,” said Kate,—“it
burns steadily in one place—there went somebody's roof!”
There was a sudden deadening of the light, then it burned
furiously for a few minutes, and then seemed to die gradually
out.
“Exit,”—said Stephanie turning from the window; “it
was probably one of Mr. Collingwood's favourite farmhouses,
so if we go to bed at once Kate, I don't doubt
but we shall dream that we saved all the furniture except
a tumbler.”
“Here's Misther Barrington ma'am,” said Caddie as
she brought in the second plate of muffins next morning.
“Mr. Barrington? does he want anything?”
“He does ma'am.”
“I have no idea,” said Stephanie helping herself to a
muffin, “that I could ever have learned the style laconic, if
I had been fifty times a Spartan.”
“Shew him in here, Caddie,” said my stepmother, and
our factotum presented himself.
“How are you Ezra?” she continued, “have you got
quite well?”
“I'm pretty smart, ma'am,” said Mr. Barrington with a
strong emphasis on the pronoun.
“And Mrs. Barrington, and the children?”
“Couldn't be no better,” said Ezra,—“if all folks was
as quiet and well-behoven as they be, the world would go
on a sight straighter.”
“Intimate connection between mankind's obliquity and
that of the earth!” said Stephanie.—“What's going crooked
Mr. Barrington?”
But that gentleman, after the involuntary compliment to
his family, had relapsed into silence; and stood with raised
brows eyeing the carpet as if it held the key to some problem.
The look and attitude were a little startling.
“Is anything the matter?” said Mrs Howard.
“No ma'am,”—said Ezra hesitating, “nothing partic'lar
—only the mill's destructionized.”
“Burned down!” cried we all, taking a short cut to the
truth.
“Jus' so,” said Mr. Barrington looking up in some surprise;
“who telled ye?”
“Nobody—the light,”—said Kate drawing her breath,—
“Dear mamma don't look pale about it!—how did it happen,
Ezra?”
“Well, I reckon there was sunthin conbustible sot next
to it,” said Mr. Barrington, as if he had worked his way to
that conclusion. “There warn't no one into it, so it must
ha' been done outside.”
“Not on purpose?” said Mrs. Howard.
“If it warn't a purpose nothin ever was,—the mill didn't
burn up of its own head, I'm clear.”
“That can't be—it's some carelessness,—nobody would
set it on fire.”
“Well ma'am,” said Ezra slowly, “they tell me hearsay
ain't evidence in a court of judgment, and I s'pose guessing
ain't no more,—otherways I'd get that Simpson took up,
first thing.”
“He could not have had any hand in it,” said Mrs.
Howard.
“Couldn't hardly been no one else, ma'am. He's always
kep' a talking how our mill stopped his `water privilege'—
massy knows 'tain't much `privilege' I'd give him, if
'twarn't in the water! Why the Squire ain't an unfriend
in the county but him.”
“I did not know he was one.”
“Like enough,” said Ezra, “but most things can't be
known till afterwards. There's my woman said this morning
she saw a dreadful big light off to Wiamee, and I telled
her she was dreaming of the kitchen fire; so she said
wouldn't it be wonderful if it was the mill, and I said
wouldn't it be wonderful if she had more sense. Howsever
I got tired and went to see, finally, and there it was all ashes
and burnt sticks. It took me right on a none-plush,” he
added feelingly.
We sat silent for a while, not knowing what to say or
ask.
“But Mr. Simpson wouldn't have done such a wicked
thing—and for no reason,” remarked Mrs. Howard.
“Folks don't stand about reasons for wickedness, commonly,”
said Mr. Barrington with a slight touch of disdain,
“or don't wait till they find good ones, anyhow. Mr.
Simpson's pretty nigh as fond of hard dollars as most men,
But the mill's burnt and no mistake, and I s'pose sunthin
ought to be done about it.”
“Nothing can be done till Mr. Howard comes home
Ezra, unless you can find out who has done us this mischief.”
“Well, I guess likely,” said Mr. Barrington, “but as to
finding out—the likest thing is when a man's got only one
enemy, that he's done it. Howsever, I'll look over the
Squire's friends—if it don't do no good it can't do no harm,
and there's no telling where a blessing may light, as my
wife says.”
And Mr. Barrington departed, with a face that said the
worst part of the business was over.
The muffins came in unheeded.—
“Surely mamma,” Kate began, “papa has not interfered
with anybody's rights?”
“I know nothing about it my dear—some one has interfered
with his, most certainly: but for the rest we must
be in the dark till he comes home,” she added sighing.
“It's very good he doesn't know of it!” I said.
“Won't you write to him mamma?” said Kate.
“No, it's not best,—his head and hands are full enough
now; and he ought not to leave his brother for any mill
that ever was built.”
This was all true, and we acted upon it. But how does
a trouble swell when it is locked up! how were we tried by
our own quiet endurance!
“It seems strange that such a thing should affect us so
nearly,” said Kate.—“Just think mamma, two years ago
we should hardly have noticed it, and now that mill seemed
to be our best hope of getting on.”
“I should be sorry indeed if that seeming were reality,”
said Mrs. Howard, “and it depends upon circumstances,
Katie, whether `to get on' be a blessing or a curse—sometimes
the word is `Back for thy life!'”
“But Mrs. Howard!” said Stephanie—“how you do talk!
Look here,” she added planting herself before her—“now
weren't you most troubled because of these girls?”
“Yes,” said my stepmother with a voice not yet untroubled,
“but my dear child that does not prove me wise
glad. Better lose the world than rest in it.”
We were yet musing over the breakfast-table, when Caddie
ushered in another visiter—Mr. Collingwood.
“No ma'am, I can't sit down,” he said, “I scarce ought
to have come in so early; but dear Mrs. Howard, will you
tell me in all frankness—is there anything we can do for
you?—my father would have come himself, but he was too
unwell.”
“Thank him very much, and you too Mr. Rodney, but
I think there is nothing: all we can do is to keep ourselves
quiet.”
“Are you sure? I will see anybody and do anything
that you can think of use.”
“Quite sure,” said Mrs. Howard, answering his earnest
look with a smile that was withal a little tremulous—
“unless you will sit down and read us a lesson of patience.”
“It would be to myself ma'am,” he said,—“I am but an
unpractised learner.”
“You see Mr. Collingwood,” said Stephanie—who had a
great aversion to that silence when people feel too much to
speak—“there's nothing to be done but to build up the
mill and catch the burner; and, no disparagement to your
strength and wisdom, you can't do either.”
“Miss Stephanie,” he said with a smile, “are you laughing
yet?”
“Only because I'd rather not cry,—one must do something,
and Kate always says it's folly to be worried.”
“I fear she has not persuaded herself of that,” said Mr.
Rodney approaching her. “Miss Kate, are you thinking of
those blue mountains?”
She looked up to answer him, but the recollection was
just one she could not bear,—her eyes fell again.
“You remember what we were talking of?” he said very
gently—“that they are but like the rest of the world when
reached? If we feel sure that our happiness cannot be
perfect in this life, we should the less grieve over the things
that come to mar it. `In the shadow of thy wings will I
make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast!'”
“But she is only worried for papa,” I said, “and because
mamma looked so grave.”
“And you are troubled for her, Gracie?—I wish I could
give you more than sympathy.”
“That is the best thing we could have just now,” said
my stepmother, “and if your time or exertions can do us
any good, Mr. Rodney, we will call for them.”
There were indeed but few people to give us sympathy,
but they gave it in double measure. Miss Easy came to
us the moment she heard of our disaster, and with a face
of such quiet sorrow and concern, that our own brightened
immediately.
“Dear Mrs. Howard,” she said, “could any one think
there were such wicked people in the world?—after all the
difficulty you have had with that mill! yes ma'am, it really
surprises me.”
“You must not be troubled for us, my dear friend,” said
my stepmother.
“Troubled!” said Miss Easy, her eyes filling to their
utmost capacity, “yes ma'am I will be troubled—yes.
What's the use of friends if they're not to be troubled for
each other? Yes ma'am, I hope I am a friend. But how
do you all do?—and poor Mr. Howard—what will he
say?”
“I hardly know—I almost dread his coming home.”
“He will bear it well—he has a true christian spirit,”
said Miss Easy thoughtfully; “but trials have their effect
nevertheless. Though the promise stands sure, `there
shall no evil befall them that trust in me.' And yet,”
she added sadly as she bent down and kissed my forehead,
“I cannot bear to see the weight over this child's eyes,—
yes ma'am, that grieves me more than anything.”
How quick other eyes in the room answered to her
words!
“Papa will set it all right when he comes, dear Miss
Easy,” I said; “and there will be no weight over my eyes
then.”
“Nobody could give a better definition of supporting
faith,” said Miss Easy with another kiss,—“even so should
we trust our heavenly Father—`it will be all set right and
there will be no weight over our eyes then.'—Dear Mrs.
Howard, that should make the weight sit lighter now.”
“It ought and does.”
“But can't you all come and stay with me till Mr. Howard
gets back? Yes ma'am, now do,” said Miss Easy—“it
would make me so happy.”
“We must not do it, even for that, dear Miss Easy,”
said my stepmother,—“he may come at any time, and
would want to find us here.”
“True,” said Miss Caffery, “yes ma'am, you are always
right, and always think of everything—yes. But I must
see you often somewhere—you can at least come for a few
hours,—yes, you must promise me that.”
And we did.
My father came not for three weeks, and after each letter
we had a feeling of mingled pain and pleasure,—that he
must so soon know—that as yet he knew nothing. But
the appointed day came, and with it Mr. Howard.
The moment we saw him on the walk, we all felt that he
had already heard the news,—not that there was exactly a
cloud on his face, but there seemed to be a slight drooping
of the head, a relaxing of the muscles, a want of the usual
alert resolution of his gait; the very swing of his umbrella
spoke of disturbance; and when he entered the house, his
greeting if not less affectionate was graver than usual.
Since we had lived at Glen Luna one difficulty had come on
the heels of another, and this new one was much the worse
for the long string which had gone before it. Thoughts
took a far range, but our first words were simply,
“How is uncle Ned, papa?”
“Somewhat better—not satisfactorily so to my mind,”
said Mr. Howard throwing himself into a chair. “Dear
me—this hot weather is trying!”
The weariness of that long breath!
“One must not mind even trying things too much,” said
my stepmother forcing herself to speak—with what effort
the voice told.
My father looked at her, and then looked out of the window.
“It won't do, Mary,” he said,—“you never can imbue
my spirit with the quiet patience of yours. I declare! I
thought last night of David's words—`O that I had wings
like a dove,—then would I flee away and be at rest!'”
“Not from us, papa?” said Kate softly.
“My dear child!”—he said, but her words had struck
deep,—through all the clouds of doubt, weariness and vexation,
clear to the very springs of life and duty,—they rose
at once, and after a few minutes my father breathed freer.
“When did you hear all this?” said Mrs. Howard.
“Yesterday.”
“You will not let it worry you papa?” I said—“nothing
is so bad as that.”
“It is hard not to be a little troubled Gracie—the loss is
a very serious one of its kind. I would fain bear it submissively.”
And then looking round at us he said, “But
you must wear bright faces if you expect me to.”
“O we will papa,” said Kate. “Do you think Mr. Simpson
could have done this? have you interfered with him in
any way?”
“No more than I have with you, my dear; but I suppose
he thought my mill would deprive his, not of water,
but employment. Yes—I presume he did it, or got it
done.”
“But how could he—what right had he to interfere with
your mill? Surely he couldn't take the law into his own
hands for any reason.”
“He will find he has it on his hands,” said Mr. Howard;
“but my own rights are growing so very misty and undefined,
that I know but little about those of other people.”
Alas we had the law on our hands too! Suits and cross-suits,
and pleas and bills and demurrers,—money to be
paid for all. Dollars here for witnesses, and there for a
journey to some distant court; and again for a speech
which Mr. Howard said wasn't worth a pin. The war of
poor rights against rich injustice.
In the midst of all this expense and annoyance, some
pleasant things sprang up. We were greatly touched by
an offer from Stephanie of a part of her own small fortune
towards the rebuilding of the mill.
“My dear child!” said my father, “do you think I would
do such a thing? I cannot tell you how it grieves me,
that I should be quite unable to add to what you want to
divide.”
“But Mr. Howard,” said Stephanie, “I feel as if it belonged
to you,—you have had trouble and expense enough
cannot be paid for,” she added tearfully.
“It is all paid for—with interest,” said my father kissing
her, while we gathered round with glistening eyes,—“and
you will want what you have my dear, depend upon it.
Come you must think a little of somebody else.”
“If somebody else can't get along without my help,”
said she colouring slightly, “he will never get along at all,
—so my conscience is clear there. But you, dear Mr.
Howard, have lost and suffered so much”—
“That I ought to know how to take care of other people.
You must let me do it for you as long as I can my dear;
it is a pleasure that I shall owe Mr. Freeman some ill-will
for depriving me of. No, I will not hear another word, and
here comes somebody in good time to receive them all.
Mr. Freeman I am very glad to see you, sir, though
Stephanie has just been persuading me that I ought to dislike
you.”
“Dislike me sir?”
“You sir.”
“And yet you are glad to see me,”—said the gentleman.
“Then Miss Stephanie's eloquence must have failed—if she
could employ it in so bad a cause.”
“She did employ it,” said Mr. Howard gravely; “but
as she taught by precept and not example, all I learned was
to love her more than ever.”
“And if that lesson is not perfect sir, you know where
to find the example,” was the smiling reply as Mr. Freeman
shook hands with us all round.
He had certainly improved since our first acquaintance—
or we had learned to appreciate him. Without anything
very bright or extraordinary, he had a pleasant mixture of
good nature and good sense with a slight spice of peculiarity,—not
enough to laugh at but with. Altogether you
felt sure Mr. Freeman would get on in the world, though
you never thought of his making a stir therein. Stephanie
too had improved,—perhaps by the prospect of real life
before her, or as she said “of the arctic ocean”; and the
feeling that Mr. Freeman's house was tolerably glazed,
may have made her more tender of other people's windows.
So it was, that while her chance of happiness increased, our
length Mr. Freeman declared that he never came to the
house without feeling as if he were going “birdth-nethting.”
The bird was fledged at length. Stephanie and Mr.
Freeman were married one fair day when the autumn was
showering gold leaves; and beneath a blue October sky
they went forth into the world to seek their fortune.
| CHAPTER XV. Dollars and cents | |