 | CHAPTER XVI. Dollars and cents |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
And the days are awa that we hae seen;
But far better days, I trust, will come again.
Lady Mary Ann.
“WE shall have a lonely winter of it,” said Miss Easy,
as she sat at our tea-table some two weeks after Stephanie's
departure,—“yes ma'am, we shall indeed.”
“We shall,” said Mrs. Howard, “it will take us some
time to get used to the change; but you, Miss Easy?”—
“Didn't you know that Mr. Rodney is going away?”
“Mr. Rodney!” cried I.
“Not for the winter?” said mamma and Kate.
“Yes ma'am, for the winter. Farmer Collingwood's
health seems even less good than usual, and nothing will
content Mr. Rodney but to have his father try a warmer
climate. So they are both going,”—and Miss Easy's voice
went with them.
“I am very sorry indeed,” said Mrs. Howard.
“Yes ma'am, every one must be that,—we are all sorry,
yes; but I have always seen so much of him—and the Bermudas
are a long way off.”
“Bermuda—do they go there?”
“Yes; and what troubles me most, is, that I fear they can
ill afford the expense. The Farmer I know thinks so, yes
ma'am; but Mr. Rodney won't hear or allow a word of it.
So they go,” she repeated with a sigh, “the first of December.”
“He should command my purse, if I had one that wasn't
filled with other people's fingers,” said my father coming
out of his brown study.
Miss Easy looked very much concerned.
“My dear sir,” she said, “pray don't think of such a
thing!—dear me, what have I said! I am very sorry indeed,
yes sir. But I never can get him to speak on the
subject—it's only my own notions, yes; pray don't think
of it again. I should have been wiser, but I thought you
were dreaming, as we say. Yes sir, I did indeed.”
“You thought about right ma'am,” said my father; “but
like most dreamers I was weaving a web of mixed truth
and falsehood, and your words were the nearest realities
that came to hand. But I must think of this matter,—I
must find out how it is; and if he wants anything, I will
dispose of the other fingers somehow—he shall have it.”
“My dear Mr. Howard! that is like you,” said Miss
Easy,—“but now sir you mustn't do such a thing. If you
would be willing to act for me—if you should find what I
have feared, true; I have spare funds, yes sir,—at least I
think I could get them—and Mr. Rodney would never take
anything from me, but perhaps I might do it through you,
yes sir.”
“No ma'am,” said my father; “I will neither take credit
that does not belong to me, nor let you deprive yourself
of a single comfort if I can help it,—the business must be
managed some other way.”
“It would be to give myself comfort,” said Miss Easy
sighing, “if I could relieve that poor boy from what I fear
he has taken upon himself, and what I know is too much
for him.”
“And what is that?” said my stepmother.
“Earning money ma'am, in all times and ways,—yes
ma'am, I am sure he is not always studying,—I am sure he
is trying to provide for this journey. Why I can hardly
get sight of him.”
“But what could he do—out here?” said my father.
“O I don't know sir—copying, and translating and
draughting,—he is good at everything. Why sir,” said
Miss Easy with sparkling eyes, “he taught school in the
first place till he could prepare himself for college; and
then he paid his own way when there,—and his brother's
too, for that matter—so long as he would stay. And was
always at the head of everything too—though he spent
half of the study hours in hearing recitations. I suppose
ever since he came home,—too much for his health, I
know.”
“I hope he will get as much good as his father, from the
journey,” said Mrs. Howard.
“He don't want to go ma'am, not at all, for himself,—yes
ma'am, I think he looks very sober about it.”
“Hush!—” said my father,—and Caddie opening the door
announced Mr. Collingwood. Sober he did look, or it might
be fatigued, but with no tinge of gloominess in either eye or
voice,—there never was a nature more absolutely without
it. Had the business of his life been to seek his own individual
pleasure, in the pleasantest way, Mr. Collingwood
could not have looked more free from doubt and discontent.
“I have been to see you Miss Easy,” he said after the
first salutations;—“and Miss Avarintha told me you were
here,—so I thought my escort might not come amiss. I
haven't given you a chance to get tired of me lately.”
“Nor us either, I am sure,” said my stepmother,—“do
you think it necessary to excuse yourself for coming here
once a month?”
“No ma'am,” he said smiling,—“it is not quite so long
since my last visit.”
“But you ought to come very often Mr. Rodney,” I said
—“when we like to see you so much.”
“And when it is so soon to be ended,” said Mrs. Howard.
A grave bow, and a look where there was too much
feeling for a smile, answered both remarks; and after a
moment he said,
“Yes, very soon.”
“How is your father to-night, Mr. Rodney?” said Miss
Easy.
“Not well ma'am: I hope he will gain strength when we
are once off, but I think the idea of the journey rather
fatigues him.”
“But my dear sir,” said my father, “why don't you go
at once?—you ought have finished your journey by the first
of December, instead of beginning it. Surely two gentlemen
need not be so long getting ready.”
The deep flush which crossed Mr. Rodney's face while
my father spoke, seemed to confirm Miss Easy's words: it
was but a moment however, and then in his usual quiet way
he said,
“You are quite right Mr. Howard,—I am truly sorry
our decision was not made sooner.”
“But it wants three weeks to December—why not set
off at once?”
Again the flush, the slight hesitation; and then with a
smile came the answer.
“Nay sir, I have arranged to go on the first of December,
and we must even wait till then. Miss Avarintha
would tell you that it is owing to my `native obstinacy'.”
“How long shall you stay?” said Mr. Howard abruptly
changing his ground.
“I cannot tell sir. If, as Dr. Revere thinks, the climate
should particularly suit my father's health, we may be
there long,—perhaps permanently.”
“You don't mean, always, Mr. Rodney?”
“Always is a long word Gracie,” he said, smiling half in
spite of himself at my earnestness,—“I am sure I do not
wish to speak it in such a connexion.”
“You haven't seen Bermuda yet,” said my father.
“No sir.”—
“Characteristically disposed of!” said Mr. Howard laughing,—“you
won't even condescend to notice my insinuation.”
“What kind of a place is Bermuda, papa?” said Kate.
“Really my dear I know very little about it, though I
have heard a great deal. But as people always praise what
they do like, and slander what they don't, my knowledge
of Bermuda is simply geographical.”
“And mine,” said Mr. Rodney; “but if I live to come
back Miss Kate, you shall have at least such a one-sided
account as Mr. Howard refers to.”
“Who takes care of Daisy Lea while you are gone?”
asked my stepmother.
“Mrs. Crown and her nephew, for the present ma'am.”
“And Wolfgang?”—said Kate and I together.
“Wolfgang,” said Mr. Rodney turning to us with a smile,
ever from Purrer-purrer, Miss Gracie.”
“Ah he will come here sometimes,” I said, “and we
shall go to see him. How he will miss you Mr. Rodney!”
“Miss me?—yes, a little,—I hope so, I should like to be
missed. And yet it is a selfish hope too,” he said, as he
rose in obedience to Miss Easy's summons. “Strange,
that one should wish to give pain to one's friends!”
“But if you take away the power of pain Mr. Collingwood,”
said Kate, “the power of pleasure goes with it.”
“And the power of usefulness too, in a measure,” said
my father,—“they are all interwoven.”
“Then I will be as selfish as possible,” he answered smiling;
“good night.”
My father mused for a while after they were gone, and
then jumping up he said,
“I shall just go out and waylay that boy, for I sha'n't
rest till I know the truth.”
But at the end of an hour he came back with an unenlightened
face.
“And what is the truth?” said Mrs. Howard.
“The truth is that Mr. Rodney is rather the best and
most unmanageable person in the world. I dashed into the
subject at once, according to custom, and without more than
half an apology; but he either made up the other half, or
didn't want it.”
“And did you get any satisfaction?”
“Not a bit—except as I tell you as to his being a little
better than other people. He didn't attempt to deny or
remove my suspicions and inferences, but I could get no
further—he was as stiff as buckram. Only he gave me
much warmer thanks than I deserved, and left me, I do
believe, with wet eyes.”
How swiftly those three weeks sped away!—and we saw
but little of the friends that were to follow them. Even
when we all walked over to the Lea to visit once more its
kind master, he was so unwell that we were not admitted.
But he grew better after that; and on the last day of November
Mr. and Mrs. Howard went again to see him.
It was Sunday afternoon; and Kate and I sat alone in
our little tea-room, singing hymns,—going over with a
we had no share in. One and another was finished, and at
last that one—“I am bound for the kingdom,” when we
became aware of Mr. Rodney's presence.
We had heard neither door nor step; but as our voices
ceased he came forward, shook hands with us silently, and
then seating himself by us, he said,
“`Bound for the kingdom'—dear friends are you indeed
that?”
We did not answer—we could not. The hymn had
wrought upon us both a good deal, yet in an indefinite, unfruitful
sort of way; but now with these applying words
came its full force,—duty, responsibility, privilege—all
neglected, seemed now all set before us,—all weighing us
down. What had we been singing—“bound for the kingdom!”—and
the intention had never entered our hearts!
Mr. Collingwood looked at us earnestly; and perhaps he
read in the quivering lips and half-interrupted breath, the
negative to his question; for he added very gravely, and
yet with even more than his accustomed kindness and gentleness,
“If not for it, then from it!”
True! true!—and with bowed heads and weeping eyes
we gave silent assent to his words.
“There is no better description of a Christian's life,” he
said presently,—“there can be no more perfect reply to
the trials of it. `Bound for the kingdom,'—as a ship is
bound that even in adverse winds so sets her sails that she
is driven forward, or so casts anchor that she is not driven
back; and for that kingdom which is so beyond comparison
with all others, that there is no need of specification,—`the
kingdom'!—that is enough! Enough for him too,—the
light that sheds one straight, undeviating line of brightness
over the restless sea—uneclipsed by the sun, unhid by the
cloud; that lures him to breast the waves, though trembling,
shuddering with their violence, yet still on! He is
homeward bound, and for the kingdom!”
Again he paused, and again did our hearts answer to
every word that came so warm, so energized from his: yet
we could not speak. As when the wind comes out dead
ahead, and checked, startled, the ship seems uncertain how
doubt of the right, but from a mixture of bewilderment,
surprise and fear. Had we then been bound on a reef?—
from “the kingdom?”
“Yes!” said Mr. Collingwood at length, as if he read
our thoughts; “for it or from it!—you cannot choose but
be one. Dear Miss Howard, dear Gracie, think of it!
bound from the kingdom! from its blessings, its rest, its
everlasting reward!”
We were weeping bitterly; and for some time there
was no word spoken, except now and then one of counsel
or entreaty from Mr. Collingwood. But at length Kate
exerting all her self-command, looked up and thanked him
in a few earnest words for what he had said,—while I, whose
feelings were less under control, dared not trust my voice.
“God grant we may all sail on together!” he said sighing;
“and to that shore where there can be no shipwreck.”
And then taking a hand of each, Mr. Rodney parted from
us with the words of Samuel Rutherford,
“I shall rejoice to hear of your welfare, and that your
faces are up the mountain!”
| CHAPTER XVI. Dollars and cents | |