 | CHAPTER XVII. Dollars and cents |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
Looks cheerful when one carries in one's heart
Th' inalienable treasure.
Coleridge.
YES, that was a lonely winter. For our spirits had not
now that full tide which sweeps away slight obstructions,
sports with them, tosses them a one side in a mask of its
own foam;—now, the current had need of a clear channel.
We all missed Stephanie's bright, unshadowed eye, Farmer
Collingwood's morning visits, and the frequent sight
and hearing of Mr. Rodney—so many of the visiters we
had left talked neither sense nor sympathy. And then
without any defined cloud, the light of our fortunes and
prospects seemed declining; though as in the day's twilight,
we hardly realized the progress except when we looked
back. Things were changed. We were changed ourselves
—how much, from that first bright day when I came to
Glen Luna! Ah me!—it was a necessary, inevitable change
—the young heart cannot keep its spring,—and yet it
makes mine ache now to think of it. I had not lost the
childish simplicity of hope and enjoyment, but upon it was
grafted a scion of real life, to which all fresh shoots of the
former must in time be sacrificed. And I was softly passing
from the brook to the river, and knew it not!
As the winter passed, we felt more and more the truth
of Mr. Rodney's words,—were more and more resolved to
follow them. We could have answered him now;—yes,
we were “bound for the kingdom”!
There had been sundry new things done and begun in
our neighbourhood: if Time drove not in full career
chariot wheels. Surely if “there is no new thing under
the sun,” it might almost be said, that in one sense neither
is there any old! The very tree at the house door is not
to-day what it was last year; and this other, behind which
the chimneys loomed up, unapproachable, now towers
above them, and throws its leaves and shadows upon the
roof beyond. The stone step which in all its rough newness
said “I have just come”; how lovingly the turf
closes upon its edge, how firmly the green tufts cling and
grow, even encroachingly. The rains and the dews have
bleached its grey, and loved feet have worn its hardness—
it is “an old inhabitant.”
Shadows where there was sunshine—the wearing down of
what seemed unchangeable,—yes, such is Time's work: but
here see his work too—the opening of a fair view that
before was hid,—a path for the light through a dark forest
that seemed impenetrable.
Foremost among the changes—not in itself but in its
effect—was the death of Mr. Cary—the minister at Lake
End. He was succeeded by a man of strong mind and
body, with a will that spared neither, when they could be
of use,—and we could go to church once more. Then we
realized what we had been without. I never knew what
sermons were worth, till I heard them after those years of
privation.
Consequent upon this came another comfort. It was
clearly our duty to go to church, therefore it was a duty to
have bonnets and cloaks to go in; and little as Kate and I
cared about dress, it was pleasant to feel free to go where
we wished, like other people.
Mr. Ellis was not the only new comer,—the McLoons
had settled in the neighbourhood, and we had Mrs. Willet
and other old friends for prospective vis-à-vis at the Sulphur
spring. Yet from all these we turned with what pleasure
to the Bird's Nest!—Miss Easy was more beloved than
ever, and these novelties faded away by contrast. She
always came to us as soon as she got a letter from Bermuda,
to bring news and messages: always gave us comfort
when it was most needed; and would sometimes lay
weight were there still.
My father could not resolve to leave the mill in ruins all
the time the law suits were pending, but had set men to
rebuild as fast as possible; though Mr. Barrington avowed
his belief that “Mr. Simpson could burn it down more
speedier than we could put it up.” As yet however, there
had been no interference, but with the spring came “nimble
mischance” in another form.
I came down one Monday morning, when after several
days of warm, breaking-up rain, earth and sky looked their
loveliest, and found Mr. Howard putting on shoes that were
unmistakeably for out of doors.
“You won't have any time for pruning, papa,” I said,
“breakfast is just ready, and here come mamma and Kate.”
“Don't wait for me,” said my father tying his shoestrings
with needless energy.
“Why where are you going?”
“To Wiamee creek.”—
“To the mill!—so early!” said my stepmother,—“Oh
wait till after breakfast.”
“There is no mill there, nor anything else that I know
of, but water,” he answered; and then seeing our anxious
faces, he added in that tone of desperate calmness which
betrays the excitement it is meant to cover,
“These rains have brought a tremendous freshet, and
the mill is carried away.”
How my heart sank!—and then in a moment I said,
“Dear papa, do not look so grave,—maybe it is not so
bad as you think.”
“It's as bad as it can be, I fancy,” said my father sighing.
“But do not look grave about it, still, papa,” said Kate;
“perhaps it can be mended, if it is bad; and at all events
let us take things quietly.”
“See that you set me a good example then,” he said,
looking first at mamma and then at us.
We followed him to the door, and called out,
“Now don't stay long—come back and get some breakfast,
and then you can go again;” and he gave us one smile
that spoke of more trouble than even the cloud had done.
Silently we sat down and waited; and the hearts to which
brightening light of the sun seemed more and more uncongenial,
until at last Mr. Howard returned. The damage
was not quite so great as it might have been—at least it
could be repaired with dollars,—but where were they to be
had? There were some yet, my father said—he would find
ways and means; and once in order, the mill would soon
pay for itself. Would it ever do that? would it ever be in
order?—Both questions might be read in my stepmother's
face, but Mr. Howard heeded them not, and having talked
himself into at least temperate latitudes, he went off again;
and we staid at home and talked our spirits down to
zero.—
And then of all days in the year, Mrs. McLoon came to
see us; and of all subjects of conversation, she chose the
mill. And in the pure thoughtlessness of wealth told us
how she had been riding past Wiamee, and had seen the
carried-off timbers,—and how she was amused; and how
the water had grouped them here and there,—and laughed
all the while at her own description, till we were in doubt
whether to cry or be angry. But, as says some French
paper,
“Avec le `Go Head,' qui personnifie en lui l'audace dans
l'entreprise, et le `No Mind,' qui represente le courage dans
l'adversité, l' Américain du Nord accomplit des prodiges.”—
My father had both principles in action. No loss, no
discouragement could affect his practice: the head might be
weary of arrangements, the mind sick of endeavours, yet
the hand rarely stayed its workings. Arrangements and
endeavours were made and forwarded as if “time was” had
come back to us; and if sometimes the first brush of a disaster
would sweep before it even the will to do,—the calm
followed; and patience and faith-nerved energy came with
the thought,
“Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we
not receive evil?”
Again men were set to work at the mill, and then my
father got his witnesses together, and went to attend one
of the Simpson trials. To no purpose,—the trial was put
off.
“It is very vexatious, isn't it papa?” said Kate.
“Trying enough—and expensive enough too, that's the
worst of it.”
“But this won't hinder your building up the mill?”
“Hinder it completely. If the whole affair was to be
settled in a few weeks, I thought I might venture to go on
and rebuild; but I can't count upon Simpson's forbearance
for six months. No, I must get the mill-dam in good
order, and then wait patiently for September.”
Mrs. Howard sighed.
“No need to sigh about it my dear,” said my father
cheerfully; “it will all come right—it is all right now.
Being assured of that we may well submit to what God
sends.”
“But papa,” said I, “that does not prevent our feeling
troubled—do you think it can?”
“Submission,” said my father, “is a very different thing
from insensibility,—it never was intended Gracie, that trials
should be unfelt, for then their end would be unattained.
`No trial for the present seemeth joyous, but grievous';
and pain, sickness and poverty are in themselves evils.
Yet if we are `walking the way of God's commandments,'
we need fear nothing that shall meet us—not even the
passing pain; for with it God may give such views of `the
rest that remaineth,' that all the intervening labour and
weariness shall seem but as a sweet preparation.”
“One must have strong faith for that,” said Mrs. Howard
with a half sigh.
“Yes, and strong love. Do you remember the account
given of some lady, who when she was about to submit to
a dreadful operation, gave to one of the physicians the last
letter which had come from her husband, asking him to
hold it before her. And with her eyes fixed upon the open
page and love-traced characters, she sat unmurmuring, unfainting
throughout the whole.
“So let a man but keep eye and heart fixed upon the
words of Christ, `As my Father hath loved me, so have I
loved you,' and `Lo I am with you alway, even unto the
end of the world'; and they will gild even the deepest sorrows,—how
much more such trifles as beset us.”
“Do you think they are quite trifles, papa?” said Kate.
“Yes dear, they are trifles—such trifles as `make up the
a day, I grant you; but pour on them a light from the
eternal world—
“`Fear not little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure
to give you the kingdom'—are they not trifles now?”
And with one look of joy and tears Kate and I had put
our arms round each other; for we too could see the distant
light which shone upon my father's sea of troubles.
The time of the next trial approached. Hitherto we
had known nothing of witnesses except that they cost a
good deal, and were troublesome and hard to get,—so much
Mr. Howard had imparted to us in different fits of discomfort.
Our fits were to come now. The night before my
father went to meet judge and jurors at Amherst two men
were ushered into the parlour, whom we at once placed in
the said witness class,—they were not gentlemen, they
were not beggars; and their conversation with my father
savoured strongly of hydraulics and water privilege. The
older and larger of the two, had more of himself than he
seemingly knew what to do with; and certainly more than
suited our slight chairs and country doorways. One organ
of vision eyed you curiously with humour, sense, consciousness
and determined unconsciousness of his position; while
the other scanned the corner or looked out of the window,
—there was no “right and tight” about Mr. Barnabeds.
His free and easy manner, however, was not tinctured with
impropriety nor disrespect—neither with their opposites:
on the whole he was rather amusing.
His companion Mr. Pegraph, was a little pug-dog of a
man, as knowing and opinionative as if he had swallowed
and digested all the books that ever were written. So
desperately smart too, and so satisfied with his own smartness,
that one laughed with a slightly provoked feeling.
“My dear father!” said Kate when they had at last gone
to bed, “how could you let those men come here?”
“Because they are to give testimony for me to-morrow.”
“Of course—that might take them to Amherst, but why
bring them here?”
“I should have had to pay for their night's lodging somewhere;
and I didn't suppose they would contaminate our
roof by sleeping under it once.”
“Contaminate! no papa, I should hope not; but they're
not fit to be in ladies' society, nor gentlemen's either.”
“They are not going to be—they are here for one night
to suit my convenience. I have no money to spare, unfortunately.”
“Certainly, that may make it all right and necessary,”
said Kate; “but then papa you must allow that it is bad
in other respects. Just imagine their being seen here!”
“Everybody is welcome to see them so far as I am concerned,”
said Mr. Howard. “Stand upon your own true
dignity my child, and not upon an unsteady heap of notions.
Neither lady nor gentleman need be hurt by such intercourse
as may be necessary, with people far below them.
These men are respectable in their own station, and their
being here is nobody's business.”
So we paid a little comfort for the entertainment of the
witnesses.
Four days was Mr. Howard away; but on the afternoon
of the fifth the door opened, and there stood my father on
a background of Mr. S. T. Barnabeds.
“You have not succeeded, papa!” I exclaimed.
“Yes I have Gracie,” he answered with a smile,—“what
made you say that?”
“I thought you looked sober papa.”
“And how should he look Miss Grace?” said the unwelcome
witness; “sober, indeed! and at this time of day
too! why what do you take us for?”
“Us!” thought I.
“Succeeded fairly papa?”—
“Fairly as far as I have succeeded at all,—this is not
quite the end, but I can go on and put up the mill.”
We were too happy to be sorry for anything; and our
graciousness produced a corresponding effect upon Mr. Barnabeds.
He scattered snuff about the room till I was exceeded,
and told absurd stories at which we couldn't help
laughing; and considering that we wished him anywhere
else, this last was vexatious.
“Queer things these currents of air, sir,” said Mr. Barnabeds
with a knowing nod of his head, while the cool fall
wind swept round the house with a roar as of displeasure at
being shut out from the breakfast-table,—“very queer
sir, up here at my friend Hackett's—why you may go on
the piazza with a lighted candle, and on the roof it would
nearabout take two men to hold one man's hair on his
head.”
“I should think it highly probable,” said my father dryly.
“And who would take care of the heads of the two
men?” said I.
“Won't you take some corn bread, Mr. Barnabeds?”
said my stepmother, not knowing how he might relish such
rejoinders.
“No I'm obliged to you Mrs. Howard,—I've been paying
my devours to the white—the bread par excellence—
no disrespect to the corn variety. As to the other two men
Miss Grace, they haven't been up there yet; so it's impossible
to say what would happen. I presume an Englishman
would predict that they would return un'armed from
their violent exertions. By the way Mr. Howard, what a
sharp Yankee you've got here for a farmer.”
“Barrington?” said my father.
“That's the man—he's cute enough to make nutmegs.”
“And much too honest.”—
“I tell you he's a sharp one, sir. I remarked to him that
we had a good load—that was the other day when we went
out—alluding to my own weight, which is a trifle above
yours sir. And then I said what should we do if the wagon
broke down. And the chap looks at me out of the corners
of his eyes, `Well,' he says, `I guess about the first
thing we'd do would be to set it up again—arter you sir.'
Ever fish, Mr. Howard?”
“Never.”
“Must be good fishing here too—afraid of the proverb
sir?—`a fish at one end and a fool at the other,' you
know.”
“I should certainly prove the last to my own satisfaction,”
said my father—“I'm afraid the fish would be wanting.”
“Speaking of wants,” said our guest—“you haven't
got a pair of old slippers or anything of that sort, have
you sir?—these boots are boots.”
My father looked dubious.
“I have a pair of slippers—if you can wear them,” he
said under the promptings of truth and hospitality.
“O anything's better than these.”
I was sent for the slippers, and Mr. Barnabeds having
left the table, tried them on.
“A trifle too large sir,” he said pulling the slipper half
way on, and then doubling down the heel that his might
reach terra-firma—“don't matter, it all comes of my having
such a small foot.”
“That man,” said my father, returning to the breakfastroom
half an hour after, “is wearing my new slippers slipshod,
all round the garden in the mud!”
| CHAPTER XVII. Dollars and cents | |