 | CHAPTER XXVII. Dollars and cents |  |
27. CHAPTER XXVII.
I passed by the walls of Balclutha, and they were desolate.
Ossian.
AT the earnest request of Mr. and Mrs. Howard, Mr.
Rodney remained with us for the few days during
which he finished and arranged all the business that had
been entrusted to his care. It was not much. Miss Easy
had given him her cottage and all its contents, except some
parting tokens to us. But not finding just the person he
wished to take charge of it, Mr. Rodney accepted my
stepmother's offer of storage-room for such things as were
most valuable and easily removed, and then the little abode
was securely fastened up, and left untenanted,—unvisited
save by the sighing winds and our quiet footsteps. For
Kate and I still loved to go there, and to look up at the
windows and imagine the light that once came from them;
and never did we leave the little far-off church, without
going to the one spot near it that we loved best.
It was the night before Mr. Rodney went away; and
in that wearied state of reaction which follows a time of
mental and bodily excitement, we were sitting round the
fire after tea, silently musing. For a while I had mused like
the rest, and then my thoughts came back from their wanderings,
and were concentred upon the group around me.
What were they all thinking of? I drew a little more into
the shade of the chimney and tried to determine. My
stepmother I judged was asleep, and no wonder after what
she had gone through,—if her mind worked at all, it was
under the influence of the same fatigue which had drooped
her head upon my father's shoulder, and closed her eyes in
such quiet rest. Mr. Howard himself was very far from
sleep,—whatever his mind was debating, mine might as
expression of his face,—I could make nothing of it. That
did not surprise me,—I seldom could. I leaned forward to
look at Kate. She sat on a low seat at the other side of
the chimney, her head bent down and resting on her
knees; but though absolutely motionless I felt sure she was
awake; and though the firelight shone but upon the hand
that shielded the side of her face, it seemed to me that I
read its look, even in those very closed fingers. I knew
with what steady, sobering effect our changed circumstances
had wrought, in spite of the young life that had often rebelled
against it,—I knew how very deeply she had felt this
last sorrow,—and I thought of her in our old parlour in
Philadelphia, and then as she was soon after she came to
the Glen, when she talked with my father about our neighbours!
How little her attitude now spoke of that touch of
pride which my father had called her only fault! But
surely the pride had taken other things with it,—I could
not look at her for a while—it grieved me.
She had not stirred when I again turned my head; but
as I watched her, a slight motion at her side caught my eye,
and as the fire blazed up I saw Wolfgang's paw, stretched
out and lying upon her dress. His head rested quietly
upon his master's foot, which the other paw protectingly
encircled,—if dogs can have presentiments, then was Wolfgang's
position “no for naething.” But he slept profoundly,
with only now and then a portentous long breath. He
was the only unchanged one of the party,—the vicissitudes
he had seen he had wanted sense to appreciate;
and the three and a half years since I made his acquaintance
might have been three and a half weeks, for all that
appeared.
Not so his master. I could see Mr. Collingwood very
distinctly though he was a little further off than the rest;
but he sat with one arm resting on the back of his chair,
and his face thus turned towards me was thrown into
full relief by his dark dress,—I thought I had never
seen there so small an amount of health and spirits. It
was not quite a year since his return from Bermuda and
well I remembered noticing how much brightness of eye
and manner had vanished before the experience of the previous
home, of being among friends again,—now his best friends
were not, and from the next best he was going away. Yet
never had he looked more characteristically like himself. I
could not see the eyes, they were looking down; but the
mouth wore a singularly sweet and almost child like expression
of trustfulness—of the most absolute, grave submission,—submission
as it seemed to me that regarded as
much the future as the past. I wondered to myself what
possible contingencies he could be contemplating.
Apparently my father's revery had brought him back to
the every-day walks of life, for his eyes suddenly came from
the fire to me, and next took a very particular survey of
each person present. Then quietly laying his hand upon
Mr. Collingwood's shoulder, my father said,
“Mr. Rodney, `there's a divinity that shapes our ends,
rough-hew them how we will.'”
Perhaps the person addressed thought the words conveyed
some slight reproof, for he coloured a little as he
looked up and replied,
“I was not `rough-hewing' sir, believe me.”
“When will you be through with your studies?” said
my father abruptly.
“Not for two years and more.”
“And you will be living away from here all that time,
Mr. Rodney!” I said despairingly. “Do you know how
long you have been away already?”
“I do indeed Gracie—better than you can.”
“I don't know where the next two years will place us as
they roll on,” said my father, “but so long as we are here
—so long as we have a home any where Mr. Rodney, it is
yours too. Will you remember my words?”
“I could not forget them Mr. Howard,” he answered
with one of his old looks of brightness and pleasure. But
it changed immediately.
“Then come to us whenever you can,” said my father.
“When is your next time of leisure?”
“Not for some months sir, and I shall be further off this
year than I was the last. I cannot tell when you will see
me again—I dare not promise myself that it will be soon
—there may be several hindrances in my way.”
“But you mustn't be hindered, Mr. Rodney,” I said,—
“we shall want to see you so much.”
“And as Grace says,” remarked Kate, “perhaps Wolfgang
will get tired of us.”
“I shall get tired of him if he does,” said Mr. Rodney.
“No, that cannot be,—I fear the weariness will be on your
side, if you often indulge him with such a place as he enjoys
at present.”
“It would have been unkind not to let him in to-night.”
“And other nights”—I said,—“he is never in the way,—
mamma was saying that only this morning—and papa is
so fond of dogs!”
“Well,” said Mr. Collingwood with a smile at my earnestness,
“I am sure of Wolfgang's comfort; but remember
Gracie, you have promised to let me know if any of
you should wish him away.”
“You may be quite easy on that point,” said my father.
We were alone indeed when Mr. Rodney had gone.
Not a friend in the neighbourhood for whom we cared
much—not one; and it was fast becoming true that the
neighbourhood cared little for us. We did not regret it
that winter,—the sleighs that came were so loaded with
fashions and entertainments and new buildings, the last arrivals
of news from town and the arrivals that were daily
expected,—we saw them drive off with pleasure. Mr.
Ellis was always very welcome, but he was too far off and
too busy to come often.
We had taken Caddie back: partly because we could
not bear to have her go to strangers, partly from the belief
that Mrs. Howard's health would by no means endure such
another time of exertion. And as my father said, “We
had tried the experiment, and it didn't seem to make much
difference—we might as well be comfortable while we
could.” And that was a comfort, to the body at least;
though perhaps it gave the mind more time to bethink
itself.
O hearts and affections! of what stuff are they made?—
There was no feeling, no real loneliness in that distant
churchyard; and yet when the weather changed for cold
driving winds and winter storms, it gave me a pang—I
never heard them without it; and even the snow had lost
Miss Easy's last resting-place. The solitude was not felt
there, but it weighed upon me,—a constant, undefined pain
that only declared itself as some bitter blast swept eddying
round the house; or when we gathered about our little
twilight fire, that shone more on the past than the present.
The spring came—but its warm sun and springing vegetation
had their contrasts,—it was like going to some old
lookout point to see what changes a year had wrought in
the landscape. Ah how many this time! and there was
not a flower or a bird that did not speak of them.
Kate and I had determined that the little rose-hedged
garden should not be left to utter desolation—we could not
bear the thought. Keep it in perfect order we could not,
for it was too far away, but my stepmother agreed to walk
there with us every afternoon, that at least the flowers
might be kept trimmed and tied up, and the more flourishing
weeds pulled away. It was a great pleasure to do this,
—there was nothing in the garden with which we had not
some association—that we did not love for Miss Easy's
sake; and to spend upon her favourite plants some of the
love we bore her, seemed almost a relief. Now and then
my father went with us, and applied his strong hand and
knife to the Cherokee rose, which had learned that it was a
free country.
We were there one day, smoothing the earth about the
tulip and daffodil shoots, and watching the fair and sunny-faced
crocuses that seemed almost to open wider as we
looked at them, and Mrs. Howard stood watching us;
when Ezra Barrington came tramping along the road,
whistling his favourite “Hail Columby.” At sight of us
he checked foot and voice together, and turning about
walked up to the hedge.
“Well!” he remarked, “that does go ahead of all I ever
see or heerd tell on! You baint agoin to dig it up, be
you?”
“O no, we can't do that,” said Kate; “we are only
making it look a little nice.”
Ezra gave two or three nods of his head, and then stood
in contemplative silence.
“I reckon the posies would grow a deal better if there
he said at length.
“Yes indeed,” I said, looking sadly at our insufficient
top-dressing, “the ground wants much more done to it,
but this is better than nothing.” And somewhat disheartened
by the recollection how little better it was, I
stooped down and began at another place.
“I s'pose it wouldn't take me long to fix it,” said Ezra
ruminating.
“But you haven't time,” said Kate.
“I s'pose I could find it,” he replied in the same meditative
way,—“I never looked for anything yet I couldn't find,
'cept a four-leaved clover—and I don't believe that ever
had existence, though my woman says she's seen 'em.
Gracious! Miss Kate,” he added energetically, and surveying
the little patch of ground with great contempt,
“why if I had a team in here, I'd put through it afore you
could say gee!”
“But then the plough wouldn't do,” said I; “and digging
is slower work.”
“That's a fact!” said Mr. Barrington gravely. “I reckon
I could ha' made that up by myself. Well—so long's
all Mr. Carvill's work gets done 'tain't none o' his business
what else I take a notion to,—a bit o' fun 'll do me as
much good as other folks, I'm thinking. But look a here
—I can't come down to this 'ere `ring o' roses' by myself,
—there'd be the mischief to pay, and nothin to pay him
with, neither.”
“O we would come with you any time,” said I—“whenever
you're ready,—and be so much obliged to you Mr.
Barrington!”
“That'll work then,” he answered: “'cause you see I
don't know nothin about gimcracks, and I should dig some
on 'em up for sartain. I can tell young oats with any man,
but my wife says sun-flowers is quite different.”
“And when will you come?” said Kate smiling.
“Couldn't say,” said Ezra looking somewhat puzzled,—
“my idees ain't begun to be made up on the subject. I'll
stop down and tell ye. I s'pose Mr. Collingwood wouldn't
have no objections? by rights he had ought to be asked.
He'd like what was done by anythin of the name o' Howard,
see's another guess sort o' chap.”
“I am sure he would be pleased,” said Mrs. Howard
with a smile.
“Well—I guess likely,” said Ezra,—“it don't make
much odds—only I'd as soon not get mad with him, for
he's a leetle the smartest man I know.”
The plan thus satisfactorily arranged was soon carried
out, and Ezra's sturdy arm made almost as light of the
matter as if the digging had been ploughing. And by the
time that was done, he had got so interested in the work
or the garden or us, as to spend many a grey morning
hour in the wheat-field that he might have time to spare in
the afternoon. He would interfere most watchfully to
save our hands from briars, or to uproot some dock or
mallows that had grown tall unperceived; but he never
attempted the finer work; and would shake his head
gravely over our raking, and profess that “we beat him
gardening all to pieces!”
And so tended, the garden flourished and looked gay and
lovely as ever, save for the one shade that came from the
closed and shuttered Venetian window. And the sweet
spring wind that could there gain no admittance seemed
to come sighing back to us, to tell of the different reception
it had met in former years. It touched my heart so
nearly, it found so ready an entrance there, that I could
sometimes scarce work for weeping. Wolfgang always
went with us, and would lie quietly on the grass or the
gravel-walk, contributing his share of interest and association.
“Miss Kate,” said Ezra one afternoon, as he gave the
last blow to a support for a Lady Banks rose, “I hope
there ain't much of the cat about me, as is always lookin
into other people's cupboards; but don't you think this here
garden could live along without you for a spell? I'd see
that there didn't nothin mislist it.”
“Why yes, I suppose so,” said Kate looking at him inquiringly.
“'Cause that 'ere curiosity's exhibitin itself agin,” said
Ezra, as he gave the stake a trial that embodied the spirit
of two or three north-westers,—“and I reckoned you
to pull this up!”
“Mr. Carvill?” said I.
“I never see nothin else half so curious,” was the satisfactory
reply.
“Is he here now?” said Kate.
“Come a shootin,” said Ezra.
“But will he be likely to come in this direction?”
“Couldn't say,” replied Mr. Barrington. “If you'd asked
me where he wouldn't be Miss Kate, I could ha' telled ye,
and that's to home,—walk over there any time o' day when
you'd calculate to find him, and 'tain't likely you will. If
he knowed as much as he thinks he does, he'd be down here
straight.”
“Why?” I said—“what makes you think so?”
“Hum”—said Ezra,—“he likes to fire away at most
anythin. He ain't quite a coon yet neither—so I thought
likely he might take you and Miss Kate for pigeons.”
It was impossible to make out Mr. Barrington's understanding
of his own words, for his gravity was impenetrable;—but
we thanked him for his information and resolved
to profit by it. We did not indeed wish to meet Mr. Carvill;
and not content with absenting ourselves from the
garden, we set very short limits to our walks within our
own grounds. Vain precaution!
After a chill, cloudy day which had persuaded us to remain
in the house, a few late sunbeams struggled forth, and
Kate and I ran out to enjoy them. It was what the Irish
call a “pretty” evening—soft and quiet; and wrapped in
our shawls we rambled on from one walk to another, with
no fear of intruders so near home. But it happened that
at the same time, Mr. Carvill—whether belated or tired—
had availed himself of a short road across our premises to
his own; and we met him without even a moment's warning.
As usual he had been after game, but this day had
been unpropitious. His bag was empty, his dress looked
wet, and himself a trifle discontented. Wolfgang knew
him too well to bark, but the dignified growl and raising
of the ears sufficiently marked his appreciation of the curiosity.
“So,” said Mr. Carvill, stopping us short as we were
have got Rodney's dog.”
“Yes, for the present,” Kate said.
“Slender piece of time, `the present'”—said Mr. Carvill,
—“for the past, by your leave Miss Howard; and for the
future I will take care of him.”
“No sir,” Kate answered quietly, but with no concession
in her voice.
“I haven't an idea what `no sir' means—except in some
circumstances”—said the gentleman in an under tone. “Is
this the beginning of the `nineteen nay-says' Miss Howard?”
“I hope fewer than that will content you Mr. Carvill,”
replied Kate in the same cool and quiet manner.
“Content go to the winds!” he said—“I'm like to have
little of it. What's to hinder my taking the dog home
with me now?”
“I must leave that to yourself sir,—but I beg that you
will not hinder our reaching home before nightfall.”
And by a quick motion we passed him and walked on.
But he turned and joined us, after a vain attempt to make
Wolfgang follow him in another direction,—the dog most
emphatically showed his teeth—thereby not sweetening Mr.
Carvill's temper.
“I've heard of `Love me, love my dog,'” he remarked—
“never saw it acted out before! Am I to understand young
ladies, that I alone am to be debarred from showing my
affection to my absent brother?”
The smile with which Kate had greeted Wolfgang's reappearance
in front of her, gave place to a somewhat bright
colour, but she made no reply.
“Well!” said Mr. Carvill rather sulkily, “silence gives
consent to something—I should like to know what! May
I venture to inquire to whom the dog belongs? whether he
is a general assignment or a special gage-d'amitié?—or is it
a system of mutual trust? I know some people used to
think it dangerous for ladies to walk alone.”
“I shall believe it in future!” said Kate as she turned and
confronted her tormentor. “Mr. Carvill—”
He stopped and stood profoundly attentive. With such
an air of deference too, of admiration, of amusement—it
was hard to tell whether he was most glad to have roused
and the sparkling glance of her eye spent itself upon
a tuft of violets.
“Nothing you can say sir, will make any difference,” she
went on,—“I wish you would understand that, once for
all.”
“Rather a mortifying thing to understand, too!” said
Mr. Carvill—“perhaps on the whole, satisfactory. But
Miss Howard, with all submission, if what I say really
makes `no difference'—I believe I am dull, it does not occur
to me why I may not have the pleasure of saying it.”
“Because I am tired of the subject,” said Kate, “and
don't mean to talk about it any longer.”
“Tout de bon?” he replied,—“well—of course—if that
be so—silence! But after all I think I am fairly entitled to
an answer—your definitive Miss Howard. Am I to have
the dog or no?”
“Certainly not!” said Kate; “he is to stay with us till
Mr. Collingwood comes for him.”
“I wonder what else Mr. Collingwood will come for?”
said Mr. Carvill impatiently turning away,—“I suppose
he'll have it, whatever it is! Good bye young ladies—
pray don't fail to guard Mr. Collingwood's dog with all
care and tenderness—a proverb sometimes works both
ways.”—And with steps that promised to give him the
benefit of all the wet bushes in his way, our unneighbourly
neighbour disappeared.
| CHAPTER XXVII. Dollars and cents | |