 | CHAPTER I. Dollars and cents |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
And rather like a dream, than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants: Had I not
Four or five women once that tended me?
Tempest.
I WAS but a young thing, not yet
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet”—
During my first years, we had enjoyed what some of our
ancestors had toiled for; and my father after each day's
soaring and diving into philosophy and science walked about
our garden in silk stockings and with a rose in his mouth,—
at that time I was a little thing that the rose-bushes looked
down upon. And I looked up to them, with admiring eyes
that often went higher still, and took in the straw hat that
Mr. Howard wore of an afternoon: certainly that hat was
a miracle for all purposes of shade and adornment.
Our winters were spent in town, and in the long evenings
I, perched on a chair by my father, studied with him the
last engravings which he had sent home,—wondering at the
easily, and sometimes hiding them with my hand, to test his
skill or recollection. Pleasant little unbound packages!—
pleasant to me still is the thought of their brown and yellow
covers as they lay piled on the pier-table, whither my feet
made frequent journeys, as bundle after bundle was exhausted.
And Kate would look up from her studies and say,
“Another one already!—why how fast you get on to-night.”
And I would reply,
“O it's only St. Bruno—and we didn't want to see him.”
Then at other times there was talk,—often above my
comprehension, and where I could only amuse myself with
the different looks and tones of the speakers; with Kate's
earnestness and my father's coolness, and with Mrs. Howard's
smile at them both and at my listening face. If my
father caught sight of this last, he would often end the lesson
he was giving with some laughing remark to me.
“It is well you are a little younger than Kate, Gracie, or
I should do nothing but answer questions.”
And to reward my close attention he would give us a
long account of some one of his favourite shells,—where it
was found, and how it was obtained, and what its former
inhabitant lived on,—or now and then a mineral was the
text; but there I soon lost footing again, between the crust
of the earth and its different strata. And yet though my
thoughts could grasp but very little of such subjects, they
seldom came down without some token of where they had
been—a kind of stepping-stone for the next effort.
“To labour, and to be content with what a man hath, is
a sweet life,” says some wise proverb: of the first clause
we had then no experience, but for a time we did prove the
second, and the conclusion.
Then came the years of speculation, when money seemed
as inexhaustible as the gold of California, and far more easily
come by. No labour nor content now,—the bargain of
yesterday sold for five thousand dollars advance to-day;
with almost as little ceremony as in the Irishman's “Done
and done, is enough between two jantlemen.”
I thought and cared little about the matter—even the tangible
part of it; though I certainly found it pleasant to ride to
to pay as many visits as I liked to the candy shops,—but I
had never felt the want of money, and knew not its value—
even so much as a child may know. It seems strange to me
now, to think of accounts at the Bank,—of the time when
cheques cost but a scratch of my father's pen.—As I have
said, there came a change.
It came, and was at work some time before it reached my
understanding; and the tokens of its progress puzzled and
sometimes disturbed me—giving a sort of check like a handful
of earth thrown on a young plant's head. But the impulse
of life and spirits was too strong—and after a few
minutes the shoot would push its way through the encumbering
soil, and shake off the last particle from its un-tear-wet
leaves.
“Mamma,” I said on one of these occasions, “that man
must have sent home the wrong handkerchiefs—these aren't
near so fine as my last set.”
“I know they are not, Gracie,” she answered.
The words struck me with a sort of surprise. That my
stepmother should have done a thing of intent, was as much
as to say, that thing was best to do; and an undefined half
realization of the truth, took away all desire of further information,—I
asked not another word. And Mrs. Howard
quietly left the lesson to Time's teaching.
That was in the beginning of our descent—I had yet to
get used to it. Now, on looking back, I feel as if we had
come like a child slipping down hill,—afraid to let ourselves
go, and catching at every bush to stop our progress; but
that if we had come straight to the bottom, it would have
hurt us less than we imagined, and we should the sooner
have got breath to go up again. For even in temporal
things, the valley of humiliation is far more pleasant than
the side-hill which leads to it. Yet I do not mean to regret
what is passed,—the shock has perhaps been less—the
wholesome discipline and experience, greater.
Let me go back for a moment to the time when our feet
began to lose ground, softly, softly,—when we laid hold of a
great tree that we thought would sustain us—finding too late
that its top spread further than its roots; ere I tell how that
tree loosened and loosened, and finally brought us to the
comfort,—neither strength nor hope was quite destroyed.
“And indeed,” says Bunyan of the valley, “it is a fruitful
soil, and doth bring forth by handfuls.”—
Gently the wind swept over the snow-covered streets;
gently the firelight brightened and faded, brightened and
faded, on the ceiling of the last parlour where we sat as rich
people; while my father was conning one of a half dozen
evening papers, and pencils and books occupied other
heads and hands that were about the table. Suddenly broke
forth the following advertisement.
“For sale—A large property on the banks of Lake Luna,
—consisting of meadow, farm, and woodland—splendid sites
for country-seats, unrivalled water-power, &c., &c., &c.
The scenery and salubrity of this celebrated place cannot be
surpassed. Roads of the greatest variety and excellence
afford opportunity for driving and equestrian exercise; while
pedestrians will find a never-failing source of delight in the
romantic strolls about the neighbourhood.
“Fish and game abound in every direction; and the near
vicinity of the Honiton turnpike (one of the finest in the
country) renders it easy for gentlemen who are so disposed,
to attend to their business in other places.
“The neighbourhood is eminently moral.
“A celebrated physician has been induced, rather from
regard to the mental than bodily wants of his friends, to
locate in their midst; and although there is as yet but one
church within ten miles, other denominations will no doubt
find it for their advantage to share so interesting a region.
“It is also in contemplation to erect a college in Ethan
township.
“The present proprietor being obliged to go to Europe,
is desirous of curtailing his business and responsibilities in
this country; and would dispose of the above grounds on
terms that could not fail to render them a profitable purchase.
“Apply to R. H. McLoon.—Wall-st., New York.”
“Why that is the very place!” said my father.
“What place?”
“Why the place that brother Ned is so anxious to have
has been writing of nothing else for the last two months.”
“And why should you buy it?” pursued Mrs. Howard,
with a woman's desire to know the what for—even of a
speculation.
“Why?—O Ned says the purchase money could be
doubled in no time,—and I dare say he is right. I presume
it would make my fortune.”
Mrs. Howard smiled—one of those smiles that are half a
sigh—and her eye glanced round the room. A superb coal
fire and an equally superb Carcelle lamp, shone upon Turkey
carpets, damask curtains and sofas, chandeliers, carved furniture,
pictures, shells and statues; while between the windows
a second fire and lamp seemed to gleam and blaze in the
long mirror, and called forth a reflection even from the far
end of the next room. “Make my fortune!”—
“Well?” said my father as the quiet eye came back from
its survey. “Well?—what now?”
“I was thinking,” replied my stepmother, “of what somebody
said to Alexander.”
“Fiddle-de-dee!” said my father, “but at that rate nobody
would ever speculate.”
Another slight smile, a half sorrowful shake of the head,
answered this remark, and my father seemed a little posed.
“To be sure”—he said thoughtfully, “the place is larger
than I like—some thousand acres I believe,—and would need
a good deal of attention and outlay. Well, we shall see,—
I will talk to Ned about it; but I always thought you would
like a country-seat again.”
| CHAPTER I. Dollars and cents | |