 | CHAPTER II. Dollars and cents |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
And ebb'd much faster than it flow'd before.
Dryden.
THE man who getting frightened when half across a river,
turned about and swam back, has been more laughed at
than he deserved; for there is always at least a question of
shores, and the remnant of that strength which will suffice to
reach either, may be much the most available on one. It is
possible to rest and recruit, where enterprise would be
madness.
Had we followed this renowned example, and turned our
backs upon Fortune when she took leave of us, we should
have been—I don't know what—it is impossible now to say;
but we should not have been the possessors of Glen Luna.
Like wise people we pushed on, and entered “the diggings”
with neither the proper utensils nor the means and skill to
procure and use them.
One precautionary measure we did take—we sold our
town house,—as soldiers burn the ships which have brought
them where they are to conquer or die. It was not quite
for the same reason; but the times were changed now, in
earnest, and as we could not keep all, of course we chose
the new. How far this desired possession had made it
needful to part with most things else, perhaps no one
guessed but Mrs. Howard; nor do I now know. One thing
was certain,—we were to leave Philadelphia, and because
we must.
Various were the opinions of people about us and our
private arrangements,—and my father's regard to them was
as steadily cool and careless. In the first place he merely
meant to go for the summer; and had that not been so, with
nave said,
And much to gain, a litel for to yield.”
Shame!—that found no place in my father's mind, with
such a police as his own honour and self-respect; and if he
had been to try his hand at daily labour instead of a new
speculation, he would have walked as erect, and look people
in the face as unshrinkingly. He had no fear of losing himself,
anywhere.
Mrs. Willet declared his conduct was “noble! noble!”—
a speech I could make nothing of, for I understood but partially
the reasons of that conduct. It seemed a small piece
of self-denial to give up one house for another; and as my
imagination had already supplied Glen Luna with chickens,
cats, and flowers—three tribes that flourish but ill in a city
—I thought we were like to gain as many pleasures as we
should lose. But sense and appreciation were quickened as
the last weeks came, and I knew them to be the last, and
felt them going!
Stephanie Holbrook—a somewhat quicksilver ward of my
father's—was to spend our moving-time with her aunt, Mrs.
Eustace; and as Kate had not been well, it was agreed that
she should go too and escape the confusion. While they
remained, nothing was stirred nor taken leave of. Yes—
there was one exception,—Kate and I had a farewell drive,
and stood watching the quick feet of our receding ponies as
they trotted round the corner, with a feeling of sadness that
would perhaps have been deeper, had we known how many
a long day would pass before their successors appeared at
Glen Luna. But at all events these were old friends; and
we had seen them toss their heads and kick their feet over
the traces, till we felt well acquainted. Perhaps too, the
young hearts felt what the young reason could not quite follow
out and define,—some shadowy if: as though other of
our comforts were beginning to trot off in a cloud of dust.
Certainly we both entered the house feeling very sober; and
I began to cling more closely to all we were to part with.
“It is good that we can keep our saddle-horses,” Kate said
with a half sigh,—“I should be sorry to think we should
shall make us ride a great deal, Gracie.”
I assented, with that qualifying breath of which I was
learning the use, but the house did not regain its old look.
Neither was there any other look to brighten it. There was
altogether too much resolution about my father—he could
not have come down to common intercourse, if he had had
time. Mrs. Howard was too busy, and too anxious; and
Kate's untutored foot tried too hard to keep step with my
father's. Stephanie chose her own way of expressing her
thoughts.
“Do you suppose, Kate,” she would say, “that we shall
have any occasion for kid gloves in the backwoods? Or
what do you think of our speculating a little—selling all
our laces and buying linen collars? a great many more than
we want, but still very useful. I don't know whether Mechlin
and Valenciennes will be quite becoming in farmer's
daughters.”
A very decided refusal of this last title was expressed by
Kate without words.
“You may be as scornful as you please, my dear—it's
true. I don't know what the women wear, but you'll not
see a coat in that region that isn't made of baize, nor a pair
of pantaloons of anything but velveteen.”
“I shall not see many of them,” was Kate's cool rejoinder.
Other people however, took up the same notion; and we
were favoured with more than one speech of warning and
condolence; but they went for little, because, as we said, no
one had any right to make them. Meanwhile the season
stood not still, and by the time spring was half gone Mrs.
Eustace came for her visiters. That was the breaking-up
day—after it the sooner we went the better.
It did not look like breaking up,—the April sun shone very
fairly, and all the imprisoned birds in the street sang their
gratitude for the imaginary freedom they enjoyed outside
the brick walls; or rather that the wires which kept them
in were passable to sunbeams. So were not the dark lines
which had ranged themselves around me,—I had treasured
up all my regrets for that day, and there was not one of
them wanting. From that chief one—the parting with Kate
—the rest seemed to stretch away in perspective.
I said goodbye to Stephanie and saw her get into the carriage,
unmoved; but when Kate ready dressed for her journey
came down stairs, and pausing in the hall took one look
at the drawing-room—one last survey of the things we had
loved and the place where we had been so happy—I felt a
degree of sorrow that surprises me even now; and when she
slowly turned away and passed out of the front door, I felt
that we had quitted our home,—the after dismantling would
be a less matter,—the crisis was passed.
And yet it was a trial to see our beautiful rooms, where
taste and fancy and wealth had been so effective, stripped of
all their adornments,—to have the associations which like
sprites lurked in the folds of the window curtains, perched on
the chandeliers, and peeped at us from statues and vases,
scattered and driven away into the cold world of strangers.
Poor little sprites!—they come round me now, once in a
while. Even the things we were to take with us seemed to
share the general air of confiscation,—it was hard to realize
that we were to see them again, or to believe that they could
look the same when taken out of their rough boxes and set
down in a new place.
Then the furniture to be sold must be examined and displayed;
and this latter duty fell upon me.
How did I feel the lines of my face change, as with a childish
feeling of dignity and grave as was ever bearded senator,
I obeyed my father's summons to the drawing-room, and went
through all the mysteries of drawers and cushions and
strings and locks,—of which Mr. Howard knew about as
much as most men.
These strangers were not of those who “walk as friends,”
—they had bought our house and now wished to buy some
of its contents,—it never seemed to occur to them that it
was not quite the same thing as going to a cabinet-maker's.
They thought but of their own interest—not of my sorrow;
nor ever dreamed that the child who knelt by the sofa and
busied herself in untying the strings of its chintz cover, had
eyes and fingers half unfitted for the task. There was no
look towards me, no softening or hushing of their comments;
no gentle word or smile. Perhaps it was well,—I could
hardly have borne them.
And so I went quietly through my task, while Mr. Howard
abstraction, and the future occupants talked and canvassed
and measured,—this they would take because it would fit,
and that they would not take because it was old-fashioned.
The pier-glasses happened to meet their approbation; and I
think sometimes of those quiet mirrors hanging there still—
clear, bright as ever; while the little figure that danced
before them is so changed—so altered!
Oh how the new-comers plagued us during those succeeding
days of confusion! Not content with sending their furniture,
they would come themselves,—walk through the
house, open the room-doors and look in, until even the quiet
Mrs. Howard threatened desperate measures. And when I,
sometimes sick and often tired and sad, was sent upstairs
out of the way of cold and dust; and sat there all alone,
wearying myself for my sister; the first thing would be the
intrusion of a bonnet and one of those chilling strange faces.
I really thought they might have taken it out in looking at
the furniture below. But whatever else the Barons were,
they were no practisers of kind politeness; and the head of
the family drove our cook to the last stage of indignant
ridicule, by walking into the kitchen and requesting to see
the pot-closet! “She hadn't an idea that Mr. Howard had
ever heard of such a thing—no more a gentleman ought!
What had he to do with kittles but to eat what come out of
'em?—and as to wanting to know where they was kep”—
words failed, and she could do nothing but laugh.
“Prosperity gains friends, and adversity tries them.”—
The day our first carpet was taken up, a neighbour whom
we knew very slightly sent a most cordial note of request
that we would all come and stay with her till we were ready
to leave town. It could not be done, but the kindness was
not forgotten—is not to this day. Meantime nothing was
heard from Mrs. Osborne round the corner, nor Mrs. Willet
over the way,—both old friends.
My stepmother found that she had no time for farewell
visits; but the day before we were to go, she sent me to say
goodbye to a few whom age or long acquaintanceship marked
out for such an attention. With what a strange mood I
went my little round, feeling neither very well nor very
bright; exchanging silent greetings with the pavements and
self in a circle of well-known faces and loudly-spoken adieus
—I suppose they were meant for that; though they had a
kind of abstraction, a savour of curiosity or wonder or carelessness,
that kept them very far from my heart. At the
end of the round I came to Mrs. Willet's large stone house;
and after ringing the bell I stood looking up at its grey front
—becurtained to the very attic—wondering curiously with
myself when I should stand on those steps again. I was
received in full divan,—for the three Miss Willets who
would have been girls in any other house, were young ladies
in this, with all the rights of curls and braids and flounces;
and this morning their toilet had even preceded their
mother's.
“When do you leave town?” inquired Mrs. Willet.
“To-morrow afternoon, ma'am.”
“Well Grace my dear, can't you all come and sleep here
to-night? we've plenty of room you know. Wouldn't it be
a convenience? I might have had you before, and to dinner
and breakfast, but I didn't think of it. Won't Mrs. Howard
come?”
“I don't think she can, Mrs. Willet.”
“Come, I'll go and ask her myself.”—
And cutting my audience short, the lady ventured her
turbaned head into the street; but when she had half crossed
the space which divided the two houses, another lady went
up our steps.
“Who is that?” said my companion stopping short.
“Mrs. Baron.”
“O bless me, I can't go—I'm not dressed—I know her;”
and back ran Mrs. Willet, nor did we see or hear from her
again.
I have sometimes thought, that not till we are in trouble
can we understand the force of that expression, “the salt of
the earth.” How might one look, one word, season as it
were whole scores that are flat and heartless. I did not follow
out any such idea, nor indeed get hold of it; but the
want was upon me as I reached the dusty and littered sidewalk,
and saw my father overseeing the loading of a cart,
and then found my way to Mrs. Howard and declared myself
tired.
I had been under a cloud;—but now that the house was
cleared the sky seemed brighter. Child-like, I turned my
thoughts forward; and when the last hour came, and we
drove away leaving our old servants grouped together on
the sidewalk, I was much less sad than I had been before the
moving began.
| CHAPTER II. Dollars and cents | |