Susan Warner - Hills of the Shatemuc

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"Here's chickens for ye," said the farmer, who held the legs
of two pair in his single hand, the heads of the same
depending and screaming in company, -- "and here's three dozen
of fresh eggs -- if you want more you can send for 'em. Will
you take these along in the Merry-go-round?"

"If you please -- there is no other way," said Elizabeth. "Wait
-- let me get in first, Mr. Underhill -- Are they tied so they
can't get loose?"

"La! yes," said the old man putting them into the bow of the
boat, -- "they can't do nothin'! I'll engage they won't hurt
ye. Do you good, if you eat 'em right. Good bye! -- it's pretty
nigh slack water, I guess -- you'll go home easy. Come again! --
and you shall have some more fowls to take home with ye!" --

Elizabeth bowed her acknowledgments, and pulled away towards
home, over the bright water, wondering again very much at
herself and her chickens. The dark barrier of the western
hills rose up now before her, darkening and growing more
distant -- as she went all the way over the river home.
Elizabeth admired them and admired at herself by turns.

Near the landing, however, the boat paused again, and one oar
splashed discontentedly in the water and then lay still, while
the face of its owner betrayed a struggle of some sort going
on. The displeased brow, and the firm-set lips, said
respectively, 'I would not,' and 'I must;' and it was five
minutes good before the brow cleared up and the lips unbent to
their usual full free outline; and the oars were in play once
more, and the Merry-go-round brought in and made fast.

"Well, Miss 'Lizabeth!" said Clam who met her at the door, --
"where _have_ you been! Here's Mis' Haye been cryin' and the
tea-kettle singing an hour and a half, if it isn't two hours."

"Has Anderese come home?"

"Yes, and supper's ready, and 'taint bad, for Mis' Landholm
learned me how to do fresh mutton and cream; and it's all
ready. You look as if you wanted it, Miss 'Lizabeth. My! --"

"There are some eggs and chickens down in the boat, Clam"

"In what boat, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"In mine -- down at the rocks."

"Who fetched 'em?"

"I did, from Mr. Underhill's. You may bring them up to the
house."

Leaving her handmaid in an excess of astonishment unusual with
her, Elizabeth walked into her guest's room, where the table
was laid. Rose sat yet by the window, her head in her
handkerchief on the window-sill. Elizabeth went up to her.

"Rose --"

"What?" said Rose without moving.

"Rose -- look up at me --"

The pretty face was lifted at her bidding, but it was sullen,
and the response was a sullen "Well --"

"I am very sorry I spoke to you so -- I was very wrong. I am
very sorry. Forgive me and forget it -- will you?"

"It was very unkind!" -- said Rose, her head going down again
in fresh tears.

"It was very unkind and unhandsome. What can I say more, but
that I am sorry? Won't you forget it?"

"Of course," said Rose wiping her eyes, -- "I don't want to
remember it if you want to forget it. I dare say I was foolish
--"

"Then come to supper," said Elizabeth. "Here's the tea -- I'm
very hungry."

CHAPTER XVI.

And Phant'sie, I tell you, has dreams that have wings,
And dreams that have honey, and dreams that have stings,
Dreams of the maker, and dreams of the teller,
Dreams of the kitchen, and dreams of the cellar.
BEN JONSON.

A few days more passed; days of sameness in the house, while
Autumn's beautiful work was going on without, and the woods
were changing from day to day with added glories. It seemed as
if the sun had broken one or two of his beams across the
hills, and left fragments of coloured splendour all over. The
elm trees reared heads of straw-colour among their forest
brethren; the maples shewed yellow and red and flame-colour;
the birches were in bright orange. Sad purple ashes stood the
moderators of the Assembly; and hickories of gold made sunny
slopes down the mountain sides. All softened together in the
distance to a mellow, ruddy, glowing hue over the whole wood
country.

The two cousins sat by the two windows watching the fading
light, in what used once to be the 'keeping-room' -- Mrs.
Haye's now. Elizabeth had been long looking out of the window,
with a fixed, thoughtful, sorrowful, gaze. Rose's look was
never fixed long upon anything and never betrayed her thoughts
to be so. It wavered now uneasily between her cousin and the
broad and bright hills and river -- which probably Mrs. Haye
did not see.

"How long are you going to stay here, Lizzie?"

"I don't know."

"How is that old woman?"

"I don't know. There don't seem to be much difference from one
day to another."

"What ails her?"

"I don't know. I suppose it is as the doctor says, -- that
there is a general breaking up of nature."

"Is she going to live long?"

"I don't know. He said probably not."

"Well, who's going to take care of her?"

"She is taken care of. There is a woman here from Mountain
Spring, to do all that is necessary."

"Why must we stay here, Lizzie? -- it's so dismal."

"_We_ mustn't -- _I_ must."

"Why?"

"I would rather -- and I think it is right."

"To take care of that old woman?"

"No -- I can't do much for her -- but I can see that she is
taken care of."

"But how would she have done if you had never come here?"

"I don't know. I don't know what that has to do with it,
seeing that I am here."

"You wouldn't stay for her now, if she wasn't somebody's old
nurse."

Elizabeth did not answer.

"But how long _do_ you mean to stay here, Lizzie? -- any how?"

"Till I must go -- till it is less pleasant here than somewhere
else."

"And when will you think that?"

"Not for a good while."

"But _when_, Lizzie?"

"I don't know. I suppose when the cold weather comes in
earnest."

"I'm sure it has come now!" said Rose shrugging her shoulders.
"I'm shivering every morning after the fire goes out. What
sort of cold weather do you mean?"

"I mean snow and ice."

"Snow and ice -- And then you will go -- where will you go?"
said Rose discontentedly.

"I suppose, to Mannahatta."

"Will you go the first snow?"

"I cannot tell yet, Rose."

There was a pause. Elizabeth had not stirred from her
position. Her head rested yet on her hand, her eyes looked
steadily out of the window.

"It will seem so lonely there!" said Rose whimpering.

"Yes! -- more lonely than here."

"I meant in the house. But there one can get out and see some
one."

"There isn't a soul in Mannahatta I care to see."

"Lizzie! --"

"Not that I know of."

"Lizzie! -- Mr. Landholm?"

"I mean, not one that I am like to see."

"What do you go to Mannahatta for, then?" said Rose
unbelievingly.

"One must be somewhere, to do something in the world."

"To do what?"

"I don't know -- I suppose I shall find my work."

"Work? -- what work?" -- said Rose wonderingly.

"I don't know yet, Rose. But everybody has something to do in
the world -- so I have, -- and you have."

"I haven't anything. What have we to do, except what we like
to do?"

"I hope I shall like my work," said Elizabeth. "I must like
it, if I am to do it well."

"What do you mean? -- what are you talking of, Lizzie?"

"Listen to me, Rose. Do you think that you and I have been put
in this world with so many means of usefulness, of one sort
and another, and that it was never meant we should do anything
but trifle away them and life till the end of it came? Do you
think God has given us nothing to do for him?"

"_I_ haven't much means of doing anything," said Rose, half
pouting, half sobbing. "Have you taken up your friend Winthrop
Landholm's notions?"

There was a rush to Elizabeth's heart, that his name and hers,
in such a connection, should be named in the same day; but the
colour started and the eyes flushed with tears, and she said
nothing.

"What sort of 'work' do you suppose you are going to do?"

"I don't know. I shall find out, Rose, I hope, in time."

"I guess he can tell you, -- if you were to ask him," said Rose
meaningly.

Elizabeth sat a minute silent, with quickened breath.

"Rose," she said, leaning back into the room that she might
see and be seen, -- "look at me and listen to me."

Rose obeyed.

"Don't say that kind of thing to me again."

"One may say what one has a mind to, in a free land," said
Rose pouting, -- "and one needn't be commanded like a child or
a servant. Don't I know you would never plague yourself with
that old woman if she wasn't Winthrop's old nurse?"

Elizabeth rose and came near to her.

"I will not have this thing said to me!" she repeated. "My
motives, in any deed of charity, are no man's or woman's to
meddle with. Mr. Landholm is most absolutely nothing to me,
nor I to him; except in the respect and regard he has from me,
which he has more or less, I presume, from everybody that has
the happiness of knowing him. Do you understand me, Rose?
clearly?"

Another answer was upon Rose's tongue, but she was cowed, and
only responded a meek 'yes.' Elizabeth turned and walked off
in stately fashion to the door of the kitchen. The latch was
raised, and then she let it fall again, came back, and stood
again with a very different face and voice before her guest.

"Rose," she said gravely, "I didn't speak just in the best way
to you; but I do not always recollect myself quickly enough.
You mustn't say that sort of thing to me -- I can't bear it. I
am sorry for anything in my manner that was disagreeable to
you just now."

And before Rose had in the least made up her mind how to
answer her, Elizabeth had quitted the room.

"She ain't goin' never!" said Clam, meeting and passing her
mistress as she entered the kitchen. "_I_ don't believe! She's a
goin' to stay."

Karen sat in her wonted rocking-chair before the fire, rocking
a very little jog on her rockers. Elizabeth came up to the
side of the fireplace and stood there, silent and probably
meditative. She had at any rate forgotten Karen, when the old
woman spoke, in a feebler voice than usual.

"Is the Governor comin'?"

"What, Karen?" said Elizabeth, knowing very well what she had
asked, but not knowing so well the drift and intent of it.

"Is the Governor comin'? will he be along directly?"

"No -- I suppose not. Do you want to see him, Karen?"

"I'd like to see him," said the old woman covering her eyes
with her withered hand. "I thought he was comin'."

"Perhaps something may bring him, some day. I dare say you
will see him by and by -- I don't know how soon."

"I'll see him _there_," said the old woman. "I can't stay here
long."

"Why, you don't seem any worse, Karen, do you? Aren't you
going to be well again?"

"Not here," said the old woman. "I'm all goin' to pieces. I'll
go to bed to-night, and I won't get up again."

"Don't say that, Karen; because I think you will."

"I'll go to bed," she repeated in a rather plaintive manner.
"I thought he'd be here."

It touched Elizabeth acutely; perhaps because she had so near
a fellow feeling that answered Karen's, and allowed her to
comprehend how exceedingly the desire for his presence might
grow strong in one who had a right to wish for it. And she
knew that he would reckon old Karen his friend, whatever other
people would do.

"What can I do for you, Karen?" she said gently. "Let me be
the best substitute I can. What can I do for you, that he
could do better?"

"There can't nobody do just the Governor's work," said his old
nurse. "I thought he'd ha' been here. This'll be my last
night, and I'd like to spend it hearin' good things."

"Would you like me to send for anybody," said Elizabeth.

"Could ye send for _him?_" said Karen earnestly.

"Not in time. No, Karen, -- there'd be no time to send a
message from here to Mannahatta and get him here to-night."

She jogged herself back and forward a little while on her
rocking-chair; and then said she would go to bed. Elizabeth
helped her into the little room, formerly Asahel's, opening
out of the kitchen, which she had insisted Karen should take
during her illness; and after she was put to bed, came again
and asked her what she should do for her. Karen requested to
have the Bible read.

Elizabeth set open the kitchen door, took a low seat by
Karen's bedside, and established herself with her book. It was
strange work to her, to read the Bible to a person who thought
herself dying. She, who so lately had to do with everything
else but the Bible, now seated by the bedside of an old black
woman, and the Bible the only matter in hand between the two.
Karen's manner made it more strange. She was every now and
then breaking in upon the reading, or accompanying it, with
remarks and interjections. Sometimes it was "Hallelujah!" --
sometimes, "That's true, that's true!" -- sometimes, and very
often, "Praise the Lord!" Not loud, nor boisterous; they were
most of the time little underbreath words said to herself,
words seemingly that she could not help, the good of which she
took and meant for nobody else's edification. They were
however very disagreeable and troublesome to Elizabeth's ears
and thoughts; she had half a mind to ask Karen to stop them;
but the next sighing "That's true!" -- checked her; if it was
such a comfort to the old woman to hold counsel with herself,
and Elizabeth could offer nothing better, the least she could
do was to let her alone. And then Elizabeth grew accustomed to
it; and at last thoughts wandered a little by turns to take up
their new trade of wondering at herself and at the new,
unwonted life she seemed beginning to lead. There was a
singular pleasantness in what she was doing; she found a grave
sweet consciousness of being about the right work; but
presently to her roving spirit the question arose whether
_this_, -- this new and certainly very substantial pleasure, --
were perhaps the chief kind she was hereafter to look forward
to, or find in this life; -- and Elizabeth's heart confessed to
a longing desire for something else. And then her attention
suddenly came back to poor Karen at her side saying, softly,
"Bless the Lord, O my soul!" -- Elizabeth stopped short; she
was choked.

At this juncture Clam noiselessly presented herself.

"He's come, Miss 'Lizabeth."

The start that Miss Haye's inward spirits gave at this, was
not to be seen at all on the outside. She looked at Clam, but
she gave no sign that her words had been understood. Yet
Elizabeth had understood them so well, that she did not even
think at first to ask the question, and when she did, it was
for form's sake, _who_ had come? Probably Clam knew as much, for
she only repeated her words.

"He's come. What'll I do with him, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Where is he?"

"He ain't come yet -- he's comin'."

"Coming when? And what do you mean by saying he is come?"

"I don't mean nothin' bad," said Clam. "He's just a comin' up
the walk from the boat -- I see him by the moon."

"See who it is, first, before you do anything with him; and
then you can bring me word."

Elizabeth closed her book however, in some little doubt what
she should do with herself. She knew, -- it darted into her
mind, -- that it would please Winthrop to find her there; that
it would meet his approbation; and then with the stern
determination that motives of self-praise, if they came into
her head should not come into her life, she hurried out and
across the kitchen and hid her book in her own room. Then came
out into the kitchen and stood waiting for the steps outside
and for the opening of the door.

"You are come in good time," she said, as she met and answered
Winthrop's offered hand.

"I am glad I am in time," he said.

"Karen has been wishing for you particularly to-night -- but I
don't know that that is any sign, except to the superstitious,
that she is in particular danger."

"I shall be all the more welcome, at any rate."

"I don't know whether that is possible, in Karen's case. But
did you know she wanted you? -- did you know she was ill?"

"Do you suppose nothing but an errand of mercy could bring
me?" he answered slightly, though with a little opening of the
eyes which Elizabeth afterwards remembered and speculated
upon. But for the present she was content with the pleasant
implication of his words. Clam was ordered to bring
refreshments. These Winthrop declined; he had had all he
wanted. Then Elizabeth asked if he would like to see Karen.

She opened the door, which she had taken care to shut, and
went in with him.

"Karen -- here is the Governor, that you were wishing for."

The old woman turned her face towards them; then stretched out
her hand, and spoke with an accent of satisfied longing that
went at least to one heart.

"I thought he'd come," she said. "Governor! --"

Winthrop leaned over to speak to her and take her hand.
Elizabeth longed to hear what he would say, but she had no
business there; she went out, softly closing the door.

She was alone then; and she stood on the hearth before the
fire in a little tumult of pleasure, thinking how she should
dispose of her guest and what she might do for him.

"Once more I have a chance," she thought; "and I may never in
the world have another -- He will not come here again before I
go back to Mannahatta, he cannot stay in my house there, -- and
another summer is very far off, and very uncertain. He'll not
be very likely to come here -- he may be married -- and I am
very sure I shall not want to see his wife here -- I shall not
do it. -- Though I might ask her for his sake -- No! I should
better break with him at once and have no more to do with him;
it would be only misery." "And what is it now?" said something
else. And "Not misery" -- was the answer.

"Where will I put him, Miss 'Lizabeth?" said the voice of Clam
softly at her elbow. Elizabeth started.

"You must take my room. I will sleep with Mrs. Haye. Clam --
what have we got in the house? and what can you do in the way
of cooking?"

"I can do some things -- for some folks," said Clam. "Wa'n't my
cream gravy good the other day?"

"Cream gravy! -- with what?"

"Fresh lamb, -- mutton, I would say."

"But you have got no fresh mutton now, have you?"

"Maybe Mr. Underhill has," said Clam with a twinkle of her
bright eye.

"Mr. Underhill's fresh mutton is on the other side of the
river. What have we got on this side?"

"Pretty much of nothing," said Clam, "this side o' Mountain
Spring. Anderese ain't no good but to make the fire -- it takes
mor'n him to find somethin' to put over it."

"Then you'll have to go to Mountain Spring before breakfast,
Clam."

"Well, m'm. Who'll take care of the house while I'm gone, Miss
'Lizabeth?"

"Mrs. Cives -- can't she?"

"Mis' Cives is gone off home."

"Gone home! -- what, to Mountain Spring?"

"That's where her home is, she says."

"What for? and without asking?"

"She wanted to spend to-night at home, she said; and she asked
no questions and went."

"To night of all nights! when Karen seems so much worse!"

"It's good we've got the Governor," said Clam.

"But he can't sit up all night with her."

"Guess he will," said Clam. "Pretty much like him. You can
sleep in your bed, Miss 'Lizabeth."

"You go and get the room ready -- he must not sit up all night
-- and we'll see in the morning about Mountain Spring. Somebody
must go."

"He'll go if you ask him," said Clam. "He'd do the marketing
best, now, of all of us. He knows just where everything is.
'Fact is, we want him in the family pretty much all the time."

"Let him know when his room is ready, and offer him
refreshments, -- and call me if I am wanted."

Clam departed; but Elizabeth, instead of doing the same, took
a chair on the kitchen hearth and sat down to await any
possible demands upon her. She could hear a quiet sound of
talking in Karen's room; now and then the old woman's less
regulated voice, more low or more shrill, broke in upon the
subdued tones of the other. Elizabeth thought she would have
given _anything_ to be a hearer of what was said and listened to
there; but the door was shut; it was all for Karen and not for
her; and she gave up at last in despair and retreated to her
cousin's room.

"So he's come?" said Rose.

"Yes! -- he's come. Did you know he was coming?"

"I! -- No, -- I didn't know he was coming. How should I?"

"Did you _think_ he was coming, Rose?"

"I didn't know but he'd come," said Rose a little awkwardly,
"I didn't know anything about it."

Elizabeth chose to ask no further question. Somewhat mortified
already, she would not give herself any more certain ground of
mortification, not at that time. She would talk no more with
Rose. She went to bed; and long after her companion was
asleep, she listened for Winthrop's coming out or Clam's
colloquy with him, and for any possible enquiry after herself.
She heard Clam tap at the door -- she heard the undistinguished
sound of words, and only gathered that Winthrop probably was
declining all proffered comforts and luxuries and choosing to
spend the night by Karen's pillow. And weary and sorry and
sick of everything in the world, Elizabeth went to sleep.

She waked up in the morning to hear the twittering of the
birds around the house. They were singing busily of the coming
day, but the day had not come yet; at least it was some time
before sunrise. Elizabeth softly got up, softly dressed
herself, and went out into the kitchen. That messenger must be
despatched for something for breakfast.

She was met by Clam coming in from another door.

"Well, Clam," said her mistress, "where is everybody this
morning?"

"I don't know where I am yet," said Clam. "Everybody's abed
and asleep, I 'spose. Where be you, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Did Mr. Landholm sit up all night?"

"'Most. He said 'twas near upon two o'clock."

"When?"

"When he had done sittin' up, and went to bed."

"How was Karen?"

"I 'spose she was _goin'_, but she ain't in no hurry -- she ain't
gone yet."

"Then she was no worse?"

"She was better. She was slicked up wonderful after seein' the
Governor, she telled me. I wonder who ain't."

"He has not come out of his room yet, I suppose?"

"I hope he haint," said Clam, "or I don' know when we'll get
breakfast -- 'less he turns to and helps us."

"He will want a good one, after last night, and yesterday's
journey. Where's Anderese?"

"He took some bread and milk," said Clam.

"Well -- where's Anderese? we must send him to Mountain
Spring."

"He's got to go after wood, Miss 'Lizabeth -- there ain't three
sticks more 'n 'll set the fire agoing."

"Must he! Then you must go, Clam."

"Very good. Who'll set the table, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Emma can. Or you can, after you get back."

"And there's the fire to make, and the floor to sweep, and the
knives to clean, and the bread to make --"

"Bread! --" said Miss Haye.

"Or cakes," said Clam. "One or t'other 'll be wanted. I don't
care which."

"Don't Emma know how?"

"She don't know a thing, but how to put Mrs. Haye's curls over
a stick -- when she ain't doin' her own."

"Then give me a basket -- I'll go to Mountain Spring myself."

"Who'll bring the meat and things home?"

"I will; -- or fish, or eggs, -- something, whatever I can get."

"It 'll tire you, Miss 'Lizabeth -- I guess, before you get
back."

"You find me a basket -- while I put on my bonnet," said Clam's
mistress. And the one thing was done as soon as the other.

"I 'spect I'll wake up some morning and find myself playing on
the pianny-forty," said Clam, as she watched her young
mistress walking off with the basket.

CHAPTER XVII.

When was old Sherwood's head more quaintly curled?
Or looked the earth more green upon the world?
Or nature's cradle more enchased and purled?
When did the air so smile, the wind so chime,
As quiristers of season, and the prime?
BEN JONSON.

Miss Haye, however, had never sent her fingers over the keys
with more energy, than now her feet tripped over the dry
leaves and stones in the path to Mountain Spring. She took a
very rough way, through the woods. There was another, much
plainer, round by the wagon road; but Elizabeth chose the more
solitary and prettier way, roundabout and hard to the foot
though it was.

For some little distance there was a rude wagon-track, very
rough, probably made for the convenience of getting wood. It
stood thick with pretty large stones or heads of rock; but it
was softly grass-grown between the stones and gave at least a
clear way through the woods, upon which the morning light if
not the morning sun beamed fairly. A light touch of white
frost lay upon the grass and covered the rocks with bloom, the
promise of a mild day. After a little, the roadway descended
into a bit of smooth meadow, well walled in with trees, and
lost itself there. In the tree-tops the morning sun was
glittering; it could not get to the bottom yet; but up there
among the leaves it gave a bright shimmering prophecy of what
it would do; it was a sparkle of heavenly light touching the
earth. Elizabeth had never seen it before; she had never in
her life been in the woods at so early an hour. She stood
still to look. It was impossible to help feeling the light of
that glittering promise; its play upon the leaves was too
joyous, too pure, too fresh. She felt her heart grow stronger
and her breath come freer. What was the speech of those light-
touched leaves, she might not have told; something her spirit
took knowledge of while her reason did not. Or had not leisure
to do; for if she did not get to Mountain Spring in good
season she would not be home for breakfast. Yet she had plenty
of time, but she did not wish to run short. So she went on her
way.