Chapter XII

The thing we long for, that we are, For one transcendent moment, Before the Present, poor and bare, Can make its sneering comment. Still through our paltry stir and strife Glows down the wished Ideal, And Longing moulds in clay what Life Carves in the marble Real. LOWELL.

Mr. Haye came the latter part of September to fetch his daughter and his charge home; and spent a day or two in going over the farm and making himself acquainted with the river. He was a handsome man, and very comfortable in face and figure. The wave of prosperity had risen up to his very lips, and its ripples were forever breaking there in a succession of easy smiles. He made himself readily at home in the family; with a well-mannered sort of good-humour, which seemed to belong to his fine broadcloth and beautifully plaited ruffles. Mr. Landholm was not the only one who enjoyed his company. Between him and Rufus and Miss Cadwallader and Mr. Haye, the round game of society was kept up with great spirit.

One morning Mr. Haye was resting himself with a book in his daughter's room; he had had a long tramp with the farmer. Rose went out in search of something more amusing. Elizabeth sat over her book for awhile, then looked up.

"Father," she said, "I wish you could do something to help that young man."

"What young man?"

"Winthrop Landholm."

"What does he want help for?"

"He is trying to get an education -- trying hard, I fancy," said Elizabeth, putting down her book and looking at her father, -- "he wants to make himself something more than a farmer."

"Why should he want to make himself anything more than a farmer?" said Mr. Haye without looking off _his_ book.

"Why would you, sir?"

"I would just as lief be a farmer as anything else," said Mr. Haye, "if I had happened to be born in that line. It's as good a way of life as any other."

"Why, father! -- You would rather be what you are now?"

"Well -- I wasn't born a farmer," said Mr. Haye conclusively.

"Then you would have everybody stay where he happens to be!"

"I wouldn't have anything about it," said Mr. Haye. "That's what I want for myself --let other people do what they will."

"But some people can't do what they will."

"Well --Be thankful you're not one of 'em."

"Father, if I can have what I will, I would have you help this young man."

"I don't know how to help him, child; -- he's not in my way. If he wanted to go into business, there would be something in it, but I have nothing to do with schools and Colleges."

Elizabeth's cheek lit up with one of the prettiest colours a woman's cheek ever wears, -- the light of generous indignation.

"I wish _I_ had the means!" she said.

"What would you do with it?"

"I would help him, somehow."

"My dear, you could not do it; they would not let you; their pride would stand in the way of everything of the kind."

"I don't believe it," said Elizabeth, the fire of her eye shining now through drops that made it brighter; -- "I am sure something could be done."

"It's just as well undone," said Mr. Haye calmly.

"Why, sir?" -- his daughter asked almost fiercely.

"What put this young fellow's head upon Colleges, and all that?"

"I don't know, sir! -- how should I?"

"It won't last -- it's just a freak to be a great man and get out of hob-nailed shoes -- he'll get over it; and much better he should. It's much better he should stay here and help his father, and that's what he's made for. He'll never be anything else."

Mr. Haye threw down his book and left the room; and his daughter stood at the window with her heart swelling.

"He _will_ be something else, and he'll _not_ get over it," she said to herself, while her eyes were too full to let her see a single thing outside the window. "He is fit for something else, and he will have it, hard or easy, short or long; and I hope he will! -- and oh, I wish father had done what would be for his honour in this thing! --"

There was a bitter taste to the last sentence, and tears would not wash it out. Elizabeth was more superb than ordinary that night at supper, and had neither smiles nor words for anybody.

A day or two after they were going away.

"Winthrop," she said at parting, (not at all by familiarity, but because she did not in common grant them a right to any title whatsoever) -- "may I leave you my little Merry-go-round? -- and will you let nobody have the charge of it except yourself?"

He smiled and thanked her.

"'Tisn't much thanks," she said; meaning thanks' worth. "It is I who have to thank you."

For she felt that she could not send any money to the boy who had taken care of her horse.

The family party gathered that night round the supper-table with a feeling of relief upon several of them. Mr. Landholm's face looked satisfied, as of a man who had got a difficult job well over; Mrs. Landholm's took time to be tired; Winthrop's was as usual, though remembering with some comfort that there would not be so many wantings of fish, nor so many calls upon his strength of arm for boat exercise. Rufus was serious and thoughtful; the children disposed to be congratulatory.

"It's good I can sit somewhere but on the corner," said Asahel, -- "and be by ourselves."

"It's good I can have _my_ old place again," said Winifred, "and sit by Governor."

Her brother rewarded her by drawing up her chair and drawing it closer.

"I am glad they are gone, for your sake, mamma," he said.

"Well, we haven't made a bad summer of it," said Mr. Landholm.

His wife thought in her secret soul it had been a busy one. Winthrop thought it had been a barren one. Rufus -- was not ready to say quite that.

"Not a bad summer," repeated Mr. Landholm. "The next thing is to see what we will do with the winter."

"Or what the winter will do with us," said Rufus after a moment.

"If you like it so," said his father; "but _I_ prefer the other mode of putting it. I'd keep the upper hand of time always; -- I speak it reverently."

Winthrop thought how completely the summer had got the better of him.

"My friend Haye is a good fellow -- a good fellow. I like him. He and I were always together in the legislature. He's a sensible man."

"He is a gentleman," said Rufus.

"Ay -- Well, he has money enough to be. That don't always do it, though. A man and his coat aren't always off the same piece. Those are nice girls of his, too; -- pretty girls. That Rose is a pretty creature! -- I don't know but I like t'other one as well in the long run though, -- come to know her."

"I do -- better," said Mrs. Landholm. "There is good in her."

"A sound stock, only grown a little too rank," said Winthrop.

"Yes, that's it. She's a little overtopping. Well, there will come a drought by and by that will cure that."

"Why sir?" said Rufus.

"The odds are that way," said his father. "'Taint a stand- still world, this; what's up to-day is down to-morrow. Mr. Haye may hold his own, though; and I am sure I hope he will -- for his sake and her sake, both."

"He is a good business man, isn't he, sir?"

"There aint a better business man, I'll engage, than he is, in the whole city of Mannahatta; and that numbers now, -- sixty odd thousand, by the last census. He knows how to take care of himself, as well as any man I ever saw."

"Then he bids fair to stand?"

"I don't believe anybody bids fairer. He was trying to make a business man of you, wa'n't he, the other day?"

"He was saying something about it."

"Would you like that?"

"Not in the first place, sir."

"No. Ah well -- we'll see, -- we'll see," said Mr. Landholm rising up; -- "we'll try and do the best we can."

What was that? A question much mooted, by different people and in very different moods; but perhaps most anxiously and carefully by the father and mother. And the end was, that he would borrow money of somebody, -- say of Mr. Haye, -- and they would let both the boys go that fall to College. If this were not the best, it was the _only_ thing they could do; so it seemed to them, and so they spoke of it. How the young men were to be _kept_ at College, no mortal knew; the father and mother did not; but the pressure of necessity and the strength of will took and carried the whole burden. The boys must go; they should go; and go they did.

In a strong yearning that the minds of their children should not lack bread, in the self-denying love that would risk any hardship to give it them, -- the father and mother found their way plain if not easy before them. If his sons were to mount to a higher scale of existence and fit themselves for nobler work in life than he had done, his shoulders must thenceforth bear a double burden; but they were willing to bear it. She must lose, not only, the nurtured joys of her hearthstone, but strain every long-strained nerve afresh to keep them where she could not see and could but dimly enjoy them; but she was willing. There were no words of regret; and thoughts of sorrow lay with thoughts of love at the bottom of their hearts, too fast-bound together and too mighty to shew themselves except in action.

The money was borrowed easily, upon a mortgage of the farm. President Tuttle was written to, and a favourable answer received. There was a foundation at Shagarack, as well as at Mannahatta; and Will and Winthrop could be admitted there on somewhat easier terms than were granted to those who could afford better. Some additions were made to their scanty wardrobe from Mr. Cowslip's store; and at home unwearied days and nights were given to making up the new, and renewing and refurbishing the old and the worn. Old socks were re-toed and refooted; old trousers patched so that the patch could not be seen; the time-telling edges of collars and wristbands done over, so that they would last awhile yet; mittens knitted, and shirts made. It was a little wardrobe when all was done; yet how much time and care had been needed to bring it together. It was a dear one too, though it had cost little money; for it might almost be said to have been made of the heart's gold. Poor Winifred's love was less wise than her mother's, for it could not keep sorrow down. As yet she did not know that it was not better to sit at her father's board end than at either end of the highest form at Shagarack. She knitted, socks and stockings, all the day long, when her mother did not want her; but into them she dropped so many tears that the wool was sometimes wet with them; and as Karen said, half mournfully and half to hide her mourning, "they wouldn't want shrinking." Winthrop came in one day and found her crying in the chimney corner, and taking the half-knit stocking from her hand he felt her tears in it.

"My little Winnie! --" he said, in that voice with which he sometimes spoke his whole heart.

Winifred sprang to his neck and closing her arms there, wept as if she would weep her life away. And Rufus who had followed Winthrop in, stood beside them, tear after tear falling quietly on the hearth. Winthrop's tears nobody knew but Winifred, and even in the bitterness of her distress she felt and tasted them all.

The November days seemed to grow short and drear with deeper shadows than common, as the last were to see the boys go off for Shagarack. The fingers that knitted grew more tremulous, and the eyes that wrought early and late were dim with more than weariness; but neither fingers nor eyes gave themselves any holiday. The work was done at last; the boxes were packed; those poor little boxes! They were but little, and they had seen service already. Of themselves they told a story. And they held now, safely packed up, the College fit-out of the two young men.

"I wonder if Shagarack is a very smart place, mamma?" said Winifred, as she crouched beside the boxes watching the packing.

"Why?"

Winifred was silent and looked thoughtfully into the box.

"Rufus and Governor will not care if it is."

"They needn't care," said Asahel, who was also at the box- side. "They can bear to be not quite so smart as other folks. Mr. Haye said he never saw such a pair of young men; and I guess he didn't."

Winifred sighed and still looked into the box, with a face that said plainly _she_ would like to have them smart.

"O well, mamma," she said presently, "I guess they will look pretty nice, with all those new things; and the socks are nice, aren't they? If it was only summer -- nobody can look nicer than Winthrop when he has his white clothes on."

"It will be summer by and by," said Mrs. Landholm.

The evening came at last; the supper was over; and the whole family drew together round the fire. It was not a very talkative evening. They looked at each other more than they spoke; and they looked at the fire more than they did either. At last Mr. Landholm went off, recommending to all of them to go to bed. Asahel, who had been in good spirits on the matter all along, followed his father. The mother and daughter and the two boys were left alone round the kitchen fire.

They were more silent than ever then, for a good space; and four pair of eyes were bent diligently on the rising and falling flames. Only Winifred's sometimes wandered to the face of one or the other of her brothers, but they never could abide long. It was Mrs. Landholm's gentle voice that broke the silence.

"What mark are you aiming at, boys? -- what are you setting before you as the object of life?"

"What _mark_, mother?" said Rufus after an instant's pause.

"Yes."

"To make something of myself!" he said rising, and with that fire-flashing nostril and lip that spoke his whole soul at work. "I have a chance now, and it will go hard but I will accomplish it."

The mother's eye turned to her other son.

"I believe I must say the same, mother," he replied gravely. "I have perhaps some notion of _doing_, afterwards; but the first thing is to be _myself_ what I can be. I am not, I feel, a tithe of that now."

"I agree with you -- you are right, so far," answered the mother, turning her face again to the fire; -- "but in the end, what is it you would do, and would be?"

"Profession, do you mean, mamma?" said Rufus.

"No," she said; and he needed not to ask any more.

"I mean, what is all this for? -- what purpose lies behind all this?"

"To distinguish myself!" said Rufus, -- "if I can, -- in some way."

"I am afraid it is no better than that with me, mother," said Winthrop; "though perhaps I should rather say my desire is to _be distinguished_."

"What's the difference?" said his brother.

"I don't know. I think I feel a difference."

"I am not going to preach to you now," said Mrs. Landholm, and yet the slight failing of her voice did it -- how lastingly! -- "I cannot, -- and I need not. Only one word. If you sow and reap a crop that will perish in the using, what will you do when it is gone? -- and remember it is said of the redeemed, that their works _do follow_ them. Remember that. -- One word more," she said after a pause. "Let me have it to say in that day, -- 'Of all which thou gavest me have I lost none'! --"

Not preach to them? And what was her hidden face and bowed head? -- a preaching the like of which they were never to hear from mortal voices. But not a word, not a lisp, fell from one of them. Winifred had run off; the rest hardly stirred; till Mrs. Landholm rose up, and gravely kissing one and the other prepared to leave the room.

"Where is Winifred?" said her brother suddenly missing her.

"I don't know. I am sure she is somewhere praying for you."

They said no more, even to each other, that night.

Nor much the next day. It was the time for doing, not thinking. There was not indeed much to do, except to get off; but that seemed a great deal. It was done at last. Mrs. Landholm from the window of the kitchen watched them get into the wagon and drive off; and then she sat down by the window to cry.

Asahel had gone to ride as far as the mountain's foot with his father and brothers; and Winifred knelt down beside her mother to lean her head upon her; they could not get near enough just then. It was only to help each other weep, for neither could comfort the other nor be comforted, for a time. Yet the feeling of the two, like as it seemed outwardly, was far unlike within. In the child it was the spring flood of a little brook, bringing, to be sure, momentary desolation; in the mother it was the flow of the great sea, still and mighty. And when it grew outwardly quiet, the same depth was there.

They got into each other's arms at last, and pressed cheek to cheek and kissed each other many times; but the first word was Mrs. Landholm's, saying,

"Come -- we had better go and get tea -- Asahel will be back directly."

Asahel came back in good spirits, having had his cry on the road, and they all took tea with what cheerfulness they might. But after tea Winifred sat in the chimney corner gazing into the fire, very still and pale and worn-looking; her sober blue eyes intently fixed on something that was not there. Very intently, so that it troubled her mother; for Winifred had not strength of frame to bear strong mind-working. She watched her.

"What, mamma?" said the little girl with a half start, as a hand was laid gently and remindingly upon her shoulder.

"I should rather ask you what," said her mother tenderly. "Rest, daughter, can't you?"

"I wasn't worrying, mamma."

"Wa'n't you?"

"I was thinking of 'They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'"

"Why, dear?"

"I am so glad I can wash mine, mother."

"Yes -- Why, my dear child?"

"There are so many spots on them."

Her mother stooped down beside her and spoke cheerfully.

"What are you thinking of now, Winnie?"

"Only, mamma, I am glad to think of it," she said, nestling her sunny little head in her mother's neck. "I wanted yesterday that Will and Governor should have better clothes."

"Well, Winnie, I wanted it too -- I would have given them better if I had had them."

"But mamma, ought I to have wished that?"

"Why yes, dear Winnie; it is a pleasant thing to have comfortable clothes, and it is right to wish for them, provided we can be patient when we don't get them. But still I think dear Governor and Will will be pretty comfortable this winter. We will try to make them so."

"Yes mamma, --but I wanted them to be _smart_."

"It is right to be smart, Winnie, if we aren't _too_ smart."

"I wish I could be always just right, mamma."

"The rightest thing will be for you to go to sleep," said her mother, kissing her eyes and cheeks. "I'll be through my work directly and then you shall sit in my lap and rest -- I don't want to sew to-night. Winnie, the good Shepherd will gather my little lamb with his arm and carry her in his bosom, if she minds his voice; and then he will bring her by and by where she shall walk with him in white, and there will be no spots on the white any more."

"I know. Make haste, mother, and let us sit down together and talk."

So they did, with Asahel at their feet; but they didn't talk much. They kept each other silent and soft companionship, till Winifred's breathing told that she had lost her troubles in sleep on her mother's bosom.

"Poor little soul! she takes it hard," said Karen. "She's 'most as old as her mother now."

"You must get her to play with you, Asahel, as much as you can," Mrs. Landholm said in a whisper.

"Why mamma? aint she well?"

"I don't know -- I'm afraid she wont keep so."

"She's too good to be well," said Karen.

Which was something like true. Not in the vulgar prejudice, as Karen understood it. It was not Winifred's goodness which threatened her well-being; but the very delicate spirits which answered too promptly and strongly every touch; too strong in their acting for a bodily frame in like manner delicate.