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.