Hills of the Shatemuc Part 140

"From Starlings -- I hadn't to go any further than that for them."

"How far is it?"

"Twelve miles."

"Twelve miles there and back!"

"Makes twenty-four."

"In this hot day! -- I am very sorry, Mr. Landholm!"

"For what?" said he, shouldering one of the green blinds.

"You are not going to put those on yourself?"

"I am going to try -- as I said."

"You have done enough day's work," said Elizabeth. "Pray don't, at least to-night. It's quite late. Please don't! --"

"If I don't to-night, I can't to-morrow," said Winthrop, marching out. "I must go home to-morrow."

_Home!_ It shook Elizabeth's heart to hear him speak the old word. But she only caught her breath a little, and then spoke, following him out to the front of the house.

"I would rather they were not put up, Mr. Landholm. I can get somebody to do it."

"Not unless I fail."

"It troubles me very much that you should have such a day."

"I have had just such a day -- as I wanted," said Winthrop, measuring with his eye and rule the blind and the window-frame respectively.

"Miss 'Lizabeth, Karen's got the tea all ready, she says,"

Clam announced from the door; "and she hopes everybody's tired of waitin'."

"You've not had tea! --" exclaimed Elizabeth. "Come then, Mr.

Winthrop."

"Not now," said he, driving in his gimlet, -- "I must finish this first. 'The night cometh wherein no man can work.'"

Elizabeth shrank inwardly, and struggled with herself.

"But the morning comes also," she said.

Winthrop's eye went up to the top hinge of the blind, and down to the lower one, and up to the top again; busy and cool, it seemed to consider nothing but the hinges. Elizabeth struggled with herself again. She was mortified. But she could not let go the matter.

"Pray leave those things!" she said in another minute. "Come in, and take what is more necessary."

"When my work is done," said he. "Go in, Miss Elizabeth. Karen will give me something by and by."

Elizabeth turned; she could do nothing more in the way of persuasion. As she set her foot heavily on the door-step, she saw Clam standing in the little pa.s.sage, her lips slightly parted in a satisfied bit of a smile. Elizabeth was vexed, proud, and vexed again, in as many successive quarter seconds.

Her foot was heavy no longer.

"Have you nothing to do, Clam?"

"Lots," said the damsel.

"Why aren't you about it, then?"

"I was waitin' till you was about your'n, Miss 'Lizabeth. I like folks to be out o' my way."

"Do you! Take care and keep out of mine," said her mistress.

"What are you going to do now?"

"Settle your bed, Miss 'Lizabeth. It's good we've got linen enough, anyhow."

"Linen, --" said Elizabeth, -- "and a bedstead, -- have you got a bed to put on it?"

"There's been care took for that," said Clam, with the same satisfied expression and a little turn of her head.

Half angry and half sick, Elizabeth left her, and went in through her new-furnished keeping-room, to Karen's apartment where the table was bountifully spread and Mrs. Nettley and Karen awaited her coming. Elizabeth silently sat down.

"Ain't he comin'?" said Karen.

"No -- I am very sorry -- Mr. Landholm thinks he must finish what he is about first."

"He has lots o' _thoughts_," said Karen discontentedly, -- "he'd think just as well after eatin'. -- Well, Miss -- Karen's done her best -- There's been worse chickens than those be -- Mis'

Landholm used to cook 'em that way, and she didn't cook 'em no better. I s'pose he'll eat some by'm by -- when he's done thinkin'."

She went off, and Elizabeth was punctually and silently taken care of by Mrs. Nettley. The meal over, she did not go back to her own premises; but took a stand in the open kitchen door, for a variety of reasons, and stood there, looking alternately out and in. The sun had set, the darkness was slowly gathering; soft purple clouds floated up from the west, over Wut-a-qut-o's head, which however the nearer heads of pines and cedars prevented her seeing. A delicate fringe of evergreen foliage edged upon the clear white sky. The fresher evening air breathed through the pine and cedar branches, hardly stirred their stiff leaves, but brought from them tokens of rare sweetness; brought them to Elizabeth's sorrowful face, and pa.s.sed on. Elizabeth turned her face from the wind and looked into the house. Karen had made her appearance again, and was diligently taking away broken meats and soiled dishes and refreshing the look of the table; setting some things to warm and some things to cool; giving the spare plate and knife and fork the advantage of the best place at table; brushing away crumbs, and smoothing down the salt-cellar. "You _are_ over particular!" thought Elizabeth; -- "it would do him no harm to come after me in handling the salt-spoon! -- that even that trace of me should be removed."

She looked out again.

Her friend the locust now and then was reminding her of the long hot day they had pa.s.sed through together; and the intervals between were filled up by a chorus of gra.s.shoppers and crickets and katydids. Soft and sweet blew the west wind again; _that_ spoke not of the bygone day, with its burden and heat; but of rest, and repose, and the change that cometh even to sorrowful things. The day was pa.s.sed and gone. "But if one day is pa.s.sed, another is coming," -- thought Elizabeth; and tears, hot and bitter tears, sprang to her eyes. How could those clouds float so softly! -- how could the light and shadow rest so lovely on them! -- how could the blue ether look so still and clear! "Can one be like that?" -- thought Elizabeth.

"Can I? -- with this boiling depth of pa.s.sion and will in my nature? -- _One_ can --" and she again turned her eyes within. But nothing was there, save the table, the supper, and Karen. The question arose, what she herself was standing there for? but pa.s.sion and will said they did not care! she would stand there; and she did. It was pleasant to stand there; for pa.s.sion and will, though they had their way, seemed to her feeling to be quieted down under nature's influences. Perhaps the most prominent thought now was of a great discord between nature and her, between her and right, -- which was to be made up. But still, while her face was towards the western sky and soft wind, and her mind thought this, her ear listened for a step on the kitchen floor. The colours of the western sky had grown graver and cooler before it came.

It came, and there was the sc.r.a.pe of a chair on the wooden floor. He had sat down, and Karen had got up; but Elizabeth would not look in.

"Are ye hungry enough now, Governor?"

"I hope so, Karen, -- for your sake."

"Ye don't care much for your own," said Karen discontentedly.

Perhaps Winthrop -- perhaps Elizabeth, thought that she made up his lack of it. Elizabeth watched, stealthily, to see how the old woman waited upon him -- hovered about him -- supplied his wants, actual and possible, and stood looking at him when she could do nothing else. She could not understand the low word or two with which Winthrop now and then rewarded her. Bitter feeling overcame her at last; she turned away, too much out of tune with nature to notice any more, unless by way of contrast, what nature had spread about her and over her. She went round the house again to the front and sat down in the doorway. The stars were out, the moonlight lay soft on the water, the dews fell heavily.

"Miss Lizzie! -- you'll catch seven deaths out there! -- the day's bad enough, but the night's five times worse," -- Clam exclaimed.

"I shan't catch but one," Elizabeth said gloomily.

"Your muslin's all wet, drinchin'!"