Hills of the Shatemuc Part 89

"Set tables --" said Clam considerately.

"What did Mrs. Landholm teach you?"

"She learned me 'most everything," said Clam. "What she learned me most of all, was to have me read the Bible every day, and do nothin' wrong o' Sundays, and never say nothin'

that wa'n't."

"That wasn't what?"

"That wa'n't _it_," said Clam. "Never to say nothin' that wa'n't the thing."

"Why, did you ever do that?" said Elizabeth.

"Maybe I did," said Clam, considering her new mistress's dressing-table. "Mis' Landholm was afeard on't."

"Well, you must be just as careful about that here," said Elizabeth. "I love truth as well as she did."

"All kinds?" said the girl.

Elizabeth looked at her, with a mouthful of answer which she did not dare to bring out. Nothing was to be made of Clam's face, except that infallible air of capacity. There was no sign of impertinent meaning.

"You look as if you could learn," she said.

"Been learnin' ever since I was big enough," said the black girl. And she looked so.

"Are you willing to learn?"

"Like nothin' better."

"Provided it's the right kind, I suppose," said Elizabeth, wholly unable to prevent her features giving way a little at the unshakable coolness and spirit she had to do with. Clam's face relaxed in answer, after a different manner from any it had taken during the interview; and she said,

"Well, I'll try. Mr. Winthrop said I was to be good; and I ain't a goin' to do nothin' to displease him, anyhow!"

"But the matter is rather to please _me_, here," said Elizabeth.

"Well," said Clam with her former wide-awake smile, "I guess what 'll please him 'll please you, won't it?"

"Go down stairs, and come to me after breakfast," said her mistress. "I'll let you make some new dresses for yourself the first thing. And look here, --" said she pulling a bright- coloured silk handkerchief out of a drawer, -- "put that into a turban before you come up and let me see what you're up to."

Clam departed without an answer; but when she made her appearance again, the orange and crimson folds were twisted about her head in a style that convinced Elizabeth her new waiting-maid's capacity was equal to all the new demands she would be likely to make upon it.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Never his worldly lot, or worldly state torments him: Less he would like, if less his G.o.d had sent him.

FLETCHER.

Winthrop had taken no little charge upon himself in the charge of his little sister. In many ways. He had a scanty purse, and it better bore the demands of one than of two; but that was only a single item. Winnie was not a charge upon his purse alone, but upon his heart and his head and his time. The demands were all met, to the full.

As much as it was possible, in the nature of Winthrop's business, his sister had him with her; and when he could not be there, his influence and power. It was trying enough for the poor child to be left alone as much as she was, for she could not always find solace in Mrs. Nettley, and sometimes could not endure her presence. Against this evil Winthrop provided as far as he might by giving Winnie little jobs to do for him while he was gone, and by setting her about what courses of self-improvement her delicate system of mind and body was able to bear. He managed it so that all was for him; not more the patching and knitting and bits of writing which were strictly in his line, than the pages of history, the sums in arithmetic, and the little lesson of Latin, which were for Winnie's own self. He knew that affection, in every one of them, would steady the nerves and fortify the will to go patiently on to the end. And the variety of occupation he left her was so great that without tiring herself in any one thing, Winnie generally found the lonely hours of her day pretty well filled up. Mrs. Nettley was a great help, when Winnie was in the mood for her company; that was not always.

His little sister's bodily and mental health was another care upon Winthrop's mind, and on his time. Disease now constantly ruffled the sweet flow of spirits which once was habitual with her. Nothing ruffled his; and his soothing hand could always quiet her, could almost always make her happy, when it was practicable for him to spare time. Very often when he had no time to give beyond what a word or a look would take from his business. But those times were comparatively few. He was apt to give her what she needed, and make up for it afterwards at the cost of rest and sleep when Winnie was abed. Through the warm summer days he took her daily and twice daily walks, down to the Green where the sea air could blow in her face fresh from its own quarter, where she and he too could turn their backs upon brickwork and pavement and look on at least one face of nature unspotted and unspoiled. At home he read to her, and with her, the times when he used to read the cla.s.sics; and many other times; he talked to her and he played with her, having bought a second-hand backgammon board for the very purpose; he heard her and set her her lessons; and he amused her with all the details of his daily business and experience that he could make amusing.

If these things were a charge, it was one for which he was abundantly rewarded, every night and every morning, and knew it. But the other part of the burden, the drain upon his purse, was not so easily to be met withal. There was no helping it. Winnie's state of health made her simple wants, simple as they were, far more costly than his own had been; and he would and did supply them. He could bear to starve himself and lie hard; but Winnie would very soon starve to death; and the time when she could sleep softly on a hard bed had once been, but would never be again, literally or figuratively. Winthrop never shewed her how it was with him; not the less it was almost the ebb; and whence the flow was to come, was a point he saw not. He was not yet admitted to practise law; his slender means were almost all gathered from teaching; and he could not teach any more than he did. And this consciousness he carried about with him, to the office, to market, and to his little sister's presence. For her his face was always the same; and while she had it Winnie thought little was wanting to her life.

One morning when she had it not, she was lying wearily stretched out on the couch which was hers by day and Winthrop's by night. It was early June; the sun was paying his first instalment of summer heat, and doing it as if he were behind-hand with pay-day. Winnie's attic roof gave her a full share of his benefits. The hours of the morning had worn away, when towards noon a slow step was heard ascending the stairs.

It was her hostess, come up to look after her.

"All alone?" said Mrs. Nettley.

"Oh yes! --" came with most fervent breath from Winnie. Her head uneasily turned the other cheek to the pillow.

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Nettley; and every line of her careful and sympathetic face said it over again. "Poor child! -- And Mr. Winthrop's been away all the morning!"

"I don't know why you call me _poor_," said Winnie, whose nerves could not bear even that slight touch, if it happened to touch the wrong way; -- "Of course he's been away all the morning -- he always is."

"And you're tired. I didn't mean _poor_, dear, in the way that I am poor myself; -- not that poor, -- I only meant, -- because you were so much here all alone without your brother."

"I know what you meant," said Winnie.

"It's hot up here, isn't it," said Mrs. Nettley going to the window. "Dreadful. It's hot down stairs too. Can't we let a little air in?" --

"Don't! It's hotter with it."

Mrs. Nettley left the window and came and stood by Winnie's couch, her face again saying what her voice did not dare to say, -- "Poor child!" --

"Mrs. Nettley --"

"What, my love?"

"I'm very cross --"

"No you aren't, my love! you're only tired."

"I'm very cross -- I don't know what makes me so -- but sometimes I feel so it seems as if I couldn't help it. I'm cross even to Winthrop. I'm very much obliged to you, but you must think I aint."

"I don't think the least thing of the kind, dearest -- I know it's miserable and suffocating up here, and you _can't_ feel -- I wish I could make it better for you!"

"O it'll be better by and by -- when Governor gets home and it grows cool."

"Come down and take a bit of dinner with me."

"O no, thank you, Mrs. Nettley," said Winnie brightening up, -- "I don't want anything; and Governor'll be home by and by and then we'll have our dinner. I'm going to broil the chicken and get everything ready."

"Well, that'll be sweeter than anything I've got," said the good lady. -- "Why, who's there? --"

Somebody there was, knocking at the door; and when the door was opened, who was there shewed herself in the shape of a young lady, very bright looking and well dressed. She glanced at Mrs. Nettley with a slight word of inquiry and pa.s.sing her made her way on up to the couch.