Part 2

There was something in Jennie’s philosophy that quieted me a little; and drawing her to my side, I tried first to command myself and then comfort her. Excited as the poor child was, she soon fell asleep; and not seeing any thing but the clean white linen in the room, I took off my coat and spread it on the floor, and laid her down. Accustomed to a hard bed, she did not waken. Try as I would, I could not study, but sat looking at the broken rose-bush and then at the thin, troubled face of the sleeper, the blue lids swollen, and the delicate veins plainly perceptible about the throbbing temples.

“How could he do it? By what right deny this little child the only treasure she possessed?” and I was getting into a passion again, when Mrs. Jeffries entered.

She read it all at a glance; went out and brought a quilt and a pillow for Jennie, and taking up the broken stalk, looked at the roots.

“It will live. There is another pot, Marston, and if you will fill it with fresh mould, I will help you. Its beauty has gone for the present, but it will grow again.”

I did not move or stir, my anger was too deep. She laid her hand on my shoulder, and kindly said, “You can’t be sorrier than I am, Marston. I saw it all: but you wont be angry; Mr. Jeffries will be sorry to-morrow.”

“Just what Jennie said; but that wont help it.”

“It may, Marston; at least it will not do any good to be angry about it. I know you wont, Marston.”

“No, I will not be angry;” and at once I went to work filling the pot. Mrs. Jeffries cut off the broken part, put the buds the least injured in a little china vase filled with salt and water, and set them on a shelf in the little attic where Jennie slept. I did not see Jennie again till my work was done at night, when she said cheerily,

“Mrs. Jeffries says it will grow again. It was very good of her, wasn’t it, Marston?” and she nestled by my side, and together we studied our geography.

When the warm weather came, the schoolmaster and his mother went away, and we never saw them afterwards. When the June sun was glowing, and the soft winds wafted the fragrant breath of flowers up through the mountain gorges, Mr. Jeffries’ house was once more filled with visitors; and I was not unfrequently called upon to show some gentleman or lady the best views, as they were called, until I became familiar with the beauties and glories of nature, and felt their genial influence thrilling me with a new and indefinite pleasure.

Sometimes I was brought face to face with the storm in the mountain passes, while thunder and lightning shook and vibrated through them, rolling slowly down the sides of the mountain and echoing along the valley in terrific grandeur.

One day in the heat of summer a gentleman came up, saying to Mr. Jeffries that it was his intention to remain for a week; that he had come out of the city expressly for mountain air and scenery, and that he wished to make the best use of his time. His name was Kirby, and he had not been there a day before I felt that he was another Charles Brisbane--the same views, the same hopes, the same manner characterized them; and after my work was done in the morning, it was my privilege to join him in his rambles, provided I returned in time to have every thing in readiness for the night. What made this arrangement still pleasanter, Jennie was permitted to go with us whenever it was not too far, while Mr. Kirby would tell us stories of mountains over the sea.

I remember, one evening, we were flinging our lines in a little brook that ran gurgling along through the green grass like a silver serpent, when Mr. Kirby told us of the Rosenlani glacier in such glowing language, that we seemed to see distinctly the pale sunshine dancing on its sharp peaks of frosted silver, its blue ice caverns, its fringe of firs, with hanging ledges of short crisp grass, and giant masses of grey rock, and the sudden shower of snow from falling avalanches. Then he unrolled a map, and pointed out the jagged pyramid of the Wetterhorn, and told us of the people that lived there; and by the time we returned, in season to have our trout for supper, we had learned more of the geography of Switzerland than we should have learned from poring over books for a long time.

“To-morrow,” said Mr. Kirby, “we must go up to the highest point of the mountain. I am afraid my little Jennie must stay at home.”

“Why so, Mr. Kirby?” and Jennie pressed to his side; “I like to be with you and Marston.”

“I should like to have you go, but I am afraid it would make you sick; it will be a hard walk for us. If I give you a nice story to read, it will interest you quite as much; and when we come back, you shall tell us all about it. Besides, Miss Grimshaw is to teach you how to hem that new handkerchief. You will be contented to stay now, wont you?”

“If you think it best,” and the long brown lashes drooped over the blue eyes.

The next morning I was up earlier than usual; but not before Jennie, who insisted on sharing my labor, feeding the pigs, and then scattering corn to the poultry, and throwing wheat to the few pigeons that circled about the premises.

“I do want to go with you,” she said as she kissed me good-by; but Mr. Kirby was there with the neatly bound book he had promised, and the tears were soon dried, Jennie looking the last look as she ran up to her attic to lay aside her treasure, till the moment when her work should be done and Mrs. Jeffries should give her permission to do what she pleased.

“Shall you have patience to climb?” asked Mr. Kirby as we stood at the base of the tallest peak, its jagged sides covered with stunted shrubs and shelving rocks as far as the eye could reach, a veil of clouds and mist resting on the summit.

“I shall like it exceedingly. You forget that I am accustomed to climbing.”

“What was it that Miss Grimshaw called you and Jennie the other day?”

“The Climbers.”

“Yes, and the name rather pleased me,” continued Mr. Kirby. “Heights are to be won every day, and our stand-point to-day should be in advance of what it was yesterday. We are, or should be, all climbers, using every incident, occasion, and advantage as a stepping-stone to something better.”

“I fear some of us are doing it at a snail’s pace; a lifetime of such climbing as mine would not amount to much.”

“You remember the hare and the tortoise,” said Mr. Kirby, “and which won the race. The hare started off as some people would to go up this mountain; but he soon grew weary, and lay down to rest. The tortoise began as he could hold out, and the end justified his wisdom.” I now understood why Mr. Kirby was walking leisurely.

“When I was a lad,” continued he, “I often visited my grandfather, who lived on a farm in the country. On one occasion he hired two men to work in the harvest-field. One man looked at the small field of wheat contemptuously, and declared it his opinion the job had better be given to one; he could do it all himself before sundown. Still my grandfather insisted on the two, and accordingly they began. One worked furiously, and at noon he was far in advance of his companion. As the hot hours passed his arm grew nerveless, his back felt as though it was broken, his limbs ached, and his head felt like bursting. Long before sundown he had to withdraw to the house of the farmer; while his companion, who had husbanded his strength, was left to finish the field alone. Patience when we commence is quite as needful in intellectual as in physical effort. The end of the race tells who wins.”

“There is a good deal of consolation in that,” I ventured to remark. “Climbing hills I can easily do; but I am sometimes afraid that is the only climbing that will be allowed me.”

“Not if you wish another. Obstacles vanish before a strong and resolute will.”

“But circumstances, Mr. Kirby.”

“Look behind you, Marston, and you will see that while walking and talking at our leisure, we have been advancing all the time, and have in reality made a very perceptible ascent. The valley looks like a green thread, and the few buildings that we see like pigeon-houses.”

“Yes, indeed; we get along better than I expected. We’ve been steadily at it, that’s all.”

“That is it, Marston, steadily at it. Perseverance is sure, sooner or later, to overcome.”

“And if we have a plan, and steadily follow it, shall we succeed?” I asked.

“Almost sure to do so; not by one endeavor, not by two, but by years of perpetual toil and labor. Climbers have more to contend with than those who sit still in the valley. Do you begin to weary, Marston?”

“Oh no; but the path is much rougher, and I slip backward instead of getting forward.”

“Now you see why I took this staff tipped with a sharp iron. It will help us when the way is slippery. Give me your hand; it is hard work, but nothing good is achieved without labor.”

At length we reached a cliff which, projecting boldly into our path, rose like a dark grey wall to bar our advance.

“What shall we do now?” I asked; “go back?”

“Never do that, unless you are out of the way,” said Mr. Kirby. “We must get up just as we have come so far, by climbing. But it is so steep on this side, we shall have to go round.” After a short pause to ascertain the most favorable point, Mr. Kirby with his iron-tipped staff proceeded to put his advice into practice. Each step was carefully taken, another, and another; while, as we advanced, helps arose on all sides: here was a twig, there a rock, and there a secure place for the feet; and without any great fatigue, and almost before we were aware, we stood on the top of the enormous mass that but a short time before had loomed up threateningly.

“You see where we are,” said Mr. Kirby. “Remember, and never give up when you undertake any thing. Stop only sufficiently long to make sure of the way, and then advance, one step at a time. You see here how clearly one step prepares the way for another; so it will ever be. Oaks are strengthened by wind and storm; so men grow firm by combating with difficulty and opposition.”

“I don’t see how that can make them strong,” I said; for I did not clearly understand the import of his words.

“I do not mean strong in body merely, although this might follow, but strong in spirit, more resolute to do, more determined to endure. If boys possess this quality, they will be pretty sure to make strong, reliable men, able to take a position in the world and have an influence among men. But look; what a splendid view we have from this point;” and Mr. Kirby looked over the broad panorama with an eye that seemed to see the Deity in his works; and from the top of that table rock he told me of his own life, of the obstacles in his way, the poverty and destitution that he had known: “And still by climbing, just as we have been doing to-day, I have made some progress; and if I keep on--”

“What will you make?” I asked in my eagerness.

“What would you say if you knew I had no higher ambition than to be a clergyman?” looking at me with a half smile in his clear dark eye.

“I think I should be a lawyer, if I was in your place, Mr. Kirby.”

“A lawyer; why so?”

“Why, there’s a better chance to rise in the world. It must be very nice to sway men as easily as lawyers do; and then there’s a chance of one day being senator or judge.”

“It must be very pleasant, you say, to sway men as lawyers do. Do you not think it equally good to sway men as clergymen do? It is the lawyer’s business to help men out of temporary difficulties. It is the clergyman’s business to show men a better way: first to show them their condition as sinners, then to tell them of the precious Saviour who died to redeem them, and who will not only save them from temporary difficulties, but raise them to an eternity of happiness. Is there any thing more glorious than this, Marston?”

“I hardly know, sir. It has always seemed to me I should like to be a lawyer. Yet it must be pleasant, as you say, to make people better.”

“I hope you will always think so, Marston,” and Mr. Kirby gathered some wild flowers. “They will remind us of the walk. Flowers have the happy power of always calling our best thoughts to the surface.”

“It would seem your best thoughts are always there, Mr. Kirby.”

“On the contrary, my best thoughts are sometimes out of sight entirely. I have to be very watchful over myself. I am too readily given to despondency, and not willing to trust and be bright and cheerful when it looks dark and lowering.”

“Is it our duty always to be bright and glad?” I asked.

“I think so, Marston.”

“But if every thing goes wrong with us?”

“Every thing cannot go wrong with us, if we love and trust the Saviour, for he has said that all things shall work together for our good.”

“That is what mother used to say. I always wondered how she could.”

“Because she trusted him, and this trust made her cheerful and happy.”

“If we go to the top,” I ventured to say, “we must be going;” and again the dry moss rustled beneath our feet. We had not gone far before dark clouds began to scud over the sky, portending a sudden storm.

“Had we not better return?” I asked.

“We are much nearer the top than the bottom of the mountain,” said Mr. Kirby. “If a storm should come, it would reach us before we could get half way down. You are not afraid of a storm, Marston.”

“Not of mere rain; but this is no place as to the wind, to say nothing of thunder and lightning.”

“All these are in His keeping. We are the objects of his love.” He had hardly finished speaking, when a fearful gale swept down the mountain, and nearly bore us away with it. The rain quickly followed, while the thunder was startling, with its quick, sharp reports, then rolling along in one continued roar till lost in the distance.

“This will not last long,” said Mr. Kirby, and took shelter under a great rock, drawing me after him. How long we stood there I hardly know, for the dense mass of black clouds floating so near us, carried swiftly by the winds, rolling and unrolling their rugged edges, fringed with the lurid glare, was the most fascinating spectacle that I had ever witnessed.

After explaining to me the different strata of the atmosphere and some of the causes of this sudden change in the clouds, Mr. Kirby spoke of that great day of storm and dread, when there would be some to cry for the mountains to cover them from the wrath of the Lamb, and others to whom He would be as the shelter of a great rock.

Then we stepped out from under the rock. The shower was over, and we again advanced. For a time the ascent was more precipitous than any that we had met before, while the wet boughs, brushing against our faces, would have seriously disturbed a less persevering spirit than Mr. Kirby’s.

Among the remembrances of that day were the tiny pools and cascades, filled to overflowing during the shower. Then there were spots of soft green beds of beautiful moss, and short, steep acclivities, such as would hardly afford footing for the chamois or gazelle.

At length we stood at the top. Here, on the very summit of the mountain, was a lovely little lake, its water clear as crystal, where the clouds could see their beauty reflected without comment or obstruction.

How proud and happy I felt. The work was done. I had often looked up, but never before attempted going to the top. Once decided upon, it was done. Would it be as easy with every thing else?

Scarcely had we turned from the lake, when the sun came out, rolling up the floating mists into wool-like drapery of clouds, revealing a panorama of surpassing grandeur.

Beneath us lay a succession of hills, shelving down to the valley, while further in the distance were green fields, with farm-houses looking hardly bigger than mole-hills, with the river winding on to the ocean like a long blue thread; and the ocean itself, whose boundary I could not define, was an object of strange wonder to me. Ignorant as I was, I could not understand the strong emotion that thrilled me, depriving me entirely of the power of speech.

“How beautiful He hath made them all;” and Mr. Kirby lifted his hat, and stood uncovered, awed by the glorious majesty around him. As I looked at him, I felt a still stronger yearning for something higher and nobler. That hour, I am persuaded, was a turning-point in my life. New hopes fluttered into being; new resolves were registered; new purposes were to be maintained; and a strong confidence was born within me, that the Lord would not leave me desolate.

Mr. Kirby talked of God’s exceeding great love, and how he never turned any away, even the poorest and weakest, that might call upon him for aid. He also told me several wonderful things of the mountains, and the transformation continually going on in them; and then of Hugh Miller, and the ways by which he had achieved his great work.

It surprises me now, when I think how much was crowded into that one day. It was to me like a new revelation; the very air was full of a new life; I breathed freer than I had done for months. A new path was opening, and I felt strong to tread where others had gone before--others as poor and friendless as I was. Oh that we could always keep ourselves on the mountain heights of faith and hope.

With Mr. Kirby near to prompt and encourage me, I forgot my ragged clothes and rimless hat, and that my shoes were old and patched--forgot, or rather did not know, that to become learned as he was would require years of time and a great deal of money, a commodity that I knew little about. My heart was light and buoyant. I thought I could do it, and hope began to trill a measure that was henceforth to ring on all through my life.

The sudden shower had rendered fresh and green each leaf and flower, while the bright sun-rays had transmuted the drops to brilliant diamonds, suspended in lavish profusion from tree and shrub, catching and reflecting its light in countless forms of splendor.

Just then a wren flew out of a thicket, and settled on a low spray just in our path. With a sweep of my hand I could have reached the fearless little songster, fresh, bright, glad, offering its tribute to the Creator.

“Shall not we thank him too?” said Mr. Kirby; and suiting the action to the word, he knelt, and placing one hand upon my bowed head, implored God, for Christ’s sake, to have compassion upon me, to make me a child of God, to forgive my sins, and to give me a teachable spirit, that I might be willing to be led, and might, through the influence of his grace, grow up to be a good and useful man.

This was the first time that anybody had ever prayed alone with me, save my mother; and it brought her so forcibly before me, that I could not keep down the sobs.

Going home, I asked Mr. Kirby if we should ever see him again.

“It is not probable,” he answered. “It is very possible that I may be sent abroad; and if so, we may never meet again; but whether we meet or not, I shall think of you, Marston, and pray that we may both live so as to meet in heaven.”

Jennie saw us coming, and bounded over the brook that ran at the back of the house and across the pasture to meet us, breaking out into a glad welcome, telling us that she had finished the book, and nearly hemmed the handkerchief. “Here it is,” holding it up for inspection.

“Very well done,” said Mr. Kirby, shaking it out, and examining it attentively. “Now, my little friends, I want you both to remember this day. It may be the last chance I shall have to speak to you alone. Do your duty wherever you are. Let your first question be, Is it right? and then never turn back, nor be discouraged. Do this, and you will advance, just as we did in climbing the mountain to-day, one step at a time; so by one act of duty at a time, one good purpose well carried out, success will follow.” Then putting his hand on each of our heads, “Give your hearts to Christ now; love and serve him. Wherever I go, I shall think of you, and shall hope you are workers for him, let your surroundings be what they may.”

III.

Full of my new resolves, I went about my evening’s work, followed closely by Jennie, telling me all the time about her book. While listening to the charming story, I forgot, and put brindle into the black cow’s place. No sooner done, than Mr. Jeffries, who had a quick eye, sent me spinning across the stable floor, and Jennie into the house and up to her attic, where I found her an hour afterwards, with tears still on her cheeks.

“Don’t cry about it, Jennie;” and I drew up a little rocking-chair I had made for her out of an old one, and took her in my arms. “It was careless in me; I should have seen what I was about.”

“He said afterwards it would not have been much matter if the cattle had remained so all night. Oh, if we only had a home, like other children, Marston. I wonder why we haven’t;” and she nestled her brown head on my shoulder, and tried hard not to sob any more. Just then a sharp voice came up from the kitchen, and for once I felt like resisting. I was tired, my work was all done, and I sat quite still, holding Jennie tightly. Again and again the call.

“We must go, brother; Mr. Kirby said we must do what we have to do well, and then God will open a path for us. I do hope he will; don’t you?” Kissing my angry cheek, she put away her book, and ran down the narrow stairs. Brushing off the tears, I followed as quickly as possible.

“You’ve forgotten your wood, boy; this comes of reading books. If you don’t quit it, you can’t stay here, I can tell you;” and Mr. Jeffries stormed till he was tired, and then walked into the bar-room.

“Don’t mind his being cross, Marston,” said Mrs. Jeffries soothingly; “he’s not quite himself to-night; to-morrow he’ll be sorry.”

Tired as I was at bedtime I could not sleep, the day had been so pleasant notwithstanding the fatigue. I had listened to Mr. Kirby, and thought it would be easy to be good; and then he had prayed that I might be led. But before my work was done I had become angry and cross, and half questioning God’s goodness because Jennie and I had not a home, with some one to love and take care of us.

I went to the window where I could see the distant hills, the very mountain the top of which we had reached by continued effort. “Nothing is gained without labor,” Mr. Kirby had said. How easy it would be to do right, I thought, if we could always live with such people; and I looked up to the stars twinkling to each other in their beauty.

My heart was full, and yearned for sympathy; and to comfort myself, I went back and lived the cheering scenes of my life over again--calling up every word and look of my dear mother, then all Mr. Brisbane had said, and now Mr. Kirby, and my books, of which I could count several.

In going up the mountain Mr. Kirby had often caused me to look behind me, in that way getting an idea of the ascent we were really making. So in looking over the past I could see that I had made some advance, and insensibly my thoughts grew clearer. Again I looked up to the heavens; but I knew but little of God’s love. His precious promise was to me then a sealed voice. Still, there was a feeling of quiet stole over me, something that spoke comfort, for I went to sleep.

The next morning Mr. Kirby left, and I had so much to do, and so many calling upon me at once, that I had no time to tell him what I had resolved to tell him, namely, how forgetful I had been, and what a passionate feeling had swept over me. I meant to try and do better, but I had no time to tell him.