Part 3

“Do right, Marston, and study all you can,” had been his last words. Mr. Jeffries was very kind, and as if to make amends for the last night, gave me an hour to myself after dinner. Taking our books, Jennie followed me to a flat rock under a gnarled apple-tree, and on a broken slate I pored over my sums, while she studied geography. Then I heard her lesson, and she questioned me in arithmetic; for with less instruction she was further advanced than I was. After that, we read the book Mr. Kirby had given her. It was a simple, unvarnished sketch of every-day life, with allusions that I could understand, and experiences so like my own that more than once I stopped to dry my eyes.

We had just finished, and were talking it over, when who should come across the garden but our father? We had not seen him in a good while, and there was something so kind in his look and manner, that we started at once to meet him.

“So you have not quite forgotten me,” he said, as Jennie kissed him and I clung to his hand.

“We can never do that, pa.” He sat down on the rock and held us to him, with his arms close around us.

“Are you willing to come home, Marston? You are getting to be a large boy, and can help me now; and I am going to try to do better.”

Had it not been for my new mother I should have jumped at the idea of going with my father; but when I thought of her my heart struggled against it. Again Mr. Kirby’s words came to my mind: “Do right, Marston.” Something told me it was right, if my father was trying to make a better man, to help him. So I answered resolutely,

“If you think it best, father; but I want to go to school, and do something better by and by.”

“That is what I want you to do, my son; and I will try and help you.”

He was sober, and spoke so kindly, we both cried when he kissed us good-by, and said he knew he had not been as good to us as he ought to have been since we had no mother. Dear father, it was a long time since we had seen him so kind; and it was to be a still longer time before we should see him so kind again.

“You will come down to-morrow night, children.”

“Yes, father.”

This arrangement did not suit Mr. Jeffries; but he said nothing against it, while his wife shook her head. “The same old story; it will be as bad as ever in a week,” she said to herself.

The next day, the last we stayed at the Jeffries’, a traveller presented me with a book entitled “Self Helps,” and never a miser rejoiced more over his treasure than I did when I caught sight of its contents. So there had been hosts of poor boys trying just as I was for something better; and at last they found it; so should I.

At sunset Jennie and I walked back to our old home. Our new mother received us kindly, and the baby crowed and clapped his hands, seeming to regard us as old acquaintances.

The days and weeks passed, and it was the middle of autumn. There was a little corn to be gathered, and a few potatoes to be dug; but father’s good promises had all vanished. He was not cross, neither did he often scold, but he stayed from home; and when he was there, he was too stupid to care for any of us.

Winter came, and I attended a school nearly a mile from us; but this time we had no such friend as Charles Brisbane. The teacher seemed to know that we were poor and miserable; and when I went in late, as I almost always did, he was sure to give me a sharp reprimand. In vain it was to rise at four o’clock: there was fire to make, there were paths to shovel, the cow to milk, and breakfast to get; for my new mother would not rise until the room was warm, and this in our house could not be till the fire had been burning a good while.

Poor little Jennie had to stay at home entirely. Still she studied, and Miss Grimshaw out of the kindness of her heart sent us each a slate for her Christmas present. Never were more acceptable gifts, and I question if any Christmas since has brought us more pleasure, brightened as it was by two new slates.

The winter proved to be unusually severe; the snow deeper than for years. We managed to live, how I hardly know. There was plenty of wood that could be had for the cutting; but I had not sufficient strength to accomplish much in this way, and had to content myself with drawing up fallen timber, and branches that the wind had scattered. Towards spring, father was gone more than ever, sometimes not coming home till late at night; and then not till Jennie and I had taken the lantern and gone down to the village after him.

One night he was later than usual; the day had been unusually bleak, a heavy snow-storm setting in before noon, and by sunset we could hardly wade through it. Ten o’clock, and our mother for the first time grew uneasy; the baby was asleep; she left Jennie to rock the cradle, and giving me the lantern, we started for the village.

We had not made half the distance before we were covered with such a thick mantle of snow as to render it necessary to stop and shake ourselves; but my step-mother had a resolute will, when she chose to put it in force. In vain I counselled her to return, and let me go alone; finding she could not be persuaded, I waded through, making as good a path as possible, holding up my lantern so that father could see it if he was really on the way.

It was twelve o’clock when we reached the village; the lights were nearly all out, only one room was open, and that was the fatal one that tempted him so often from home.

“No, your father is not here,” they said in answer to my inquiries. “He started for home before night. It is such a terrible storm, he may have stopped on the way.”

“More likely that he has fallen in the snow,” said mother; “it is frightfully cold, and the wind is drifting it in heaps.”

There were few words spoken as we went back. The storm had somewhat subsided, and far as the eye could reach spread out before us one mass of fleecy whiteness.

How our hearts thrilled, and then stood still, as we passed an eminence where the snow lay high and uneven: under that white covering father might be buried.

“Here is an uneven track,” and mother pointed to a pile of snow at the foot of the hill, and very near our own door. I held up the lantern, but for a moment could not move onward. So near us, and still we had gone so far! Nerving myself at last, I followed the steps, now filled with snow, but still perceptible.

It was as we feared. He had started for home, and had reached the foot of the hill, when he fell, too chilled or too insensible to rise.

Oh the agony of that night! He was our father, and deeply as he had erred, we loved him. Such a terrible death, and we knew not where to look for comfort.

IV.

Jennie and I were alone now, for our new mother had taken her babe and gone back to her parents. What could we do? I thought of others who had worked out of just such extremities, and resolved that I would seek employment, but not of Mr. Jeffries.

So making myself as tidy as possible, and curling Jennie’s hair over my fingers as I had seen my own mother do, we shut the door of our mountain home, and walked resolutely down to the village. Sure of success, I kept Jennie laughing as I portrayed the future in glowing colors, telling her of all that I would do, and the pretty home that I would make of my own, where we would always live together, with plenty of books and flowers--her sweet blue eyes looking up with such a glad earnestness.

“It will be better than the story in the book, wont it?”

Our first call was on Miss Grimshaw. She was a milliner in the village, and her one shop window was full of pictures of highly dressed women, whose feathers, bonnets, and flowers made a great impression upon her customers, to say nothing of the awe Jennie and I felt in the presence of such magnificence.

Miss Grimshaw received us very cordially; and when I told her we wanted work together, she shook her head.

After thinking a while, she said with sincere tenderness, “Jennie had better stay with me. She is too delicate to do heavy work; I will give her a light task, and let her have several hours to study every day: and it is very probable that you can find employment in the village; so it will not be much of a separation.”

It was soon settled that Jennie should remain with Miss Grimshaw; and I went to look out for myself elsewhere. Fortunately the grocer who lived directly opposite wanted a boy; and after examining me a little in arithmetic, and also asking me to write his name and my own, he finally said,

“You may try, although I will not promise to keep you a single day.”

Every little village has its great man; and the village of Claverton, nestled at the foot of the green hills, was not without its rich man, Esquire Clavers being the original proprietor from whom it took its name.

He was a little wiry man, with sparkling eyes and a hooked nose, spare thin hair, and whiskers thickly sprinkled with grey, and a voice that sounded any thing but musical, especially to the poor.

Very precise in his toilet was Esquire Clavers; his linen was always unexceptionable, his watch chain of the largest dimensions, and from it dangled a massive seal and gold key, while his gold-headed cane seemed almost a part of himself, for never was he seen without it. He lived in a two-story yellow house at the head of the principal street, and the people looked up to him with a deferential air given to no other person, not even the minister.

Mr. Willett, the grocery keeper, was the next on the list; and it not unfrequently happened, as his front shop was the largest one in town, that it proved the rendezvous for politicians and news-mongers--Esquire Clavers being of course the main speaker in the assembly, and the oracle in matters of opinion in all Claverton.

It was spring, but not yet sufficiently warm to do without fires; accordingly there was a trio around the stove the very morning I commenced my work.

“I see you’ve got a new boy,” said Jared Peat the tailor.

“On trial just,” answered Mr. Willett.

“Not of much account, I’ll venture; a chip of the old block,” continued Jared.

“Smart as a steel-trap,” said Esquire Clavers, “but altogether too fine notions in his head. If a boy would be any thing, he must work for it. It’s of no use trying to work and study too; one or the other will be done badly. Jeffries was telling me of his being there; he could hardly take a horse to water without having a book along to read while the horse was drinking. For my part, I wouldn’t give him his salt if he works in that manner.” Esquire Clavers had said it, and of course I should find little time for books so long as I should be in Mr. Willett’s employ.

I had heard that Esquire Clavers had once been poor, and I could not but ask myself, Has he forgotten? or was it not so dark and hard to him as it is to me?

Presently a customer asked for molasses, and I went into the back room to draw it, Mr. Willett hastening after me.

“You should not fill the measure quite full, boy.”

“She asked for a quart, sir;” and I looked up, feeling sure he had not understood, as I held but a quart measure.

“I know, but we never fill it quite full; it might run over, you know; and when you stop it, see that not a drop is lost.”

He walked about, apparently finding something to do, but in reality watching me. I saw the direction of his eye; and filling my measure, with care that it did not run over, and that not a drop was lost, I emptied it into the poor woman’s jug.

“Never stop to drain it; make quick work; somebody else will want you;” and I followed him into the front room.

“I see he gives good measure,” Mr. Willett said to Jared Peat as he resumed his place at the fire.

“Oh yes, such people are always honest.”

“I don’t know about that,” answered Esquire Clavers. “His father was an honest man, though open-handed and generous, and I have heard say was at one time a gentleman. It’s a pity he drank so.”

They did not seem to mind me at all, and still I felt pleased, although saddened, to hear my father called an honest man, and that at one time he had been in better circumstances. Thus thinking, and wishing that I knew more of his early life, I leaned against the counter, and weighed and tied up sundry packages; for this was, Mr. Willett said, my first work, to tie packages handsomely.

On the day went. My hands were not idle, yet not unfrequently I found my thoughts straying into the future. The vision loomed up with a sudden brightness, a path tending onward in spite of difficulties and temptations.

I did not know what trials would rise up from unseen places, what snares and pitfalls where the flowers grew brightest. But I remembered Mr. Kirby had said, as he climbed the mountain, “One step at a time; and so in life. Do what you have to do well, and God will open a path to something better.”

Little did I then see what He was to do for me; little did I then understand my duty to him; but I thought of him, and felt a certain sense of reliance, a feeling of security, which I have since vainly endeavored to understand.

Near sunset, and just as I was balancing the question, wishing and still fearing to ask Mr. Willett’s permission to study in the evening, Jennie came in, her bright, happy face looking still prettier in a light blue sun-bonnet that Miss Grimshaw had given her. I had only time for a kiss when she asked for Mr. Willett. I showed her to his desk, when she stepped forward and laid a tiny note before him. I saw that his face lit up with a glad surprise, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure as he laid it down.

“Yes, tell her I’ll come.” I afterwards discovered it was an invitation to tea. Mr. Willett was a devoted admirer, and the little milliner held his heart as he did his purse, tightly. What was said I never knew; but the next morning Mr. Willett said if I was faithful and did my work well, I could study every evening with Jennie, and Miss Grimshaw would hear our lessons.

That night was an era in my life, and very happy and hopeful was I as I crossed the street to the little side door Jennie had told me to enter. Here I found a comfortable room, a round table in the centre of the floor, with our two slates, an arithmetic, and geography; for Jennie had every thing in readiness, including a tallow candle in a white porcelain holder, the bottom shaped like a leaf, which Jennie thought was a marvel of beauty. In the corner was seated grandma Grimshaw, a stately looking woman with silver hair combed low on the forehead, white muslin cap with long embroidered tabs, and spectacles.

“And this is Marston,” said she, taking my hand as I came in. “I’ve heard Eliza speak of you as a good boy. She used to know your ma;” and soon Miss Grimshaw came out of the front room, laid her hand on my head, and said,

“You shall study two hours if you like, and then I will hear your lesson.” I tried to stammer out my thanks, but something choked down my words. “That is nothing, Marston. I used to want to study, but I had no chance. I like to read, and I am familiar with arithmetic; I can help you there as well as any one;” and she was gone.

“Eliza don’t get much time,” said her mother; “but she likes to help others; and she used to think so much of your mother.”

Brushing away the tears that would come at the mention of my mother, I turned to my slate. The first three rules I could understand perfectly, but long division troubled me. I was sure to make some mistake that would require me to go over and over again, and not unfrequently did I feel inclined to throw it aside. But one look at my “Self Helps,” and I worked away as resolutely as ever.

At nine Miss Grimshaw came in, heard Jennie’s lesson in geography, then questioned me in arithmetic, and explained till the difficulties had all vanished. Then we read for half an hour; at the expiration of which she shut our books.

“I promised Mr. Willett you should be there five minutes before ten.”

“This is better than the boy in the book,” said Jennie, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss me good-night.

It had been a busy day and evening, and I was tired. Still I had made some advance, and at this rate it would not be long before I should master arithmetic. I slept in a little back room; but weary as I was, I could not at once quiet my thoughts; so I lay and watched one little star as it stole across my window, and wondered if my mother could know how and where I was, and that I did try to care for Jennie, although we could not sleep under the same roof.

As spring came forward, the ordinary business of the day remained quite the same, but how many pleasant things I had to think of. Long division did not trouble me any more, neither did fractions; I was beginning to understand interest, and my handwriting had much improved. There was also a sensible difference in my outward appearance, and Jennie grew in loveliness each day. How proud I was of that little sister; and never did we go to church or Sabbath-school, but I wondered if mother could know it.

When the summer heats were on us there was less to do, and sometimes I got a walk with Jennie among the hills. A year had made a great difference with both of us, while the mountain was just the same; and we often thought of our last walk there, and of dear Mr. Kirby.

“If he could only know how kind Miss Grimshaw is to us,” said Jennie. “It is God that puts it into her heart, isn’t it? and not for our sakes, but for Christ’s sake. I used to think it was for mother’s sake; but Christ died for us.”

Dear little comforter; her heart was full of sweet thoughts, while I was ambitious for her; and this, together with Mr. Kirby’s words, kept me from being gloomy and desponding when I fancied Mr. Willett was impatient or exacting: “Do your work well, and God will open a path to something better.” This gave me courage and strength; so that while I worked in the present, I lived in the future.

One day I was sent to Esquire Clavers’ with a basket of groceries he had ordered. As I went up the walk, Frank, his oldest son, a boy of about my own age, was on the piazza, a spot embowered in roses and honeysuckles, reading; a little girl in a blue lawn dress, with long golden curls framing her face like a picture, reclined near him, her head resting on the neck of a large Newfoundland dog. From the open window the pleasant tones of a piano floated out on the air, and involuntarily I stopped to listen. Frank looked up, and seeing me, came down the avenue to meet me.

“What have you here? Oh, teas and things for mother. Do you like music? Come, go in and hear sister play.”

“I should be glad to,” I answered, “but I was told to return immediately.”

“Five minutes wont be missed; come in.”

“Not now, Frank,” for I thought of what Mr. Kirby had said; and handing my basket to the servant, I took up Frank’s book.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Latin,” he answered; “and a grand old language it is;” and he began reading aloud.

“Where do you go to school?” I asked.

“To the Rockdale academy. Have you never heard of it? It is vacation now. We shall commence again in September. Oh, we have great times there. I wish you would join us; you’d like the boys: some of them study, and some are up to all sorts of fun.”

“I wish I could go,” I answered musingly.

“Well, why can’t you? it’s only four miles from here.”

I did not dare stay another moment; and taking my basket, I turned, with a hasty good-by to Frank. Since the vacation commenced, he had visited the grocery almost every day, and very fond he seemed of all sports and amusements.

This boy has a home, I said to myself sadly, and parents to watch over him; he does not have to look after himself; and his little sister is no better than Jennie; and again I dared to question why Frank Clavers had so much, and we were so destitute. But whatever feelings swayed me for the moment, the controlling idea was still the same: “Do what you do well, and God will open a path.”

Even then God was preparing a surprise that would melt me into tears. For several days Miss Grimshaw had been saying that I was getting all she knew of arithmetic; and when September came, she surprised me by asking how I would like to go to the Rockdale academy.

“Oh, so much, Miss Grimshaw; but it is four miles from here, and--”

“It is only three miles by the river road, which is by far the pleasantest. Three miles is not such a long walk for a boy like you.”

“Oh no, Miss Grimshaw; but you forget there is no school at night.”

“You are not going at night, but in the morning early;” and my white face, as she told me afterwards, frightened her into exclaiming at once,

“Mrs. Jeffries says that she will board you; that is, she will send me enough during the winter of such things as we need to pay the expense of your board; and you are to go to Rockdale.”

I had no words, and Jennie seated herself on my knee, and kissed away the tears. “I am so glad, brother; I only wish I could go too.”

“The walk is entirely too long for Jennie,” said Miss Grimshaw, who overheard the last remark; “but you can help her some, and in this way she will advance nearly as well as though at school all the time.”

“We shall get on very nicely. I cannot sufficiently thank you, Miss Grimshaw.”

“It is not all my work, Marston. Mrs. Jeffries had quite as much to do with it; she is anxious that you should both go to school.”

V.

A great day it was when I started for the academy. With the amount received from Mr. Willett, Miss Grimshaw had provided me with a neat outfit, and also had enough left for a few new books.

“I used to have a little brother,” said Miss Grimshaw as we set out; for the night previous, she had announced her intention of going with me. “Had Johnny lived, he would have been about your own age. We always intended to send him to college; for he loved books.”

But it was not a morning to be sad. A soft hazy atmosphere floated around us, and softened into beauty the distant landscape. The hills stretching away northward loomed up through their blue veil with almost the majesty of mountain ranges; the green of the pines on their crests, and the ragged lines of the wood which marked the courses of the descending ravines, were dimmed and robbed of their gloom. The valley was still fresh, and the great oaks by the brook had not yet shed all their tawny leaves. A moist and fragrant odor of decay pervaded the air, and the soft south wind occasionally stealing along the valley seemed to blow the sombre colors of the landscape into long-continued waves of brightness.

The hills, curving rapidly to the eastward, rose abruptly from the meadows in a succession of terraces, the lowest of which was faced with a wall of dark rock, in horizontal strata, but almost concealed from view by the tall forest-trees which grew at the base.

The brook, issuing from a glen which descended from the lofty upland region, poured itself headlong from the brink of the rocky steep, a glittering silver thread. Seen through the hazy atmosphere, its narrow white column seemed to stand motionless between the pines, and its mellowed mist to roll from some region beyond the hills.

“We shall see Rockdale presently,” said Miss Grimshaw. “I am sorry now that I did not let Jennie come. I did not think the walk would be so beautiful, and I was afraid it would make her sick.”

“If you are willing, I would like to have her take this walk some time; it would please her so much; neither do I think it would tire her. We have both been accustomed to long walks. I have been to the top of the highest point, and Jennie was familiar with almost every rock about Mrs. Jeffries’.”

“She shall come,” continued Miss Grimshaw. “But there’s the academy. It used to be only a private dwelling; but the owner died, and Mr. Harlan, our minister then, thought it would be a good place for a school. Terryville, just beyond, is much larger than our village, and most of the boys board there.”