Julia and Ben came over on Saturday afternoon to bring their presents, and some dried apples from Mrs. Chase to Mrs. Gilman. The last were prefaced by the apology that “she didn’t know but Mrs. Gilman’s must be most out.” Many a useful gift had come from the same quarter, prompted by equal kindness, and offered with the same natural delicacy. “Neighbors” in New England, mean more than living near a person. The rule of the Samaritan is taken rather than the Levite’s, and certainly good wishes and kind acts were as “oil and wine” to Mrs. Gilman of late, however trifling they might seem in themselves.
The children passed a greater part of the afternoon in the garret chamber, which being directly over the kitchen, was warm and comfortable. Sam’s clothes were to go in his father’s chest—“a real sea-chest”—as he told Ben, but he was to have a box of his own besides. Packing this box was the excitement of the afternoon, as it included a distribution of that part of Sam’s treasures, he found it impossible to accommodate. One particular red ear of corn presented to Julia Chase, made a great deal of amusement; some speckled bird’s eggs, and the principal curiosity of his museum, a carved elephant’s tooth, brought home by some sailor uncle or cousin of his mother’s, completed her share of the spoils. The sled was presented to Ben, and Abby and Hannah shared the remainder, feeling far richer than many a grown up legatee does in receiving a bequest of thousands. An animated conversation was kept up, Julia bringing forward a fact in history that had troubled her very much for the past few days. Her class were studying Goodrich’s United States for the first time, and she remembered that when the English settled at Jamestown they discovered earth containing a great quantity of shining particles which were supposed to be gold by the colonists. She sympathized very heartily with them in their disappointment, when they found their ship loads sent to England turned out worthless, and she had become quite anxious on Sam’s account. What if after all the California gold should end in the same way! Hannah and Abby were very much agitated for a while with this startling historical inference, but Ben did not hesitate to say, “girls were fools, they knew nothing and never did;” while Sam gave such remarkable anecdotes and facts, that they were reassured, and all grew merry and good-natured again.
For the first time in many Sundays, Mr. Gilman went with his wife and family to meeting. His new rough great coat and respectable hat made him seem like another man. But he did not like the sermon at all, and considered it as meant for him. It was rather singular that the text should be—
“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:
“But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.”
Sam, who had persuaded his mother to let him sit in the gallery with Ben, became much more attentive than usual. The new minister evidently had the California adventure in his mind, though he only spoke of the feeling extending all over the country; the sudden haste to get rich, and the willingness people showed to leave their families and their homes to go in search of golden treasure. He said if they would make half as many sacrifices to lay up treasure in heaven, they would be thought to have lost their senses, and ridiculed on every side; yet there was no comparison between the worth and value of the two.
Ben on the contrary thought the sermon very long and tiresome, and amused himself by carving on the seat what he fondly called a ship, working most industriously with one eye on his father’s pew, to see when he was unobserved. Ben certainly never could have supported existence without a knife, and though it was only a jack-knife, and not a very elegant one at that, it was surprising what a number of things he managed to do with it.
All the neighbors stood in the entry, or porch, at the noon recess, and shook hands with Mr. Gilman, just as they used to do. His wife sat near the glowing stove, talking with Mrs. Chase, and could not help thinking how much happier it would be if, instead of going away the next morning, he would stay with her and the children, and try to get along at home. But then, perhaps, it was wrong not to be thankful for any change that promised better things. Squire Merrill spoke very kindly and encouragingly, Deacon Chase in his queer, forgetful way, shook hands twice over, and insisted on driving them home, after afternoon meeting, although Mrs. Gilman told him they were going back with Mr. Conner, whose wife was not well enough to go out, so there was plenty of room. Sam on his side had a large congregation of all the boys round him, most of them looking very stiff and uncomfortable in their Sunday clothes, with their straight, sunburnt locks, plastered down by an extra allowance of soap and water. In their secret hearts they all envied him, and he knew it, but tried not to overpower them by a sense of his own importance, leaving it for Ben to set forth his probable route and adventures. Julia had brought his sisters a big Baldwin apple apiece, and shared her luncheon of dough-nuts in the most generous manner; a kindness which Abby fully appreciated, as all their apples were gone long ago, and dough-nuts had been a rarity for the last two winters. Hannah, with characteristic forethought, saved her Baldwin until she could have a good chance to read her new library book. A book and an apple was the height of Hannah’s enjoyment. We must not forget, however, that she was capable of self-denial, for that same treasured Baldwin, with its beautiful crimson cheek, found its way into Sam’s overcoat pocket the next morning. Let those who have given up a hoarded dainty, appreciate the sacrifice!
Mr. Gilman was very restless—“fidgety” the Deacon would have called it, all that evening. It was Sunday; all preparations were completed; he could not make an excuse to go to Mooney’s, and he had to think. He went out to the barn, and even mounted to what was once the hay-loft. He walked to the road, back to the kitchen, and out to the road again, with his hands in his pockets, and his hat set down over his face. He began to whistle, but stopped, remembering it was Sunday. No one but He who can read the thoughts of our hearts, knew all that came into his, in the quiet and deep stillness of that last Sunday evening at home. The sermon, the journey, the next day’s parting with his wife, her love for him, and his selfish neglect, all mingled there, and brought remorse and self-condemnation with them. When he went into the house, Mrs. Gilman was sitting in the fire-light with her children, singing hymns that her own mother had taught her. This had once been the happiest hour of all the week, but now the mother’s voice was tremulous, and her heart full of heaviness. The last night of an unbroken family circle, perhaps for ever; the last Sunday beneath the roof of her father’s homestead! How could it be otherwise? Mr. Gilman was persuaded that this was the commencement of a new and better life for him. All the indifference and selfishness of years seemed to melt away; something like a silent prayer came in its place, a prayerful resolve only, not one for aid and guidance. Depending on himself, and forgetting how often he had been self-betrayed, he meant fully, at that moment, to be industrious and persevering for their dear sakes. He would toil with a strength and energy that must succeed, and his wife should be doubly rewarded for all she had suffered.
Perhaps she felt the certainty of this as he sat near her, shading his eyes with his hand; for her voice grew clearer and stronger as she sang—