THE HOUSE OF YORKE.
CHAPTER IX.
TWO YEARS AFTER
A heavy heart is a wonderful assistant in acquiring repose of manner, it weighs so on the impulses and desires, and thus keeps them in order—fortunately for Mrs. Jane Rowan. On the whole, she behaved very well in her new situation, and did not fret herself nor the family too much. By the gentleman of the house and his daughter she was not treated as a hired servant, but as Mr. Williams's sister might have been treated, if he had had one to take charge of his establishment. With the sister-in-law, Mrs. Bond, and the servants, it was otherwise. The former was one of those persons who merit pity, from the fact that they can never feel the delight of a generous emotion. She worshipped the guinea's stamp, but the preciousness of fine gold she knew not: for her, the guinea might as well have been made of copper. If she had been born to a servile estate, she would have remained there, and adorned her position; but she had been associated with persons of respectability and even of eminence. The advantages of this association she showed in that the arrogance with which she treated her supposed inferiors was cold and quiet, and her subservience to her acknowledged superiors had an air of personal fondness.
This woman's greatest fear was lest some one should marry her brother-in-law, in consequence of which she labored incessantly to remove from him all dangerous acquaintances: her second source of terror was that her niece might be captivated by some ineligible person, and the result was that every hovering monsieur and professor who assisted in educating the young woman was watched as if he had been a pick-pocket. Helen Williams used to complain bitterly to the housekeeper of this espionage, and Mrs. Bond used as strenuously to invoke the aid of the housekeeper in watching; so that the unfortunate woman was between two fires, and scorched pro and con. But the great trial of her life was the servants. Over these potentates she was supposed to exercise some authority, and for some of their doings she was held responsible; but the fact was that they laughed her to scorn. As to commanding them, Mrs. Rowan would as soon have thought of commanding the lancers or the cadets, and indeed the lancers or the cadets would quite as soon have thought of obeying her. But through all these mean annoyances, thanks to sorrow, the quieter, she walked with a gentle patience which saved her from serious hurt.
Happily, the person on whom her fortunes most depended put her quite at ease in his regard. Mr. Williams was moderately kind, not expressively polite, and did not scruple to make her useful. He had also certain habits which soothed her sense of inferiority, since she did not consider them polite: he reached across the table sometimes in a shocking manner to help himself, he bolted his food when he was in haste, he smoked a pipe in the sitting-room without asking leave, and, while smoking, habitually assumed a position contrary to the apparent intention of nature, by placing his feet higher than his head. There were times when the housekeeper dared to think that she was almost as much a lady as Mr. Williams was a gentleman. But she liked him all the better for his deficiencies. She liked him, too, for the interest he took in her son.
In the fall, Mr. Williams and Major Cleaveland had entered into partnership, and enlarged their shipping interests, and the former had said to Mrs. Rowan of Dick, "If the boy continues to do well, we must give him a ship."
The mother's heart beat high. In two years Dick would come back, and then perhaps Mr. Williams would remember his promise. That her son would deserve such favor she never doubted. Young Mr. Rowan had the power of inspiring every one who knew him with entire confidence. So the mother set herself to endure and count away the months to the coming home of her son. The winter melted, and spring came—six months nearer! The summer glowed, and grew chilly into autumn—only a year longer! A second winter wore itself away—but six months left! and what you can have back again in six months, you touch already. Six months is only twenty-four weeks; and, while you are counting them, the four have slipped away. What signifies five months? One sleeps through nearly a third of them, which leaves three months of conscious waiting. Hearts do not count fractions. Three months—and now they begin to drag. It is July, and that month has so many days, and the days have so many hours in them, and the hours are so long. You begin to fancy that heat dilates time as well as metals. You say that it is just your luck that the only time in the year when two months in succession have thirty-one days should be precisely this time. Good-by to July! I would have spoken you more courteously, O month of Cæsar! had you not stood between my friend and me. Not Cæsar's self may do that! Two months now; but much may happen in that time: kingdoms have been lost and won in less. Fade, O summer flowers! for ye can bloom again when love is dead. Hasten, O fruitful autumn! and bring the harvest long waited for. The weeks grow less, and only one is left; but you dare not rejoice; so much may happen in a week! Days roll round with an audible jar, as if you heard the earth buzz on her axis, and only one is left. O God! how much may happen in a day! The pendulum swings entangled in your heart-strings, the minutes march like armed men. Merciful Father! hearts have broken in a minute. Yes; but hearts that were sinking have grown glad in a minute, shall grow glad, Deo volente. The terrible if that held his skeleton finger up before the face of your hope, that drove sleep from your eyes, that weighed upon you ceaselessly, shall fade to a shadow, and the shadow shall disappear in sunshine—Deo volente!
The sea was smooth—perhaps the prayers of the mother had smoothed it; the sky was sunny—it may have been for that mother's sake; and one blessed tide that came running up the harbor, ripple after ripple falling on the shore like breathless messengers, brought a ship in from the East with a precious freight for the owners, and for Mrs. Rowan a freight more precious than if the ship had been piled for her mast-high with gold.
A young man's handsome bronzed face looked eagerly through the rigging, and saw a carriage drawn up close to the wharf, a man standing beside the open door of it, and a woman's pale face leaning out. The pale face turned red as he looked, and his mother's hands were stretched toward him.
"O Dick! my own boy!"