CHAPTER IV.
GOING TO CALIFORNIA!
It is strange how soon the most startling things that happen to us, settle into a matter of course. Before another Saturday night the whole Gilman family thought and talked of “going to California,” as if they had looked forward to it for a year. Sam contrived to gather more information about Cape Horn and the Pacific coast than he could have learned from a study of Olney’s Geography all his life. As Mrs. Gilman expected, her husband’s adviser made a determined opposition against taking a boy, and one as sharp-sighted as Sam Gilman particularly. But she was equally determined, and as Colcord knew she had it in her power to stop the sale of the farm, and cut off their means of going, he thought it best to give up. He concluded he should be able to manage both father and son after a while, and it might not be such a bad plan in the end.
Squire Merrill tried his best to dissuade Mr. Gilman, when he saw what was on foot. He even offered to lend him money to stock his farm, and get started again, but he could have had about as much influence on the wind. He proved himself to be a true friend, even though his advice was not taken.
He bought the remnant of the once valuable farm, paying ready money for it, though he was afterwards sorry he had not kept the sum intended for Mrs. Gilman’s use in his own hands. It would have been much better if he had. His old neighbor could not bear to have money and not be generous. With his hundred dollars clear, in his pocket, after paying Colcord enough to secure his passage in the same ship,—it was called a loan,—he felt quite as good as any one in the county, and would not listen to the suggestion that they should take passage in the steerage. He even debated going in the Crescent City, but found that quite beyond his means.
There was one comfort in this self-importance. He renewed a promise made and broken, many, many times, not to drink any more, and in spite of the past sad experience, his wife almost believed he would keep it. It was this hope, and seeing him more like his old self, kind and affectionate, that helped her through those two weeks of preparation. Her busy thoughts flew fast into the future, as her needle kept time to them. She said to herself she would forget the unhappy years that were gone, and work on cheerfully. How many bright pictures of the future were wrought into her daily tasks! She could even see them measuring the land, and sign the deed that gave up all right to it, thinking how soon the old homestead might be theirs again, and once more have fields crowned with plenty.
Sam seemed to think a long face was expected from him, and tried to put on one every time the matter was talked over. He found this harder and harder, as the time came near. A journey to Boston was an event in the life of Ben Chase he had never quite recovered from. Ben Chase had seen the Bunker Hill Monument and the State House, with Washington’s Statue, and, dear to a boy’s heart, the Common, with its renowned Frog Pond, which he never would own, even to himself, had disappointed him. Ben Chase talked of Boston Harbor, and like all boys brought up out of sight of salt water, thought of all things in the world he should like to be a sailor. He had even contemplated running away and persuading Sam Gilman to go with him. But Ben was a deacon’s son, and heard “honor thy father and mother” read out of the big family Bible very often. He had compunctious visitings the next day after concocting this notable scheme, at family prayers, and quite repented of it when he saw his father go round with the collection plate, the Sunday after. Now all his enthusiasm revived. He looked up to Sam quite as much as Sam expected or desired, when he found they were going “round the Horn.” He favored him with many decidedly original suggestions, always prefaced with—“I’ll tell you what, Sam,” and read over in the retirement of the barn chamber his limited collection of voyages and travels, burning with a renewed desire to
“Walk the waters like a thing of life,”
as he poetically termed staggering across a ship’s deck. Sam sometimes felt a little uncertainty about his positive happiness in leaving home, when he saw how sorry Julia Chase looked; but Ben’s conversation had quite an opposite effect on his spirits. Julia presented him with a heart-shaped pincushion, made out of the pieces of her new hood, as a keepsake. Ben deliberated among his accumulated stores a long time, and finally decided on the big hickory bow and arrow he was making with a great deal of care and skill. “It would be so useful if you was cast away on a desert island, you know,” he said.
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—
Ye fearful souls fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread,
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense
But trust him for his grace—
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.
Oh, these calm, thoughtful Sunday evenings in a New England home, where the strict, and it may be rigid rule of our forefathers, is still preserved! What a blessed memory they are, in after years, to the toil-worn and world-wearied heart! The dear circle gathered in the fire-light, one clasping a mother’s hand—the youngest nestling in a father’s arms!—the long quiet talk of pleasant and holy things—the wonderful Bible stories of Joseph and his brethren, Moses in the bulrushes, and the destruction of Pharaoh’s host—the old-fashioned hymns, led by a dear mother’s voice, in which all strive to join; the simple melodies, and the pious words sinking unconsciously into the memory! Who would exchange these recollections for the indulgence of carpeted nurseries, a servant’s twice-told tales of ghost or goblin, the muttered sleepy prayer at her knee, when another Sunday is over, a day of idle play, or marked only by a careful toilette for the dinner company who were expected, and engross the time and thoughts of worldly parents in the drawing-room? We may be mistaken, after all, about the privileges which the children of the rich enjoy.
Actually saying “good-bye,” is hardly ever as hard as we expect it will be, or the loneliness afterwards proves. The next morning found Mr. Gilman as confident as ever, and bustling around with great alacrity, to be ready in time for the stage. His wife did not allow herself to think. She had her breakfast to prepare—though Abby was the only one of the party that seemed to need it—and many things to see to at the last moment. Wherever she was, and whatever occupied her hands, her eyes and her heart followed Sam, who felt all the excitement of departure. His father had been so little comfort or company lately, that it would be easier to be accustomed to his absence. Sam she had depended on—his willing, cheerful readiness to assist her, the frank honesty that never deceived, young as he was, had filled up a great void in her heart. His very voice, and step, were music and lightness.—Do all she could the tears could not be kept back, but filled her eyes, and almost blinded her, as she went about her morning work. And then the time came—her husband kissing her hurriedly and nervously as the toiling horses came in sight, her boy not ashamed to cling to her neck, while she wrapped her arms around him, as if he had been still the baby in her bosom, and kissed him in an agony of love, and fear, and blessing. They were gone, and the house, no longer her home, was empty and desolate, and her straining eyes could not catch another glimpse of that bright boyish face.
All day long Mrs. Gilman busied herself with strange haste, and unnecessary care. It seemed as if she dreaded to have her hands unemployed for a moment. The children forgetting their tears, as children will, played, and worked, and disputed, but she scarcely seemed to notice them. It seemed to her as if death, not absence, had removed her son.