"I am one, Winnie."
Her tears ceased absolutely on his shoulder, and Winnie was for a moment motionless. Then as he did not speak again, she unclasped her arms and drew back her head to look at him. The constant flashes of light gave her chance enough.
"You heard me right," he said.
"Are you?" -- she said wistfully.
"By G.o.d"s help -- this night and for ever."
Winnie brought her hands together, half clapping, half clasping them, and then threw them to their former position around his neck, exclaiming, --
"Oh if _she_ had known it before --!"
There was no answer to that, of words; and Winnie could not see the sudden paleness which witnessed to the answer within.
But it came, keen as those lightning flashes, home-thrust as the thunderbolts they witnessed to, that his "now" had come too late for her.
The lightnings grew fainter, and failed -- the thunder muttered off in the distance, and ceased to be heard -- the clouds rolled down the river and scattered away, just as the dawn was breaking on Wut-a-qut-o. There had been nothing spoken in the farmhouse kitchen since Winnie"s last words. Winthrop was busy with his own thoughts, which he did not tell; and Winnie had been giving hers all the expression they could bear, in tears and kisses and the strong clasp of her weak arm, and the envious resting, trusting, lay of her head upon Winthrop"s shoulder and breast. When the glare of the lightning had all gone, and the grey light was beginning to walk in at the windows, her brother spoke to her.
"Winnie, -- you would be better in bed."
"Oh no, -- I wouldn"t. -- Do you want me to go, Governor?" she added presently.
"Not if you could rest as well here, but you want rest, Winnie."
"I couldn"t rest so well _anywhere!_" -- said Winifred energetically.
"Then let me take the big chair and give you a chance."
He took it, and took her in his arms again, where she nestled herself down as if she had been a child; with an action that touchingly told him anew that she could rest so well nowhere else.
"Governor --" she said, when her head had found its place -- "you haven"t kissed me."
"I did, Winnie, -- it must have been before you were awake."
But he kissed her again; and drawing one or two long breaths, of heart-weariness and heart-rest, Winnie went to sleep.
The grey dawn brightened rapidly; and a while after, Karen came in. It was fair morning then. She stood by the hearth, opposite the two, looking at them.
"Has she been here all night?" she whispered.
Winthrop nodded.
"Poor lamb! -- Ye"re come in good time, Master Winthrop."
She turned and began to address herself to the long gone-out fire in the chimney.
"What are you going to do, Karen?" he said softly.
She looked back at him, with her hand in the ashes.
"Haven"t you watched to-night?"
"I"ve watched a many nights," she said shaking her head and beginning again to rake for coals in the cold fireplace, -- "this aint the first. _That_ aint nothin". I"ll watch now, dear, "till the day dawn and the shadows flee away"; -- what else should Karen do? "Taint much longer, and I"ll be where there"s no night again. O come, sweet day! --" said the old woman clasping her hands together as she crouched in the fireplace, and the tears beginning to trickle down, -- "when the mother and the childr"n"ll all be together, and Karen somewheres -- and our home won"t be broken up no more! --"
She raked away among the ashes with an eager trembling hand.
"Karen, --" said Winthrop softly, -- "Leave that."
"What, dear?" -- she said.
"Leave that."
"Who"ll do it, dear?"
"I will."
She obeyed him, as perhaps she would have done for no one else. Rising up, Winthrop carried his sleeping sister without wakening her, and laid her on the bed in her own little room, which opened out of the kitchen; then he came back and went to work in the fireplace. Karen yielded it to him with equal admiration and unwillingness; remarking to herself as her relieved hands went about other business, that, "for sure, n.o.body could build a fire handsomer than Mr. Winthrop"; -- and that "he was his mother"s own son, and deserved to be!"
CHAPTER XXV.
That thee is sent receive in buxomness; The wrestling of this worlde askith a fall; Here is no home, here is but wildernesse, Forthe, pilgrim, forthe, o best out of thy stall, Loke up on high, and thanke thy G.o.d of all.
CHAUCER.
As soon as she was awake Winnie sought her brother"s side again; and from that moment never left it when it was possible to be there. In his arms, if she could; close by his side, if nearer might not be; she seemed to have no freedom of life but in his shadow. Her very grief was quieted there; either taking its tone from his calm strength, or binding itself with her own love for him. Her brother was the st.u.r.dy tree round which this poor little vine threw its tendrils, and climbed and flourished, all it could.
He had but a few days to spend at Shahweetah now. Towards the end of them, she was one evening sitting, as usual, on his knee; silent and quiet. They were alone.
"Winnie," said her brother, "what shall I do with you?"
She put her arms round his neck and kissed him, -- a very frequent caress; but she made no answer.
"Shall I take you to Mannahatta with me?"
"Oh yes, Winthrop!"
It was said with breathless eagerness.
"I am almost afraid to do it."
"Why, Winthrop?"
"Hush --" he said gently; for her words came out with a sort of impatient hastiness; -- "You don"t know what kind of a place it is, Winnie. It isn"t much like what home used to be."
"Nor this aint, neither," she murmured, nestling her head in his bosom.
"But you wouldn"t have the free air and country -- I am afraid it wouldn"t be so good for you."