As the news of Benjamin’s trip spread, neighbors made all manner of excuses to visit Door-Latch Inn. They wanted to hear about the great Samuel Shoemaker. Mrs. Tomkins came down from the hills to borrow some live coals. The fire on her hearth had gone out, she said. However, she seemed in no hurry to get back home with her pot of glowing embers. She sat down on the settle while her eyes scoured the inn for a glimpse of Benjamin.
A spry-legged old man came ten miles to borrow duck eggs. “The creek on my place overflowed,” he said. “Washed all my duck eggs downstream. Come to borry a few of yours, and maybe sit down a spell.”
Only Mr. Wayne, a gentleman of Springfield, made no excuses. He dropped in one evening, purposely to watch Benjamin at work.
“By my life!” he exclaimed to Papa. “Your son’s pictures are very acceptable. I should like to have one or two on my own mantel shelf. Then, when winter closes in, I could regard green trees and flowers. It would be like special windows opening onto spring.”
Benjamin’s heart sang. Never before had anyone wanted his pictures. Quickly he slipped down from his stool and opened the pine dresser. He selected three landscapes and three portraits, including his very favorite—that of Grimalkin.
“If it please thee, I should like to give these to Mr. Wayne,” he said, handing the pictures to Papa.
Papa nodded. He seemed glad to get them out of the house.
• • •
The next morning when Benjamin was on his way to school, Mr. Wayne, on his black stallion, galloped up beside him. He leaped to the ground and led his horse along the road.
“My wife prizes the pictures,” he smiled, as he fell into step with Benjamin. “Especially that of Grimalkin. She is overfond of cats, you know. ‘Vastly pretty!’ she exclaims every time she chances to look at it. I myself half expect the creature to miaow—he looks so lifelike. Mind my words, Benjamin, we shall soon be sending sitters to you for their portraits.”
All this while Mr. Wayne had been jingling some coins in his pocket. Now he pulled out a whole handful of them and began counting. “One—two—three—four—five—six. Six dollars,” he said, as he piled the money into a neat little stack. Then he reached for Benjamin’s hand and placed the money inside it.
“Mrs. Wayne and I wish to buy the pictures,” he said. “And we hope a dollar apiece will please you.”
“A dollar apiece!” repeated Benjamin. “Oh, Mr. Wayne . . . !” Then his throat filled and he could say no more.
All day long the words sang themselves over in Benjamin’s heart. “Vastly pretty.” “We wish to buy the pictures.” “Vastly pretty.” “We wish to buy the pictures.” And in his pocket the six dollars kept a jingly tune to the words.
Chapter 17
PICTURES TO SET WORDS ON FIRE
Now that Benjamin and Grimalkin were back home, it was almost as if they had never been gone.
Winter was closing in, and Benjamin had to take his place with Papa and his brothers. He dug turnips, piled them in a neat mound, and covered them with warm straw and earth. He husked corn. He gathered cattails for bed stuffing. He stacked swamp grass for the cows and bullocks. He helped yard the cattle.
Grimalkin was quite as busy as the rest of the family. Field mice were trying to find winter quarters at Door-Latch Inn, and there were days on end when he had to catch his sleep with one eye open.
The days wore into weeks. Weeks wore into months. But no word came from William Williams, or from Uncle Phineas either.
“Does thee suppose we dreamed that trip to Philadelphia?” whispered Benjamin to Grimalkin one long winter evening.
At that precise moment the door opened and in came a horseman. He pulled a letter from his boot and flourished it over his head. “For John West, Innkeeper,” he announced as his eyes, unaccustomed to the firelight, tried to single out Mr. West.
Papa rose stiffly. He accepted the letter without even glancing at it. But Benjamin could see his hands tremble as he slipped it into his pocket.
“Thomas,” he said, “see to the gentleman’s horse.
“Hannah, be so good as to brew a cup of tea.
“Thee, Benjamin, carry warm water and fresh linen up to the front bedchamber.”
Papa was first of all an innkeeper. Not until he had made certain that the rider and his horse were comfortable did he take the letter out of his pocket. Then he lighted a candle, clamped the candlestick over the back of his chair, put on his spectacles, and unfolded the fine white paper.
His fingers began drumming on the table board. The drumming grew louder as he read, louder even than the household noises: Mamma at her spinning wheel, the girls making click-clack noises with their knitting needles, Benjamin and the boys whittling treenails, Grimalkin playing with a wooden spool. Finally the spinning wheel stopped. The knitting needles lay idle in the girls’ laps. The boys put their jackknives down. Even Grimalkin stopped his play.
“I feared it,” said Papa, his face white.
“What is it?” asked Mamma in alarm.
“It is about Benjamin,” Papa replied. “The letter comes from the Reverend Dr. Smith of the Academy at Philadelphia.”
Benjamin’s hands tightened around a handful of treenails until they dug into his flesh.
“Read it out,” suggested Mamma.
Papa cleared his throat, then read very slowly.
“For
John West, Esquire
Door-Latch Inn
near Springfield
in Chester County
“Dear Sr John West—I have this day seen a painting done by your son, Benjamin. It is a lively piece of work, and holds a promise for the future.
“I am desirous of schooling the lad in history. History needs painters. The printed word is sometimes cold. Pictures can set words on fire.
“As touching on the matter of money, I am of the belief that Benjamin can earn his keep and his schooling by painting miniatures.
“I hope you will approve my recommendation.
“I am,
“Yours most truly,
William Smith
Provost, The Academy Philadelphia”
Papa turned away from the fire and fixed his eyes on Benjamin. Something of the fire was left in his stare.
“I thought thee would outgrow painting,” he said. “I thought it a childhood pastime like blindman’s buff or puss-in-the-corner. I held great hopes for thee, lad. I never dreamed thee would become a painter of images.”
“Then I can go?” asked Benjamin breathlessly.
“It is not for me to decide.”
“For Mamma?”
“No. It is not a matter for Mamma to decide. It is for God. I will lay the whole matter before Him at the meetinghouse next First Day.” In silence he raked ashes over the fire for the night and with a heavy step went upstairs to bed.
After his footsteps had died away, Grimalkin wrapped himself about Benjamin’s boots and looked up questioningly.
“Don’t forget me in thy plans,” he seemed to say.
Chapter 18
THE FATE OF BENJAMIN
The days before the meeting were as cheerless as a hearth without a fire. Never once did Papa have to remind Benjamin to begin the day in silence. He began and ended it in silence. He had very little appetite. Every time he thought of the meeting he broke out in goose flesh.
Grimalkin, too, knew that something was amiss. He seldom purred. He refused to play. He would sit for hours, his paws tucked under him, his green eyes watching Benjamin.
When First Day came, Benjamin was ready for the meeting long before the family.
“Preened as glossy bright as a bird,” Papa remarked kindly. “Boots clean. Face scrubbed and shining. Hair combed until the teeth marks of the comb lie like the furrows in a field.”
Benjamin fidgeted with the buttons on his coat. He actually wished Papa would think up a chore to make the time fly. It was Mamma, however, who came to the rescue.
“The day is sharp,” she said. “T
he meetinghouse will be cold. Will thee prepare the foot warmers, son?”
Benjamin was glad of a task. He set the foot warmers on the floor. There were five of them—one for Mamma and each of the girls. He filled the little metal boxes with live coals from the fire, and clamped the lids down firmly. Then he had to scrub his hands all over again.
Now everyone was ready. Nanny Luddy stood waiting at the upping block.
Papa mounted. Thomas helped Mamma mount behind Papa. The rest of the family followed on foot. First came the boys according to their ages—John, Thomas, Samuel, Joseph and Benjamin. Then followed the girls—Sarah, Hannah, Mary and Elizabeth—carrying their foot warmers.
Benjamin glanced backward, hoping Grimalkin might come along. But Grimalkin was nowhere to be seen.
With a sigh, he fell into step. The snow crunched underfoot. Horsemen, their waistcoats flapping like bird wings, passed them by. Sleighs filled with women and children passed them by, their runners squeaking above the wind. From the town of Goshen, from Springfield, from all over the countryside horses and oxen were climbing the long hill to the meetinghouse.
A cardinal flew across the road, his feathers blood-red against the snow-covered trees.
Just when Benjamin and his brothers reached the steps of the meetinghouse, a streak of black whisked by their feet. Seemingly from nowhere at all Grimalkin had come!
Waving his tail in the air, he walked directly to the men’s section of the meetinghouse. In great dignity he found the bench where Benjamin always sat. He settled himself on the floor and politely waited.
No one paid him the slightest attention. Not even the two dogs on the women’s side of the house who came along as foot warmers. They had tangled with Grimalkin in their puppyhood. Now they held him in great respect.
Mamma and Papa were already seated among the elders on a bench facing the congregation when Benjamin took his seat between Samuel and Joseph. A stilled, breathless feeling came over him as he waited for the meeting to begin. From across the aisle came the rustle of skirts and the scraping of foot warmers being shoved into place.
Now everyone was settling down. The meeting was about to begin.
Usually Benjamin liked the silence of First Day. It seemed warm and friendly and comforting. Often it held a kind of power for him.
But today the silence was suffocating. It was like swimming underneath a bridge of logs and not being able to come up for air. The silence was growing deeper. It was a whirlpool now, sucking Benjamin down, down, down. He felt as if he were drowning in it.
Suddenly Papa was removing his hat. He rose with effort, as if for him the silence were a hand, trying to hold him down. He hung his hat on a peg in the wall behind him.
“Friends,” he began so slowly that it was hard to piece the words together. “Friends—I have a grave matter to lay before the Society.”
Then his words came more quickly.
“All children in Penn’s colony should be taught a useful trade. It was William Penn’s wish. I now seek guidance for my last-born son. He elects to be a painter.”
Once more the silence closed in. Benjamin could hear Papa’s breath coming and going. It sounded like a bellows.
If Papa had said, “My son elects to be a pirate,” the stillness could not have been more fearful.
Benjamin rubbed his foot across Grimalkin’s back. He saw little sparks fly.
“Since God has created beauty in nature, Benjamin sees no sin in copying it,” Papa explained. “I now lay the matter before Him. Shall Benjamin be called off from his painting?”
Again that heavy stillness, as Papa returned his hat to his head and sat down. The only sound Benjamin could hear was the wild beating of his heart.
Now, with a light scuffle of feet, a little man at the end of the row stood up. Benjamin took a sidewise glance at him. It was Beriah Hadwen, the wool comber from the town of Goshen. Benjamin never failed to marvel at the man’s head. It was as bare as an opossum’s tail.
“If I may so speak,” said Mr. Hadwen, “it would seem best to call him off. Picturemaking belongs to the world and the things of the world.” And with that he blew his nose and sat down.
At once a deep, pleasant voice was heard. It belonged to John Williamson, the ironmonger.
“Quakers,” he was saying, “have given themselves the name of Friends. Are we being Friends in calling Benjamin off from his life’s work?” He stopped and Grimalkin filled the gap with a loud purring. Mr. Williamson smiled. “Even Benjamin’s cat, Grimalkin, was called upon to furnish paintbrushes for his master. So strong in Benjamin was the urge to reproduce God’s work that he made his paintbrushes from his cat’s fur. Determination is a good thing. We could all benefit.”
Scarcely had he finished when Schoolmaster Snevely sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.
“I think it proper,” he said, “that we name a committee of men and women to inspect Benjamin’s pictures. It would be for them to decide whether Benjamin should be called off.”
There was a stirring in the women’s side of the meetinghouse as Mrs. Tomkins rose up, round as a haystack.
“I think it would be seemly,” she bustled, “if we followed Master Snevely’s advice. I name Schoolmaster Snevely to the committee.”
Master Snevely bowed in her direction. “And I name Mrs. Tomkins.”
The voices came thick and fast.
“I name Miller Clinkenbeard.”
“I name Friend Williamson.”
“I name Beriah Hadwen from Goshen.”
“I name all of the elders.”
“I name Dr. Jonathan Moris.”
At last Mamma stood up.
“Next First Day afternoon,” she said in her gentle voice, “I should like to invite the committee to Door-Latch Inn to inspect Benjamin’s pictures and decide his fate.” Only then did Mamma’s blue eyes look to Papa for approval. He nodded solemnly.
And so it was.
Chapter 19
THE LATCHSTRING IS IN
Two days before the meeting, Papa took Benjamin completely by surprise. Except for Grimalkin and the cows, they were alone in the barn.
“Why doesn’t thee get out thy paintbox?” Papa asked, as he aimed a stream of milk directly into Grimalkin’s mouth.
“What for, Papa?”
“It would be nice to have a new signboard swinging from the buttonwood tree.”
“But what is wrong with the sign there now?”
“The lettering is feeble,” Papa replied. “A picture of a door-latch would be more fitting. It would say to wayfarers and journeymen: ‘Welcome! The latchstring is out. Here thee will find food and lodging and comfort.’ But mind thy colors,” he added quickly. “Only grays or buffs. No bright gaudy tints.”
As soon as the milking was done, Benjamin raced across the courtyard. He had not been so happy in days. He laughed out at Grimalkin, who bounded ahead of him like a snowshoe rabbit.
With a piece of hemp Benjamin took the measurements of the old weathered sign. Then he sawed some boards and set to work sanding them.
“I’ll make two, three signs,” he told Grimalkin. “It will keep me from thinking about things.”
So Sixth Day and Seventh Day passed in a pleasant busyness.
First Day dawned bright and cold. The morning dragged. No one was moved to speak at meeting. The hour of worship seemed more like ten. But at last the family was home again, the noontide meal over, and the dishes back on their shelves.
An expectant feeling filled Door-Latch Inn. One could almost see it in the dancing flecks of winter sunlight, in the blue flames that licked the chimney.
Papa paced to and fro, with Grimalkin trying to catch his bootlaces. Mamma flew from room to room, giving out directions in a voice that did not hide her nervousness.
“Thee, Sarah, set up Benjamin’s pictures in the parlor: the image of Sally on the table and that of Sassoonan and the Indians on the mantel shelf. No, try it the other way around. Aye, that is better. Now the cattail p
icture and the one of the flying squirrel can go on the mantel, too.
“Mary! Thee move the spinning wheel to the corner.
“Thee, Benjamin! Put bayberry candles in all the holders.
“Elizabeth! Thee’s to cover the plate of caraway cakes with a white linen cloth. Then set the crock of whipped sillabub out in the snow to chill.
“Thomas and John! Be so good as to arrange the stools and chairs about the fire. Place them in small half-circles, so, and make two sections, as in the meetinghouse.”
Suddenly Benjamin looked up the road. A whole procession of men and women on horses was moving downhill toward Door-Latch Inn. The black hats of the men and the bonnets of the women made sharp outlines against the clear winter sky.
“Oh!” groaned Benjamin, as he twisted the last candle into its holder.
The procession was coming closer now. He could hear the thud of horses’ hoofs. Or was it the thumping of his heart?
All at once the inn was alive with bustle. Papa and the boys were running to help with the horses. Mamma and the girls were at the door, hanging cloaks and hoods on pegs, seeing to everyone’s comfort. Everybody was stirring except Benjamin. He stood rooted to the floor. Grimalkin lay across his boots, his ears pointed backward with disapproval.
Time and again the door creaked open and shut, letting in black-cloaked figures.
At last every member of the committee had arrived: Schoolmaster Snevely, Mrs. Tomkins, Miller Clinkenbeard, Mr. Williamson, Dr. Moris, Beriah Hadwen from Goshen, and all of the elders.
They had to pass Benjamin to get into the parlor, and each, in turn, stopped to shake his hand and some had a word for Grimalkin. Benjamin’s hands were hot and moist. Their hands felt cold and hard and dry. With a sinking heart, Benjamin noticed several elders shake their heads slowly.
Now Papa did something that Benjamin had never seen him do before. He shut the door securely and pulled the latchstring inside. As long as Benjamin could remember, the latchstring had always been out so that friend or stranger, Indian or white man, could lift the latch and walk in. Now no one else could enter.
Benjamin West and His Cat Grimalkin Page 7
