certain Lady Mowlson of London is considering a contribution. ’Twould produce an annual stipend for ‘some poor scholar,’ as she puts it. Weld believes that seeing a poor scholar—poor in purse, but rich in learning—will inspire her generosity.”
Though Isaac believed in the beneficence of Henry Dunster, he was not naive. To make such a journey, there had to be some gain. He sought a polite way to word it, could find none, and so said, “May I count on a position as a tutor here when I return?”
“If Lady Mowlson offers a sum, I shall argue that you deserve the first stipend.”
“Then I go gladly.”
“But what of Mistress Nicholson? Do you love her?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“You believe so? And what do you believe she will say to all this?”
“I believe she will be happy for me.”
That evening, Isaac took a copy of the Quaestiones, rolled it, tied it with a strip of colored fabric, and went to the home of the Nicholsons. A small gift might smooth the way for his bad news . . . if not with Katharine, at least with her father.
Charles Nicholson answered the door. He was a big man with fleshy features that always brightened at the appearance of Isaac, who had grown into a tall, square-jawed young man of the sort that any father would be proud to call a son-in-law. “Congratulations, my boy. A graduate at last. Would that my Jamie had stayed till Dunster arrived. But he preferred to learn the family business in Boston.”
“I brought a remembrance of commencement, sir.” Isaac offered him the Quaestiones.
Nicholson unrolled the paper, studied it, and announced, “History is writ here, son. A hundred years hence, men will look to this and feel the spirit of their ancestors.”
“Printed by my own hand,” said Isaac proudly.
“And a fine job you’ve made of it, too.” With great ceremony, Nicholson took the Quaestiones to his Bible, a large and magnificent volume in a gilt-edged leather binding, opened it to the back, and slid the sheet into the endpapers. “This will I keep in my safest place, next to the oath I swore when I became a freeman of the colony.”
“A sacred place, sir.”
“Now, then, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve come, sir, hoping for permission to court your daughter . . . formally.”
The request was met with a shout, a warm embrace, and a promise of employment as soon as the date was set.
The shout brought Mother Nicholson and Katharine rushing from the next room, and a scene of great joy began, only to end abruptly when Isaac extricated himself from Master Nicholson’s grasp and said, “Thank you, sir, but it would be premature to set a date, as I’ve been engaged by President Dunster to go to London—”
“London!” cried Katharine, and she stalked out, with her mother following in her wake.
After a moment, Nicholson said, “Saw that sight myself, once, some twenty-five years ago. My wife wanted marriage and I wanted a business. ’Tis like livin’ my own life over to see them go runnin’ off like that.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, sir.”
Nicholson pointed a finger at Isaac. “Play not with my daughter’s affections, boy, or I’ll have you in the stocks. But remember that women are creatures who see only the ground in front of them. We men must keep our eyes on the horizon. Now then, we shall call her back, and you can tell her your reasons for goin’ so far.”
After some coaxing, Katharine returned. And while her parents took a stroll in the September night, she and Isaac had their talk.
“You cannot love me too well,” said Katharine, “that you would prefer to be message carrier for the college than my husband.”
“Katharine . . . were it only for the carrying of a message, I would stay and marry you and make a dozen children—”
“A dozen? I’m no brood mare, Isaac.”
“Then a half dozen.”
“You think me incapable of mothering a large family, then?”
“No, my dear.” He thought to tell her that she was
Though Isaac believed in the beneficence of Henry Dunster, he was not naive. To make such a journey, there had to be some gain. He sought a polite way to word it, could find none, and so said, “May I count on a position as a tutor here when I return?”
“If Lady Mowlson offers a sum, I shall argue that you deserve the first stipend.”
“Then I go gladly.”
“But what of Mistress Nicholson? Do you love her?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“You believe so? And what do you believe she will say to all this?”
“I believe she will be happy for me.”
That evening, Isaac took a copy of the Quaestiones, rolled it, tied it with a strip of colored fabric, and went to the home of the Nicholsons. A small gift might smooth the way for his bad news . . . if not with Katharine, at least with her father.
Charles Nicholson answered the door. He was a big man with fleshy features that always brightened at the appearance of Isaac, who had grown into a tall, square-jawed young man of the sort that any father would be proud to call a son-in-law. “Congratulations, my boy. A graduate at last. Would that my Jamie had stayed till Dunster arrived. But he preferred to learn the family business in Boston.”
“I brought a remembrance of commencement, sir.” Isaac offered him the Quaestiones.
Nicholson unrolled the paper, studied it, and announced, “History is writ here, son. A hundred years hence, men will look to this and feel the spirit of their ancestors.”
“Printed by my own hand,” said Isaac proudly.
“And a fine job you’ve made of it, too.” With great ceremony, Nicholson took the Quaestiones to his Bible, a large and magnificent volume in a gilt-edged leather binding, opened it to the back, and slid the sheet into the endpapers. “This will I keep in my safest place, next to the oath I swore when I became a freeman of the colony.”
“A sacred place, sir.”
“Now, then, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve come, sir, hoping for permission to court your daughter . . . formally.”
The request was met with a shout, a warm embrace, and a promise of employment as soon as the date was set.
The shout brought Mother Nicholson and Katharine rushing from the next room, and a scene of great joy began, only to end abruptly when Isaac extricated himself from Master Nicholson’s grasp and said, “Thank you, sir, but it would be premature to set a date, as I’ve been engaged by President Dunster to go to London—”
“London!” cried Katharine, and she stalked out, with her mother following in her wake.
After a moment, Nicholson said, “Saw that sight myself, once, some twenty-five years ago. My wife wanted marriage and I wanted a business. ’Tis like livin’ my own life over to see them go runnin’ off like that.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, sir.”
Nicholson pointed a finger at Isaac. “Play not with my daughter’s affections, boy, or I’ll have you in the stocks. But remember that women are creatures who see only the ground in front of them. We men must keep our eyes on the horizon. Now then, we shall call her back, and you can tell her your reasons for goin’ so far.”
After some coaxing, Katharine returned. And while her parents took a stroll in the September night, she and Isaac had their talk.
“You cannot love me too well,” said Katharine, “that you would prefer to be message carrier for the college than my husband.”
“Katharine . . . were it only for the carrying of a message, I would stay and marry you and make a dozen children—”
“A dozen? I’m no brood mare, Isaac.”
“Then a half dozen.”
“You think me incapable of mothering a large family, then?”
“No, my dear.” He thought to tell her that she was
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