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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 53006
   :PG.Title: The Romance of Gilbert Holmes
   :PG.Released: 2016-09-07
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Marshall Monroe Kirkman
   :DC.Title: The Romance of Gilbert Holmes
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1900
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE ROMANCE OF GILBERT HOLMES
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   .. _`BLACK HAWK RESCUING GILBERT'S FATHER AND MOTHER. PAGE 33`:

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      :alt: BLACK HAWK RESCUING GILBERT'S FATHER AND MOTHER. PAGE 33

      BLACK HAWK RESCUING GILBERT'S FATHER AND MOTHER. PAGE `33`_

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      THE ROMANCE

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      OF

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      GILBERT HOLMES

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      AN HISTORICAL NOVEL

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      BY

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      MARSHALL MONROE KIRKMAN

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      AUTHOR OF "THE SCIENCE OF RAILWAYS," IN TWELVE VOLUMES,
      "PRIMITIVE CARRIERS," ETC., ETC.

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      THE WORLD RAILWAY PUBLISHING COMPANY
      CHICAGO NEW YORK LONDON
      1900

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      COPYRIGHT 1900
      UNITED STATES, GREAT BRITAIN, FRANCE

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      *All rights reserved*

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      SEVENTEENTH EDITION

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      DEDICATION

      THE WRITING OF THIS BOOK HAVING BEEN TO ME WHOLLY
      A LABOR OF LOVE,
      I DEDICATE IT IN A LIKE SPIRIT TO MY
      WIFE AND CHILDREN

      \M. \M. KIRKMAN

      LARCHMERE, JULY 10, 1900

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   CONTENTS

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CHAPTER

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I.  `A Sweet Lady`_
II.  `Gilbert Holmes's Account Of Himself`_
III.  `The Wreck`_
IV.  `Black Hawk, the Sac King`_
V.  `The Swath of the Hurricane`_
VI.  `Love's Ideals`_
VII.  `Gilbert's Flight`_
VIII.  `Gilbert's Encounter with the Timber-Wolf`_
IX.  `Driftwood from the Thames Battlefield`_
X.  `An Awakening`_
XI.  `The New Country`_
XII.  `The Unknown Passenger`_
XIII.  `The Place of Refuge`_
XIV.  `The Highwayman`_
XV.  `Constable Blott`_
XVI.  `Before the Little Justice`_
XVII.  `The Singletons`_
XVIII.  `The Shadows of Life`_
XIX.  `The Duel`_
XX.  `Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis—the Parting of the Ways`_
XXI.  `What the Canteens Held`_
XXII.  `Rolland Love`_
XXIII.  `Cousin Angeline`_
XXIV.  `The Fishers`_
XXV.  `The Conspirators`_
XXVI.  `Lost in the Forest`_
XXVII.  `In the Tiger's Mouth`_
XXVIII.  `Gilbert and the Highwayman Join Forces`_
XXIX.  `The Tragedy of Murderer's Hollow`_
XXX.  `The Ride for Life`_
XXXI.  `Constance`_
XXXII.  `Convalescence`_
XXXIII.  `The Red Rose of Cuvier River`_
XXXIV.  `Glimpse of a Summer Sea`_
XXXV.  `Conspiracy in Black Hawk's Cabin`_
XXXVI.  `Phantoms of the Woods`_
XXXVII.  `The Prodigal`_
XXXVIII.  `The Dragon's Master`_
XXXIX.  `The Depths`_
XL.  `Job Throckmorton's Trial: The Tragedy`_
XLI.  `The Reunion`_
XLII.  `An Adventure`_
XLIII.  `On Board the War Eagle`_
XLIV.  `The Steamboat Race`_
XLV.  `Telling the News`_
XLVI.  `The Americans`_
XLVII.  `Making the Most of Things`_
XLVIII.  `The Carriers`_
XLIX.  `The Betrothal`_
L.  `Under the Widespreading Hawthorns`_
LI.  `The Mauvaise Terre`_
LII.  `Life and Death`_
LIII.  `Where All the Roads Meet`_





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.. _`A SWEET LADY`:

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   CHAPTER I


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   A SWEET LADY

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The crowding and haste of other days no longer stirred
the great wharf at New Orleans, and steamboats did not now
as then struggle for place or preferment, but lay apart, a
melancholy picture of the changing fortunes of carriers and the
fluctuations of our country's commerce.  On the wide expanse,
once piled high with goods, only scattered packages lay, and
these hid away under grimy coverings, like corpses awaiting
burial.  About the boat I sought, the tumult of the shipping
ebbed and flowed, and to one side the great city lay as if
deserted, or asleep under the hot afternoon sun.  Close by,
and near the river's edge, a procession of convicts came on,
winding in and out amid sacks of coffee and bales of cotton,
sad and noiseless, as specters might have marched.  On either
side armed men, alert and watchful, kept pace, a part of the
melancholy show.  Stripes encompassed the bodies of the
convicts, as serpents might loosely coil themselves; but about
the guards the stripes ran up and down—to the looker-on there
was no other difference.  Back of this procession of doomed
men and as if threatening it, a herd of mules, half wild and
frantic with fear, dashed here and there seeking a way out.
About them, and in guardianship, a burly negro, black as
night, rode hither and thither, headlong, wheeling and circling,
like a Numidian of old, stopping the rush here and cutting it
off there—not hurriedly, but at the last moment, as if craving
excitement and the admiration his horsemanship elicited.
When it seemed to those who looked as if he had lost control
over the half-crazed brutes, his fierce cry and the crack of his
great whip stayed the frightened animals, and, wheeling, the
headlong race began afresh.  On board the vessel, room and
clean beds awaited these creatures; but for the marching
convicts, fortunate he who found a bale or box upon which to
lay his sorrowing head.  Afterward, amid the swamps of
Louisiana, the animals will live, sleek and fat; but the men
of sin, less fortunate, will find graves in the shadows of the
moss-grown oaks, or, returning, a place in some noisy
alms-house, there to eke out their lives with shrunken frames and
despairing hearts!  This, however, in passing, and not in any
way to judge the acts of men, but that I may pick up the
beginning of my story, which in no wise concerns itself with
such serious things, but is a tale of love and life in the new
country, and nothing more.

From the quarter-deck passengers watched the busy scene,
and among them one face gentler and fairer than the others.
I, glancing up, thought it the most beautiful I had ever
beheld, but looking, saw it only for a moment, and this as the
convicts marching past were swallowed in the body of the
great vessel.  An angel grieving over the lost and despairing
in life could not, I thought, have looked down on the world
with more compassionate pity.

Of delay in loading there was none, or if some lull
occurred, the negroes, losing all care, threw down their
burdens, and flinging themselves on their knees, fell to playing
"craps" as children play at marbles; this vehemently and
with noisy contention, snapping their fingers as the dice flew
from their trembling hands, each as he threw crying some
inarticulate word of menace or entreaty to the goddess of good
luck.  Finally, when it was an hour past the time of leaving,
and the wharf was deserted save by groups of waiting negroes,
the bell rang its note of warning, and I, hastening on board,
glanced upward, and doing so, saw again the face of the
beautiful lady, but now less sorrowing than at first.

Backing into the stream amidst the ringing of bells and
the splash of the great wheel, we passed the white city
with ever-increasing speed as the sun, far to the west,
tipped the buildings and shipping with a golden hue.  Later,
and as the night closed in cool and starlit, those who watched
could yet see some glimpse of the city's lights far down
on the edge of the horizon; but with this passing, no
place save the trio of hill-clad cities on the western shore of
the Great River met our view until we reached the landing-place
at Memphis.

At the time of which I write spring floods filled the deep
basin of the Mississippi to overflowing, so that the mighty
stream, ever dark and sinister in its lower stretches, was never
more cruel or repellent.  Its built-up banks, tipped with foam
and fast crumbling from the overflow, offered at many points
such slight resistance to the conflicting currents as they swept
back and forth in the windings of the river that a breath only
seemed needed to sweep them away.  As if to add some stress
of tragedy to the scene, armed men patrolled the western
shore, warning us away with angry cries when we sought to
land, lest the wash of the boat should overcome the weakened
dikes, and so engulf the villages and wide plantations that
lay behind.

At many points the waste of water spread unchecked as
far as the eye could penetrate the tangled forest, and at other
places, eating into the yielding banks, turbulent bays were
formed, in which vast whirlpools circled.  Into these, trees
toppled and fell as the banks gave way, to be sucked down
into the murky water, so that we could get no glimpse of them
afterward as we watched from the boat's side.  In all this,
how strange a contrast!  For in the far north golden sands
form the bed and rocky shores the borders of the mighty
stream.  From whatever point one surveys the great river,
however, whether north or south or midway in its course, its
aspect invites reflection and romantic thoughts, for throughout
its length it is ever babbling and full of mystery and
change, having a story to tell, had it the time; but evasive,
as if in play, it hurries on with ripple of expectancy, beneath
the shadows of overhanging trees and amid projecting roots
and grasses, glowing with reflected light, to its final ending
in the great gulf.

How like, one sees, is it to the lives of men and their
affairs.  Springing up in obscurity amid limpid springs in
tranquil depths, far off, feeble and uncertain of course, it gains
strength, like childhood, pushing on through opening vistas
and enlivening prospects to its full estate.  Thence, faster
and faster, to where the waters grow dark and yellow and
uncertain of temper, but still onward to the end, where, amid
somber shadows and pendent reeds, in the ooze of the slimy
earth, its waters are lost in the wide expanse, as men are
swallowed up in eternity.  Of its tragedies of men and women
that have come and gone leaving no trace, who shall tell!
Of that race, too, which on its silent shores in ages long gone
by came into life, was nurtured, lived, grew old, and was lost,
as if it had not been, we know nothing, nor ever will.  Nor
of that later people, whose warriors for uncounted centuries
disturbed the solitude with their fierce cries or quenched their
death-rattle in the depths of its silent waters.  Here, amidst
bordering forests and far-reaching plains, they passed their
savage life as Nature formed them, chanting amid circling
bays and quiet dells their plaintive love-songs, or listening
to the requiem of the rustling leaves and murmuring waters
when death at last confronted them.  They, too, have gone,
following as in a procession of stricken men, leaving no trace
as we come on, doomed as they were.  For as others have
gone, we shall go, and in the end as in the beginning, the
valleys of the great river will echo no sound save the ripple
of its waters and the moan of the wind in the trees as in
primeval days.

Along our course the great river plowed its unobstructed
way through rich alluvial lands, bordered with forests and
far-reaching plantations.  On the edges of these last, hamlets
clustered, and about them children played, while men and
women watched the angry waters with bated breath.  At spots
far apart, landing-places were marked by lonesome cabins,
and here, in the water-soaked bank, our boat poked its nose,
and was held as in a vise by the soft receptive clay.  At
other places, warned away, we anchored at a distance, transferring
our load to smaller crafts, or passed on to await a more
favorable hour.  Of danger there was none, or if at night
the timid held their breath when the sharp sound of the bell
caused the great wheel to stop as if stricken with death, they
breathed more freely when the obstruction, crashing against
the bottom of the boat, passed on and we were safe.  Or if at
times the tumbling waters and swift converging currents
threatened us, the watchful pilots steered us clear, and we
saw the danger from afar, and so paid little heed.  Thus
waiting, some read or slept or played, while others watched the
sea-gulls as they flew back and forth across the foam of the
flying wheel, searching for particles of food as sharks are said
to do at sea.

Not meeting with accident of any kind, the more companionable
among the passengers soon set themselves to form the
acquaintance of those about them, and in this way, and
happily, I was brought in contact with Gilbert Holmes.  More
fortunate still, I thought, he proved to be the companion of
the beautiful lady I had seen looking down in pity on the
marching convicts as I came on board.  Strangely enough—but
not strangely either, for such things are often noticed—he
resembled her as men may resemble women.  Not much
alike, but as they will, without knowing it, take on some part
of the features or gentle sweetness of these dear companions
of their lives.  Mr. Holmes was reaching on to old age, but
youthful in face and erect of form and buoyant as if still in
the vigor of manhood.  Running through his slow speech and
mirrored in the mild complaisance of his eyes there were ever
present the melodies of the past, the remembrance of what
had been.  This as we often see in men of affairs who have
mixed much in the world's strife, but are no longer concerned
in its turmoil or ambitious ends.  In his look and speech there
was, however, still a pleasant note of interest, as if life had
not tired him, nor his concern in its affairs been dulled by
usage or infirmity of temper; but while he listened to what
was said or took note of what went on about him, it was plain
to every one that he lived only in the presence and reflection
of his loving wife.  She, on her part, it was also clear, had
little thought of anything but her husband, her eyes following
him with tender concern, as if in him all her life's interests
were centered.

The great affection these two bore each other was soon
discerned by every one, and at once elicited that kind and
inquisitive interest which men and women are said ever to feel
for those who truly love.  Of her age I could form no idea, for
life had left no trace of care on her beautiful face, and her
eyes still showed in their placid depths the luster of youth
and the tranquil calm of a loving and trustful heart.  Her
mouth, soft in outline and of engaging sweetness, ever led me
to speculate anew as to which is the more attractive, the eyes
or the mouth of women; but this, I know, others have puzzled
over before me, and will to the end of time.  Her soft speech
and gentle manners quickly made every one her slave, the
officers of the boat not less than others; and though harassed
by the cares and perplexities of the journey, they lost no excuse
or opportunity to come within the radiance of her gentle
presence.  This tribute of admiration that men ever pay, and with
delight, to queenly women, one and all yielded, and gladly,
to this sweet-faced lady.

Thus the days passed, and they were to me a new experience
of life and its possibilities.  A vision of love, burning
on undimmed through years of health and sweet contentment
to the very end.  Happy association!  Tranquil picture of life!
It fades not from me now, but grows with each recurring day,
so that I conjure it up anew and with greater interest than
before when, in the turmoil of affairs, my mind finds need of
rest or some sweet solace of comfort.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes received me kindly from the very
first, and this, it appeared, because of a resemblance they saw
in me to a son lost to them long before at Lookout Mountain
in the great Civil War.  This resemblance and a certain
reverent homage I paid them, which I did not seek to hide,
caused them to take me trustfully and wholly within the influence
of their lives; and this to my great happiness and good
fortune then and now.

Mr. Holmes, or Gilbert, as she called him when not using
some term of endearment, which she generally did, had
passed his life in the West, as the country about the Mississippi
Valley was called in his youth.  He was fond of telling
of the settlement of this new country and the people who had
been connected with its early history, and in this was led on
by his sweet wife.  Into these accounts were interwoven
glimpses of his own life, so that I was led to ask him more
about himself, and particularly his early adventures, which
his wife was most fond of having him recall.  This I did
at first, I will confess, not so much out of any great interest
as that I might find excuse for being the more in his presence
and that of his dear lady.  After a day thus passed, I wrote
out at night what he had recounted.  Not at the beginning
with any purpose, but because I ever had a peculiar knack in
this direction, being designed, I think, from the first to be
a clerk or something of that kind, and nothing more.
However, lest I should transgress some law of good manners,
I after a while informed Mr. Holmes of what I was doing.
This, I saw, did not meet his entire approval, though he gave
no expression to his thoughts save a look of surprise; but
Mrs. Holmes, upon hearing it, was greatly pleased, and thereafter
lost no opportunity to aid me in my efforts to draw from him
the particulars of his early life.  In this, however, we were
never wholly successful, because of his reluctance to speak
of himself; but as she seemed to know every incident of his
career and to treasure it as a sweet memory, when he halted
or sought to break the story, she would put her hand on his,
and taking up the narrative go on, perhaps, until we parted
for the night.  These interruptions were greatly to his liking,
it was clear, for he loved above all things to listen to her
voice; and I continually detected him at such times looking
at her with eyes half of remonstrance at what she told, but
altogether full of affection for her and her engaging ways.  By
this the reader will see—and I am glad to make it plain to
him—that while the life of Gilbert Holmes seems to be related
by himself, it was in many parts—and the most interesting
parts, I think—told by his wife as she sat by his side with her
hand clasping his.  Cherished memory!  Sweet tale of love
and adventure sweetly told!  Surely I shall never know
anything so beautiful again.

Our journey too quickly over, cut short the account of
Mr. Holmes's life, and this to my sorrow, and so I said.

"You have heard but a part, and that not the most entertaining,
you would think, could you hear all," Mrs. Holmes
answered; "for among other things he has been a soldier in
two of his country's wars, and in the last a general," she
added, with a fond look at her husband.

"I am sure his life must have been full to the brim,"
I answered.

"Yes, and well you may be; but it is his early life that
interests me most, and the part he loves best to recall.  Nor
of this have you heard the half—the dear, soft-hearted, modest
man!" she answered, taking his face in both her hands and
kissing him as women will those they greatly love.

Afterward, when I had written out the story and came to
ask Mr. Holmes's permission to put it in print, I should by no
means have succeeded except for the intercession of his sweet
wife, who rightly believed the world could never know too
much of so good and honest a gentleman.

"Surely, Gilbert, there is nothing in it you would not have
told, and it will please me more than I can tell if you will let
him have his way in this," the dear lady remonstrated; and
he, saying nothing, assented, as he did to everything she
proposed.

I have had much inclination to prolong the story, but this
I have restrained, lest it prove tiresome; though how that
could be I cannot see.  In the telling I shall follow on with
the reader, but more slowly, it being to me worthy of greater
regard than he can give it; and this because in every word
I shall detect a presence or hear again voices that will be
dear to me forever.  This pleasure the reader cannot share,
nor see as I shall the loving couple, first one and then the
other, take up the story on this page and on that as, in the
telling, some halt or embarrassment of speech clogs the
other's utterance.


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.. _`GILBERT HOLMES'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   GILBERT HOLMES'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF

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I was born on the borders of a rolling prairie in the great
state of Illinois, near the spot where the Big and Little Sandy
mingle their shallow waters to form the wandering Mauvaise
Terre.  This last, hesitating long as to the course it would
pursue, or indeed whether it would move at all or not, finally
making up its mind, takes its way to the west, there at last to
be swallowed up in the turbid waters of the Illinois.  This in
1826, when the state was just born and men lived far apart,
and wolves uttered their doleful cries beyond the sheepfold
and in the edges of the great forests at night and in the gray
of the early morning.  Of the county in which I was born,
I am not sure, because of the uncertainty as to the boundary-lines
in the early days, but this is not a matter of any account,
as it in no wise concerns the subject of my story.

My mother, for family reasons, wished I should be called
Job, but dissuaded, though why I do not know, she named
me Gilbert, after a gentleman of amiable disposition she had
once known.  This, she said, because she traced in me
a resemblance to him in this important particular.

"Did you ever see milder eyes or softer ways?" she would
say aside to visitors, with an air of motherly pride, when I was
scarce able to walk.

When she was gone, those who treasured her memory said
I resembled her; but it was only a faint reflection of her
presence, such as we often see in children, for of all women she
was the most beautiful in the world save one.

As a child I was shy, and because of it, disposed to be
much alone; and to this day I love above everything else to
mount my horse, and leaving the streets and public highways,
seek out the nooks and restful corners of the cool and silent
country.  This love of being alone—if one can ever be said
to be alone in the country—has not in any way lessened my
liking for my fellow-men nor my delight in their company,
but has served rather as a gentle antidote to the cares and
vexations of an otherwise busy life.  As a youth I was rosy-cheeked
and inclined to be dull; but this is said ever to be the
case with children having a fine color.  Why this should be so,
if it is indeed true, I leave to those versed in such things, for
I can see no reason for it whatever.  I loved to play, but not
to study and because of these opposites, so conflicting and
inopportune, I ever found it hard to keep up with my class
in school.  Reading I liked, but not arithmetic, while
grammar made my head ache, and in spelling I tripped on the
simplest words.  It often fell out, therefore, that when the
other children piled their books on the rude benches in the
cool of the afternoon, and went their way with shouts and
laughter I settled down to try again.  At such times the
teacher would sit back in her chair on the little platform and
scowl clown on me in gloomy discontent, tapping the desk to
relieve her angry feelings.

"You little beast!" she would sometimes say when thus
cheated of her afternoon outing, "you are not half so stupid
as you seem, though you are dull enough, goodness knows.
You could learn if you wanted to, but you would rather watch
the girls or look out of the windows than study—the more
shame to you."

This was true enough as regards the girls, I know, but
I hated her for all that; only I hated myself still more.  As
I grew in years my dullness so preyed upon me that in all my
reflections on the great and desirable things in life.
Smartness always stood foremost and the best of all.  My affliction
made me still more shy, until in time what was at first only
a trait, became a habit, and one that I have never been able
to quite throw off, though the vicissitudes of life and much
intercourse with men have somewhat lessened its embarrassments.
While on this subject I may say, going to the other
extreme, that neither my dear wife nor my children will ever
admit that I could have been dull in my youth, and at this
I smile and even make believe; but they know little of human
nature, and their skepticism only proves their love.  For their
disbelief grows out of the knowledge that in middle life I was
able to take up whatever interested me and carry it forward
to a more or less successful conclusion.  This facility,
however, came too late to enliven my childhood, and did not arise
so much from any talent I possessed as from experience and
reflection—things that come to all of us with mature years.

My amiability in youth, coupled with my lack of smartness,
caused me to be much set upon by boys more precocious than
I, and, in consequence, the quiet of my life was often rudely
disturbed.  For it is only truth to say that while my eyes may
have been mild and my manner soft, I really had a very high
temper if much stress was put upon it.  Then, going to the
other extreme, no situation of peril could prevent its blazing
forth.  At such times my rage, rising higher and higher, like
a prairie fire, grew with what it fed upon, only to die away
finally of shame or for want of something to keep it alive.
These outbreaks occasioned me much self-abasement, and
I would often cry out in agony at the excess of my passions,
but without much if any good coming from it that I could see.
Such temper was unknown to my early youth, or maybe it
only lay dormant.  For afterward, when fortune threw me,
a stripling, into the world, I was so crowded and jostled about,
as the unprotected are apt to be in such cases—and generally
to their good—that from being mild and gentle, I became
as fierce and intractable as a wild beast.  However, I now
look back upon this period with a sense of thankfulness that
I did not become so wedded to its excesses as not to be
conscious in the end that I could not thus get on in the world,
but that sooner or later I should have it arrayed solidly
against me.  With the aid of such reflections and other help,
and the fact that I was inclined to be affectionate if
circumstances favored, I was in time able to resume some part of my
old cheerfulness of manner.  This, however, I believe, that
to those who were kind to me, and in every case to those who
were weak, I was never aught but gentle.  For certainly, to
the unfortunate my heart has ever gone out in sympathy; but
how much of this feeling has been due in later years to the
trials of my youth and how much to natural love of my kind,
I cannot tell.

When young my health was a source of anxiety to my
mother, and after I lost her, to those who interested
themselves in my affairs, but without any great reason, I have
always thought.  As a young man my complexion was fair
and my height not above the medium, but because of my
active life I appeared somewhat taller than I really was.  In
face, my nose was aquiline, and much too delicate to buffet
the world successfully, it was said by those wise in such
matters.  Of my mouth, it was full, and my chin inclined to be
pointed rather than heavy.  This last, the village phrenologist
said, denoted a subtle disposition; but in this I think
he was mistaken, though I may say that I ever possessed that
peculiar sense which leads animals and some men to the
adoption of measures necessary to their preservation, and this
without their being conscious of its exercise.  This trait is,
however, an instinct, and not one of calculation.  In great
men and in large affairs something akin to it, but of a higher
order, is called Apprehension.  Thus the great foresee what
is to happen, and doing so, turn it to their advantage.

My mother said my mouth indicated a love of artistic
things, and in this she was clearly right so far as her own sex
was concerned.  For I have always held women in such high
esteem that the least among them have ever commanded my
love and respect.  As a lad there was not a blithe, sweet-eyed
girl who pored over her lessons in the log schoolhouse by the
forest stream, about which my early recollections cluster,
whom I did not look upon as a divinity.  This feeling of love
and respect for the dainty companions of my youth has ever
been my conception of women, and now, when no longer
young, I look upon them as angels sent to eke out our life
after it has been robbed of the delusions of youth.  This
feeling men share in common, and it is due to contrast, and
more particularly to woman's superior delicacy of mind and
heart, and also to something else, I cannot tell what.  For
she is and ever will be an unfathomable mystery to us, try as
we may to understand her.

This account of myself I have striven to make as favorable
as I can, and if it is partial, you will attribute it to pride,
and not to vanity.  For while all men may be proud, no one
should be vain, and the first for the reason that it is not
altogether conscience or the love of right that keeps men from
wrong.  Pride is a great factor in such matters, and so far
as that is true this brittle cactus, so unjustly reviled by the
thoughtless, should be fertilized according to our needs.

Like all men born to live in the country, I have ever had
the habit of trusting fair-spoken men.  This has resulted to
my disadvantage many times, but on the whole I have not
been the loser by it.  For the goose is bound to be plucked,
and is none the worse for it in the end, while the feathers the
rogue scatters along his path serve in some measure to indicate
his whereabouts afterward to the trusting and simple-minded.

In my youth I was disregardful of money, and thus early
acquired credit for generosity that did not belong to me.
Because of this I have always believed that merit in giving
ought to attach only to those who do so with groans and
contractions of the heartstrings.  For such to give is real
generosity, and in this regard it is a subject of gratitude to me,
as it must be to all improvident men, that with the lapse of
years and the coming on of old age, no untoward circumstance
of poverty has caused me to regret any foolish thing
I may have done in disregard of matters relating to money;
and about the possession of this last there exists much
misunderstanding, I have always thought.  For I must say, that for
the life of me I have never been able to discover that money
is more prized among the trading-people with whom my life
has been thrown than among the better bred of other
communities.  In whomsoever wealth dwells, to that person the
social peacock and the common barnyard fowl alike droop their
crests in respectful and distant salutation.  Love of property
is innate in man, and to that love we may trace most of the
blessings we have above those of common savages.  About
this, however, men differ; but all agree that those who have
little defer of their own accord to those who have more, and
that so long as men have vigor and the hope of life their greed
of property never ceases to grow.  In my own case, lack of
skill in getting and holding has been said by those who
professed to understand such matters to be clearly indicated by
my temperament.  This prediction may have been true,
though it has always been a conviction with me that if I had
devoted myself to making money with proper spirit I might
have been fairly successful.  In this, however, I may be vain
without reason, but in order to acquire and keep, one's
thoughts, it is clear, must dwell much upon such subjects.
Out of this concentration comes the gift of acquiring and
holding, the genius of the money-getter.  Such occupation of
one's life many esteem uneventful and void of interest, but
I am assured that it is more intense than the habit of gambling
or the love of women; indeed, a passion so great that it eats
up all others, and in its intensity is worthy to rank with the
fanaticism of martyrs, the ambition of soldiers, the fierce
egotism of artists, or the dry nervous disorder of writers.





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.. _`THE WRECK`:

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   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WRECK

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My father was a most kind and lovable man, and while he
owned and cultivated a farm, he was a trader, and nothing
else.  The farm was a dream of my mother's, a vision of her
girlhood, never fulfilled.  He bought and sold cattle, and it
was said could tell the weight of an ox by merely looking
at it, so that his judgment in such matters was accepted
everywhere without question by buyer and seller alike.  One year,
I remember, because of a great murrain breaking out among
the cattle in the West, he turned his attention to swine,
buying all there were in the country, and this to the great
discomfiture of other dealers, who would not pay the price he
offered.  Afterward he drove them to market, where they
were sold at a considerable advance, to the great benefit of all
concerned.  This venture was much thought of by those who
profited by the enterprise, and added to the high esteem in
which he was already held by the community generally.  He
did not, however, pursue the matter further, but returned the
next year to his former occupation, to the great regret of his
late patrons and the no less great satisfaction of those who
made a business of buying and selling hogs.  Winter and
summer, in sunshine and storm, he traversed the country far
and near, buying and selling cattle.  On occasion, however,
if opportunity offered, he traded in other things; but such
dealings were aside and in the nature of perquisites, which he
lavished on my mother or gave to the poor, of whom there
were great numbers in the new country.  When, from time to
time; he had exhausted his money and credit and the market
was right, he was in the habit of collecting his herds at some
central place and driving them across the country, usually to
St. Louis, that city being then as now a market of importance
and noted, as it is to-day, for the enterprise and high
character of its merchants.

The life my father led was one of hardship and constant
danger, the newness of the country and the lawlessness that
prevailed making travel dangerous and life insecure.  Such
things, however, did not deter him; and by repeating his
venture many times successfully, it came about at last that he
was thought to be among the richest men in the country.
This glimpse of fortune, so alluring, proved not to be lasting,
and later appeared to have visited us merely that the reverse
of the picture might be the more forbidding.  Esteemed
a harbinger of greater things in store, it vanished in a moment
to return no more.

In the autumn that I reached my tenth year my father's
purchases were greater than ever before, embracing all his
own resources and those of his neighbors and friends.  For
these last ever pressed upon him in this way, that they might
share in his good fortune—and willingly enough upon his part,
for he was in all things a most considerate and generous man.
At last, collecting all his herds, he drove them by easy stages
across the country to St. Louis, where he found a market
favorable for their sale, as he had thought.  This venture
consummated the access of fortune he looked forward to, and
assured him thereafter ease and quietude of life and the
lasting comfort of those who were dear to him.  The goal so
many seek, and oftentimes fruitlessly, he had thus early in
life fairly and honorably attained.  Closing up his affairs with
all haste, he collected the proceeds of his venture, and with
his little army of retainers set out on his return home.  My
mother, as had often been the case before, was one of the
party, and this that she might be with her husband, his
prolonged absences from home being the one source of unhappiness
in her married life.  For they were in all things lovers,
as at first; and starting out on our homeward journey no
premonition of coming misfortune disturbed their happiness or
clouded the bright hopes they had of the future.

Pursuing our way leisurely northward—for through my
mother's indulgent love I had been permitted to accompany
her—we came, after a wide detour which my father's affairs
caused him to make, to the ferry where we were to cross the
Great River into Illinois.  This spot was one not easily
forgotten, its beauty and solitude being such as to awaken
to the full one's love of the romantic and picturesque in
country life.  On the western shore a fringe of graceful trees
hung far over the margin of the river, and on the other side
wild flowers and verdant grasses covered the valley that sloped
back to the hills upon which a forest loomed.  Nature, ever
dainty in her handicraft, had encompassed the picture, as she
never fails to do, with a graceful and appropriate setting.
Some distance below the crossing, and as if to add piquancy
to the scene, we could plainly discern the foam of the great
rapids that there interrupted the flow of the river, but far
away, and purposely, to avoid the danger of travelers being
drawn into its turbulent waters.  In other respects my father
thought the ferry unwisely placed, because of the contracted
channel and swift-running current.  No accident, however, had
ever occurred; and while the water was high at the time of
which I speak, the prospect as we stood waiting on the shore
was thought to be exhilarating rather than dangerous.

Looking forward to the passage as a pleasant diversion,
the party rode onto the boat, commenting with cheerful
gayety on the river and the wide expanse of the other shore,
with its background of trees and projecting clouds.  These
last added greatly to the beauty and grandeur of the scene,
and that they foretold danger in any way we did not dream.
Such delusions, however, ever form a part of the destiny of
men.  The things that menace us we willfully disregard in the
soft pleasure of idle talk, or lose sight of in the desultory
fancies of the moment.

When the boat upon which we were embarked had left the
shore, it was discovered, all too late, that the man in charge
was far gone in drink and altogether stupid, so as not to
be able to perform his duties except in a merely mechanical
way.  However, to turn about was impossible, the
cumbrous craft being scarcely able to go forward in the
turbulent current.  Moreover, the difficulties of the situation
appeared not to be great, and the necessity of skill on the
part of the attendant a matter of little or no account; and
so it would have been in most cases, but not now, as it
appeared afterward.

Our craft was quaint of build in the extreme, and one not
to be forgotten.  In length it was some forty feet and in width
perhaps a third as much.  On either side a wheel projected
beyond the boat, and on the inner axle a house perched in
which a horse was hidden.  From a distance the little craft
resembled a crippled waterfowl, which, with half-closed wings,
sought to rise above the stream, but at best was only able to
agitate the waters in its struggle to get on.  Our progress was
slow and at times doubtful, the lurching of the boat oftentimes
lifting the wheels clear of the water.  Of this, however, we
thought little, as it was in no wise attended with danger of any
kind.  Such was the prospect at the moment, and in the long
years that have since intervened no detail of the little group
as it stood huddled together looking out on the dark river has
faded from my memory, or ever will.

As we neared the middle of the stream, the storm which
had shown above the hills, and which we had so little
regarded, burst upon us with the force of a tornado.  At once
all was confusion and uproar, the affrighted animals rushing
hither and thither, tipping the boat this way and that as if it
were a mere eggshell.  Still we might have come safely
to land, had not the boatman, bewildered by the uproar, lost
even the semblance of habit, and failing to keep the bow
resolutely to the wind, allowed it to drift hopelessly to one
side.  At this, and with scarcely an interval in which to cry
"God help us!" the wind and waves, acting together, lifted
the little craft high in the air, and holding it aloft for a
moment as if in mockery, turned it bottom side up.

Before this, and as the storm arose, my father and mother
stood at the bow of the boat, and happily for me I had not
dismounted, but pushing to a place beside them, awaited,
childlike, the coming shore.  When the hurricane struck us
I remember to have laughed, for storms have ever had an
attraction for me, and to this day nothing gives me greater
pleasure than to listen to the wind as it sweeps through the
trees or spends its strength on whatever object impedes its
course.  I had no thought of danger, else why this great boat
which seemed capable of withstanding any strain?  My
mother's fears and my father's anxious face, however, quickly
conveyed to me some sense of the peril that threatened us.
Nevertheless, the music of the tempest and the fitful gusts of
rain and spray that beat in my face would have drowned all
thought of danger, had not my mother's shrill cry, rising
above the roar of the storm and calling my name, have
startled me out of myself; and now, although half a century
has come and gone, I see her, as then, standing by my father's
side, holding her habit with one hand and clinging to him
with the other, her paleface directed toward mine in an agony
of supplication and fear.  As I looked, her lips moved in
prayer, as if in this way she would avert the danger that
threatened those she loved.  The sight brought me to my
senses, and rising in my saddle, I waved my hand, and with
a look sought to allay or lessen her fears.  At this her face
relaxed and tears darkened her eyes, as if some part of her
prayer was already answered.  Oh, blessed, fitful vision of
a being and form divine! a glance only, but everyway
sufficient for life's brief span!

As the storm increased in violence, the wind and waves
tossed our boat here and there as if it were but a feather's
weight.  At last, when it was plain that the vessel was about
to take its final plunge, I saw my father grasp my mother's
hand and drag her to the edge of the boat, crying: "Quick,
Margaret, for your life!"  Calling to me to cling to my
horse and give him free rein, he lifted the great whip
he carried and gave the animal a mighty stroke across the
back.  At this the horse, startled out of himself, sprang
forward, clearing the vessel's side at a bound, and thus in
a second I found myself submerged in the angry waters.  Coming
to the surface, I saw my father a few feet away, supporting
my mother, and now, strange sight! she seemed to have
no fear whatever—at least her face gave no sign of it; but
this was not out of the ordinary, for she was always trusting
and womanlike, believing that in his company no harm could
come to her.  So that now, when the fierce waters swept
over her, she clung about his neck with the same confidence,
I must believe, that she had felt when he led her to the altar.
For a moment we stayed together, but not longer; and as my
pony straightened out in the struggle to reach the shore,
I called back:

"I'm all right, pap; hold onto mother, and I'll soon bring
you help!"

Oh, hopeful, evanescent spirit of youth!  To you naught
is impossible or beyond God's power to help.  Of our
companions who struggled with despairing cries in vain effort to
free themselves from the dreadful wreck, what shall I say
except to pray God that I may be spared from ever seeing or
hearing anything so pitiful again.





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.. _`BLACK HAWK, THE SAC KING`:

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   CHAPTER IV


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   BLACK HAWK, THE SAC KING

.. vspace:: 2

Submerged in the icy stream, the waves and fierce current
impeded our progress toward the shore, and soon, the effort
being too great for my pony's strength, he showed signs of
exhaustion, rising each time with greater difficulty from the
water as the waves rolled high above our heads.  Observing
this, I slipped from his back and caught the stirrup with one
hand, swimming with the other; but now my weight being on
one side, threw him off his balance, so that he more than once
came nigh to being overturned.  In this extremity I knew not
what to do; but when hope was fast giving way to despair,
I bethought me how my father had once saved his life in a like
case, and so releasing the stirrup I caught hold of the pony's
tail.  At this, freed from the unequal burden, he shot forward
with new life, seeming no longer to regard my weight in the
least.  In this way we at last approached the shore, where
soon my horse's feet, and then my own, touched the bottom,
and we were saved.  Climbing the bank, my joy was shared
by my sturdy companion, for as we emerged from the water
he straightened out his nose and whinnied again and again,
as if in triumph.  Patting him on the neck, I rested, looking
back across the angry waters; but nothing met my gaze save
the high-rolling waves tipped with foam and flying spray.
Unable to make headway, my father and mother had drifted
with the current, and this toward the dreadful rapids, now
scarce a mile away.  At the thought I sprang into the saddle,
calling in a frenzy of fear: "Father! father! mother! mother!"
but foolishly, for no sound answered my cry save
the splash of the water and the whir of the tempest as it swept
across the darkened river.  Trembling with fright, I put spur
to my horse, hoping to intercept their progress ere it was too
late, but how I could not tell.  In this way I went on until
I could plainly hear the roar of the rapids, but of means of
rescue I could discern none whatever.  This until as I skirted
a little bay I was gladdened by the sight of a boat drawn up
on the shore and half hidden by the overhanging shrubbery.
Seeing it, I gave a shout, and looking about, saw in the edge
of the forest, which here grew nearly to the water's edge,
a rude hut of logs.  Jumping from my horse, I ran toward it,
and without waiting to make summons of any kind, burst in
the door, which was but loosely held with a wooden latch.  At
first I could see no one, but scanning the interior, all its parts
became fixed in my brain as if it were for that and nothing
else that I had come.  At the farther extremity of the room,
on a rude hearth, a dull fire burned, and above it a kettle of
water simmered.  From the rafters festoons of corn hung,
and near by vegetables and pieces of venison and smoked fish.
On the wall a bunch of arrows, loosely tied, was held by
a wooden peg, and beside it an Indian bow.  Below this a rifle
rested.  Of furniture there was none, pallets of bear and
panther skins serving alike for seats and beds.  On the floor
a gourd filled with water supplied the place of pail and cup,
and in the corner a rude box answered for a cupboard.  At
my feet a floor hard as flint glistened in the dim light like
polished oak; and this was all.  No detail of the dark
inclosure escaped me, yet while thus seeing without consciousness,
my eyes sought the help I came for, and this fortunately, for
in the twilight of the room and in lonely abandonment an
Indian woman sat.  Her bent form and worn and wrinkled
face told of a life of sorrow and hardship, and my first
thought was one of discouragement; but giving it no heed,
I ran to where she sat, and grasping her hand, cried, at the
top of my voice:

"Help! help me to save my father and mother who are
drowning in the river, and quick, before it's too late!"

At this she looked up as if not fully understanding, but
upon repeating my appeal, she rose to her feet, saying slowly,
as if not accustomed to the tongue, but plainly as one could
wish:

"What has happened to the white-faced child?"

"The ferryboat's upset, and they're in the river; but we
can reach them before it's too late, if you'll come with me,
and quick," I answered, grasping her hand.

"The white child's mother's in the water?" she answered,
interrogating me and pointing toward the river.

"Yes, my father and mother; and quick, please, or it'll be
too late," I answered, in a frenzy of haste.  Comprehending
at last, she answered, and now with animation and a wish to
aid me:

"Yes, yes, my child; I'll come, I'll come."

Saying which, she started forward, but as she did so the
room darkened, and looking up I saw an Indian chief standing
in the open door.  His face and rugged features, bronzed by
the sun, bore traces of paint, and surmounting his head, which
seemed higher and greater than that of other men, there
waved a plume of crimson encircled about with feathers of
the sparrow-hawk.  When he smiled with gentle tenderness
on my companion I was filled with new hope; but a moment
after, looking in my direction, his face darkened, as if he saw
in me one of a race he hated, and so was dumb.  Trembling,
I could not speak; and looking toward him spellbound, his
form, before commanding, seemed to tower higher and higher,
while his eyes glowed in his dark face as if emitting flames of
fire.  Looking up, the woman spoke to him in the Indian
tongue, smiling as she did so; but to all she said he paid no
heed.  At last, going to where he stood, she put her hand
upon his breast and spoke to him again, and now with
entreaty, as if asking a boon, pointing first at me and then
toward the river.  As she went on in this way, his features
after a while relaxed, and finally reaching out his hand as if in
acquiescence, he let it rest in gentle caress upon her upturned
face.  At this she smiled and drew back, as if made happy by
his touch.  Crossing the room and opening a door that led
into a dark inclosure, he brought forth an oaken oar, and
looking toward me, said, as one accustomed to command, but
not unkindly, "Come."  Upon this, and without speaking,
I followed to the shore where the boat lay hid.  Shoving
it into the stream, he motioned me to enter, seating himself
in the stern.  Pointing upward as we reached the open water,
I cried:

.. _`33`:

"There, there! they must be there!"

To this he vouchsafed no reply, but dipping his oar far
into the water, the little boat shot into the bay and thence
into the stream beyond.  This, while still disturbed by
high-rolling waves, was no longer lashed by the storm, the
hurricane having passed as quickly as it came.  Standing up in
the boat, as we went forward my eyes sought in vain for some
glimpse of those we came to help.  At last, seeing nothing,
fear chilled my heart and my limbs grew cold; but as we
neared the center of the stream and were yet unable to
discover any trace of those we sought, I saw above the
glistening whitecaps, far away, an object rising and falling in the
troubled waters.  Filled with new hope, I pointed toward it,
crying:

"There, there they are!"

Upon this my companion, putting forth all his strength, the
boat flew through the water as a swallow might cut its surface,
and in a moment I was made happy by the sight of my father
upholding the form of my dear mother.  At this I called to
them, but they returned no answer to my anxious cry; and
at last, when we had reached the spot, I should still have lost
them except for the great strength of my companion, who,
stooping, lifted first my mother and then my father into the
boat, and they were safe.

Embracing them, with tears of joy, I stripped off my jacket
and wrapped it about my mother's form, and for this she
gave me a gentle smile, but speech or motion seemed gone
from her forever.  At the sight, my father, who did not
appear much the worse for his adventure, fell to chafing her
hands and limbs, I helping, and this with such vigor that in
a little while she was able to move and speak.  Now, after
some further respite, my father turned about and thanked our
rescuer with every show of love and gratitude for what he had
done.  To this, however, the other made no response, nor
indeed appeared to have heard what was said to him.  His
eyes, turned toward the shore, were fixed on the dark forest
we were fast approaching, and this as if there was naught else
on earth.  Thinking he had not heard, my father thanked him
again, and now more earnestly.  To this the chief at last
responded, but without lowering his gaze or manifesting any
interest whatever in those about him.

"Thank La Reine!  It is she, the soft-hearted, who has
saved you, not I."

"You, too, surely; and we can never thank you enough,"
my mother answered, turning to him.

"Yes, and we shall treasure your memory as long as we
live, for we owe you our lives, and shall be ever grateful for
it," my father again spoke up.

"Speak not to me of gratitude, for it has no meaning in
the mouths of such as you.  The voice of your race is ever
thus soft-spoken, but only that it may the better hide its
treachery," the chief answered, but absently and without
passion, as if addressing an invisible spirit.

"Now and here, and to those we love and to whom we owe
our lives, it is true and as we say," my father answered,
surprised out of himself at what the other said.

"It is ever the same, and has no spark of life in it, more
than the mist above yonder troubled waters," the other
answered, without lowering his gaze.  "It was with such
speech that your race crept into my country, and like a tide
that rises in the night overcame and destroyed my people,
while they yet trusted and believed, and so it has always
been."

"Surely that cannot be laid to us, for we have never
injured your people in any way.  Tell us who you are, your
name only, if you will, so that we may treasure it as long as
we live, and our children afterward," my father cried in
desperation, as if determined not to be thus put off.

"I have no name nor place in life," the chief answered,
sorrowfully, raising his eyes to the clouds that flew across the
darkened sky.  "In my youth I trusted your race, and thought
to live with it in peace, dreaming of great and noble things
for my people.  In the end I have done nothing, and dying
shall leave no trace, more than the wind that sweeps the tops
of yonder trees, or the leaves that fall bitten by the winter's
frost.  As soon seek to follow the flight of the bird that has
been snared or the path of the fish in the tumbling waters, for
I have done nothing, and have no home nor place among men.
A king and the son of kings, I dare not whisper my name lest
the air betray it to my enemies and I suffer unjustly!  Coming
among us, your race divided my children, as the clouds are
parted or the lightning cleaves the towering cottonwood.
Scattered, where are they?  Ask the Great Spirit, for only he
can tell!  Living in concord, you brought division; loving
their king, you sowed distrust; loyal, you planted treason;
sober, you made them drunk that you might buy their lands
for a song.  Now driven from their birthplace, they seek in
a strange land the home of those who have no country; and
I, coming back like a thief to visit the forests and streams of
my youth, dare not speak my name aloud.  Thank me not,
for it is the act of the doe, the gentle-hearted La Reine,
not I."

Ceasing, he raised his hand as if to forbid further speech,
and giving the paddle a deeper and longer sweep, quickly
brought the boat into the cove from whence we came.  Securing
the little craft, the chief took my mother in his arms and
carried her to the cabin, where a great fire now welcomed our
coming.  Placing her upon a bed of furs, he spoke some words
to La Reine in her own tongue, and then taking the rifle from
its place, opened the door and went away.  Nor did he
return; and to all our inquiries La Reine answered only, and
sadly, that we should see him no more.  Nor would she tell
his name, nor aught of his history save that he was a chief
whose people had been divided and scattered, yielding their
homes to the whites.  Thus to their dying day my father and
mother knew not that it was Black Hawk, the Sac chief, who
had saved their lives.  Nor I for many years, and then only
by chance was I made acquainted with it.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SWATH OF THE HURRICANE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SWATH OF THE HURRICANE

.. vspace:: 2

When at last I saw my mother resting on the soft couch of
furs in the glow of the cheerful fire, my strength left me, and
I fell forward on her body as one dead.  Such weakness, you
must know, ever afflicted me in my youth, though I sought to
overcome it, as indicating the absence of control that strong
people have, but without any success until I was near a man
grown.  When I returned to consciousness, my mother was
bending over me murmuring prayers and entreaties with the
vain efforts they were making to bring me back to life.

"My child, my sweet child, come back to me!  Speak to
your mother!  Open your eyes and smile, sweet one!  O God,
he does not breathe; he's dead, my darling boy!" she cried
at last, relaxing her efforts in a paroxysm of grief; but I,
regaining my senses as quickly as I had lost them, clasped her
about the neck and kissed her, crying out:

"I am not dead, mother, though I thought I'd lost you
and pap, I was so long away and the water was so cold."

"Oh, my sweet child!" was all the answer she could make,
as she buried her face in the soft pillow beside my own.

"Did you think I'd never come?" I asked caressing her
hair and face.

"We heard you call back that you would bring us help,
but we could see no way, and were given over to despair and
death when at last you reached us.  Oh, you were brave, my
darling, to have planned as you did.  Surely God must have
guided you."

"He did, dear mother, and except for your prayer I'd
never have reached the shore or known what to do once I got
there"; and this, her prayer to the good Lord to protect
her son, has been a legacy of love and tenderness to me to
this day.  For throughout all my life the sweet vision has not
faded, nor will to the end, nor afterward, I must believe.

My father, now that the danger was past, appeared much
cast down, and so sat silent and despondent beside the
pallet on which I lay.  Seeing him, I cried:

"Oh, pap, you looked so brave and grand as you struggled
in the water! and when I saw you with mother clinging
about your neck I never loved you half so much"; and reaching
up I pulled him down and kissed him, and doing so, my
face was wet as with rain with his tears.

"Except for you, my son, our struggle had been in vain;
for in a few minutes we should have been drawn into the
rapids, and that would have been the end.  I am glad you
have shown yourself so strong, my child, for your mother will
soon need your young arms, I fear, for strength and life seem
forever dead within me," he answered, in a voice so full of
lugubrious forebodings that I cried out as if some great
misfortune hung over us.  My mother, too, burying her face in
my bosom, also began to weep, and thus, despite our being
saved, we all mourned as if some dreadful mishap threatened.

"Oh, pap," I answered at last, "I'm too small to do more
than love you and come to you for everything I want, but
we've got ourselves, and what more is there?  When I'm
a man I'll give you all I have, and we will make mother love
us more and more every day."

To this he made no response, save a sob and the pressure
of his hand, which was icy cold.  Nor did he ever afterward
speak to me in the old way, for from that time a dreadful
melancholy seized him, which never departed nor lightened,
but grew steadily darker each day until the end.

For our present comfort there was not one thing lacking,
the good Indian woman nursing us as if we were her own
children, so that in a little while we were well and strong as
before.  As soon as my father had rested, he set out in search
of our companions, not returning till the evening of the
following day.  Of those he sought, however, there was no trace.
All were lost, and with them the heaped-up wealth they had
in charge.  Comforting my mother and refreshing himself,
he started again, but without result, save to recover the
bodies of some of our companions as they came to the surface
far down the river.  Of the treasure there was no sign; the
great rapids had sucked it down and so tossed and dispersed
it about that no trace of it could be discovered.

After many days' fruitless effort in this way my father gave
up the search; and now determining to return home, my little
pony was brought to the door for my mother to mount.
Then as we were about to take our departure, looking on our
benefactress, we all with one accord burst into tears at the
remembrance of her kindness and the unhappy fate of our late
companions.  At this the good La Reine, putting her arms
about my neck, kissed me, calling me her son, adding some
words in her own tongue that I did not understand.  Then
turning, she embraced and kissed my mother, tears trickling
down her sad face as she did so.  Of money or other valuables
we had none to leave in remembrance of her kindness, until
my mother, bethinking her, loosened a great chain from about
her throat—my father's gift—and reaching down, clasped it
about the neck of our benefactress.

"We shall never forget you, dear mother," she said, tears
running down her face; "you have been our good angel, and
may God bless you for your love and kindness to us."

"The Great Spirit is good, and will keep all his children,"
La Reine answered, sadly and in farewell.

Thus we took our departure, my father supporting my
mother on one side and I clasping the stirrup on the other.
Looking back as we turned to ascend the stream, we saw La
Reine as we had left her before the little hut, her eyes fixed
on ours, a melancholy picture of gentleness and lonely
abandonment.

Our sad journey occupied many days, and oftentimes as
we marched along my mother would reach down, and lifting
me up, fold me in her arms, saying, "Let me hold you
a minute, you little waif."  Or maybe she would place me
behind her, "just to give your tired legs a little rest," she
would say, with an attempt at cheerfulness.  Throughout the
journey was one of sorrow and dark forebodings, my father's
melancholy growing greater as the days went by.  In such
mood he would stride ahead like one crazed, waving his hand
fretfully back and forth before his eyes, as if to shut out some
horrible vision; or from being silent for a long time, would
suddenly cry out: "Oh, God, Jesus of Nazareth, are they all
gone, every one?" and at the remembrance great tears, like
blots of ink, would start in his weary eyes, and his face would
flush as if the pain of it was something too great to bear.
Sweet mother!  Angel of mercy!  How lovingly you watched
over him during that long and weary journey, and afterward.
This as if he were an ailing child, and by love and endearing
words could be brought back to his former self; but vainly,
for no cheerful smile, nor trace of one, ever again showed
itself in his sad and haggard face.

When at last we reached home, the good people from far
and near flocked to our house to show their sorrow and
mingle their tears with ours; and of those who had lost the
part or the whole of their fortune, no hint was given that they
in any way mourned.  All alike were tender and solicitous to
lessen, if they might, the melancholy of my father, or lighten
the burden of my sorrowing mother.  He, moving about as
if asleep or dead, mingled with the guests, saying nothing,
gazing with melancholy sweetness upon those who came to
proffer aid, but accepting naught.  When at last they had
gone their way and we were once more alone, he straightway
bestirred himself as in former times.  Collecting all his
belongings, he forced them to sale for what they would bring,
dividing the proceeds among those who had suffered, giving
most to the families of those who were lost.  Many sought to
refuse, but he received their overtures with such savage
displeasure that no one was able, finally, to decline what he
offered.  In this way we lost all we had, and with it our
home, which my mother had named Wild Plum, because of
a pretty grove of trees of this kind that grew near by.  In its
transfer reservations were made which were much talked
about at the time as in some way likely to lessen the grief of
my father; but vainly, for he gave no thought to anything
save to divide what he had among those who had suffered.

Alas, if this had been all, or the end!  But when there was
nothing more to give, the strain relaxing, he broke down, and
this to his complete undoing.  The struggle in the river and
the death of his followers, and the losses of those who had
suffered through him, brought on a fever of the head, from
which he had no sooner recovered than he was stricken
afresh.  This last, passing away under my mother's care, was
followed by a more dreadful and final attack.  Thus his life
was wrecked, and with it that of my mother, for the days of
anxiety and the passing away of her husband broke her heart.
Awhile she struggled against the doom that closed about her,
but only feebly, and on account of her child.  For she had
no desire to live, and so feeling, died, her last words being
a prayer for the welfare of her son.

Thus our little family, detached from its moorings by an
untoward event, floated for a while like driftwood on the
turbulent stream, only at last to be dispersed and lost.  Saddest
of days were these to me, for doubly unfortunate is the child
bereft of a mother's love.  All the warmth and sweet juices
of life that make childhood a vision of love are lodged in her
breast, and with her gone the gates of heaven are as if closed
forever.  In this way, and as I have described, there passed
out of the world's busy life two youthful and loving hearts
that only a little while before had fondly looked forward to
a life of companionship and sweet contentment.





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.. _`LOVE'S IDEALS`:

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   CHAPTER VI


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   LOVE'S IDEALS

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All men, and more especially those of a sympathetic nature,
have in their youth not one divinity only, but many, toward
which their minds turn with love and fond entreaty.
Afterward, when these romantic attachments have given place to
other and more serious things, our lives are still colored by
them, and to our lasting benefit.  For such attachments,
however evanescent, shape the destinies of men and sweeten their
lives as with the gentle fragrance of a flower.

Nor are we less sincere in youth because the glass that
reflects the image of our love to-day shadows forth another
picture quite as attractive on the morrow.  All are real, and
add to the attractiveness of men's lives, as does every
comforting or ennobling thought.  The opening prospect of youth
ever mirrors the present to the exclusion of the future, for
which it has no thought; and, similarly, the newness of the
world and its constant changes crowd out the imagery of
yesterday with the expectations of to-day.  For that which
is past there is, for the present, no retrospective glance.  Its
attachments and delusions, however, are none the less real,
and though seemingly without purpose, serve to enrich the
heart and build up a love of life's graces that sweetens and
softens the character of men forever afterward.  Lacking
such food, the mind and heart are deficient in the things that
make men something more than animals.  For the imagery
of life, be it good or bad, has its growth in youth, but its
pictures pass so quickly, one upon the other, that only in after
years do they recur to charm our lives with their reflected
glow or darken it with their somber shadows.

These thoughts, however trite they may be, recur to me
now when I recall the memory of my mother.  So long as she
lived she possessed my tenderest affection, and nowhere
except in her could I discern all that was good and beautiful
in woman.  While, however, I set her thus apart, a being to
revere and worship, other imaginings of which I was not
conscious were already beginning to light the fires of love along
the pathway of my opening life.  Looking back now over the
fast-fading years of my youth, I cannot recall any period that
did not thus have its imagery of love—its reflection of a
youthful face set about with some sweet femininity that attracted
and held me, but unobtrusively as a lily might take my fancy
or the green of a meadow bordered about with trees and
flowers.  Such impressions have no consciousness at the time,
and are doubly tender and lasting because thus expressionless;
for woven in with the little things of life, they form the ideals
of our youth and the tender strands that expand the heart and
make mature existence tolerable.

In my mother I saw perfection, and if I found in another
some sweet intrusion of character or line of beauty, it was but
a reflection of something more perfect in her.  Because of
this great love, I have ever esteemed it the most happy circumstance
of my being that at the time of losing her there should
have come into my life one who was like her in gentleness and
sweetness of character.  So that while I ever cherished her
memory with tenderest affection, I could never afterward
picture her as different in any way from the sweet being who
now came to take her place in all the dreams and longings
of my life.

Such was Constance Seymour, of whom I speak; and it
being true that we were both motherless and in a measure
forlorn in the world, we straightway came to love each other,
and in that sweet solace of life found the contentment and
happiness our hearts so greatly craved; and it was wholly due
to her love and gentle nature that I did not lose interest in
the soft amenities of life after my mother's death or cease to
make some effort to fulfill the aims to which she had so
hopefully looked forward.  Thus buoyed and cheered in my new
life, and with my heart overflowing with love for the sweet
creature, and desire above all things for her good opinion,
I was able to look upon the mishaps that befell me as things
not worth considering in comparison with the happiness of
being thought well of by her.





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.. _`GILBERT'S FLIGHT`:

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   CHAPTER VII


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   GILBERT'S FLIGHT

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Thus, in the way I have described, my life passed without
any great shock from the old to the new, and now, some time
having elapsed and Constance being with me, I passed my
last day at Wild Plum happily, if not in forgetfulness of what
had gone before.  Together we visited the little brook and
the red-leaved plum-trees and the great forest beyond, on the
edge of which we had passed so many happy hours.  Every
place about the old home we visited, my leave-taking of each
sweet belonging being so filled with her dear companionship
that its melancholy was for the moment quite lost upon me.
This, however, was always the way, her presence causing me
to forget what was sorrowful in life in the delight of being
near her.

When at last the sun was well down in the west, and the
shadows of the forest ran far into the unkempt prairie, giving
its grasses a darker hue, Constance's father came to take her
home in the way it had been planned.  I was to go to my
Aunt Jane's, my father's sister, to become her ward, and
henceforth to make my home with her.  This disposition of
my life occasioned me much unhappiness, for she was in all
things a most unlovable woman, her unsympathetic nature
and icy heart showing all too plainly in her formal manner
and cold, impassive face.  She was now in middle life, alert
and active, and with eyes of steely blue that chilled those on
whom they rested like shadows from off a bank of snow.  For
all this, it is proper to say she was held in high esteem by her
neighbors, and in such awe, too, that mothers in their far-off,
lonely farmhouses conjured her name at night to quiet their
unruly children.  This as it was told me, but whether truly or
not I do not know.  Of my father's mishap it was said she
cautioned him beforehand against risking all he had, and on
his return sought to put new hope and courage in his heart,
but unavailingly.  After the disaster, she came more
frequently to our house than had been her wont, my father and
she being often closeted together for hours at a time.  Of
the nature of their conference we knew nothing, save much
anger and loud talk upon her part at times, but from him not
a word.  It was not known how much she lost by his failure,
but it did not seem to depress her in any way, for now she
carried on her farm and other enterprises with greater spirit
than before, and soon—so it was talked among our neighbors—she
had more than made good her losses in the new ventures
she had undertaken.  Certain it is that she began again to
dicker and trade as when my father acted for her, and now
not less to her advantage than before.

It was this energetic lady that had arranged for me to
come and live with her, and who was there to dispute anything
she had set her heart upon?  Certainly no one in Little Sandy
or thereabout; and to me, being but a youth and of little
account, she had never even mentioned the subject.  Nor did
she notice me any more now than before, save one day she
drew me to her knee and stroked my hair and made as if she
would say some pleasant thing, but whether because of the
expression of my face or its resemblance to my mother's
I know not, she put me to one side without vouchsafing so
much as a word.  Because of these things I had come to fear
and hate her, and now looked forward to living under her roof
with gloomy discontent; but so it must be, and I neither
thought nor planned otherwise.  This she well knew, and
being a woman regardful of outlay, had said it was a needless
expense to take legal steps to acquire possession of my body;
for who was there that would question her right to such
possession?  In this it was thought she acted with her usual
prudence, for no one so much as hinted at any other
arrangement.  Mr. Job Throckmorton, my mother's brother and my
only relative save Aunt Jane, had come post-haste across the
country on hearing of my mother's death, and to him I had
looked with some hopefulness, but vainly, it appeared, for he
made no sign.  Nor ought I to have thought it likely, for he
was only a young man, and had his way to make in the world,
and so could not be expected to encumber himself with so
helpless a burden as I.  In this way, and as I say, it fell out
that I was now to go to my Aunt Jane's as her ward and to
make her house my home.

When Mr. Seymour drove up, Constance and I took a sad
farewell of each other, for henceforth my life was to be
circumscribed, no one could tell how much.  Mr. Seymour,
however, took no notice of us as we stood beside the wagon
peering into each other's faces, but busied himself arranging
and rearranging the robes as if much depended upon what he
was doing.  When at last they were fixed to his liking and
Constance was seated beside him, he looked down upon me,
and cried out in a cheerful voice:

"Now, my gay young spark, have you decided to go with
us or stay here and await your aunt?"

"I'd like to go with you if I could," I answered, after
a while, not understanding what he meant.

"Well, climb up, then, and we will show her a transformation
scene she will remember all her bright and sunny life."

Not comprehending him in any way, I stood still, staring
upward into his smiling face.

"Come, come, my son, be quick!  We are losing time,
and every moment is precious," he went on, when he saw
I did not stir.

"I don't know what you mean," I answered.  "I thought
Aunt Jane was to come for me at sunset and that I was to go
with her."

"She was, and if you are that way inclined, all right.
I will not interfere; but Mr. Throckmorton thought you were
greatly averse to going to her home."

"I am; but what else can I do, unless I run away?"
I asked.

"That is it; and who is to prevent?  I thought though
that your Uncle Job had told you about his plans?"

"No; but will you help me?" I asked, excited at the
prospect of thus escaping my aunt.

"Yes; and it is for that partly that I am here.  So climb
up and I will smuggle you into town, and once there, hide you
where even your Aunt Jane's bright eyes can never find you.
Afterward, if we need talk about that now, you are to go away
with your Uncle Job."  The hope thus held out so unexpectedly
filled me with a happiness I cannot describe, but still
I did not move, so greatly was I stirred by what he said.
"We have planned to do this from the start, Gilbert,"
Mr. Seymour went on, seeing me hesitate.  "There was no other
way, you must know, for your aunt would have fought us
through all the courts in the state if we had openly defied her.
So be quick if you like the plan, and we will be off before
it is too late."

I did like the plan, and so climbed into the wagon without
further loss of time.  When we had gone some little way on
the road, seeing Aunt Jane coming toward us, Mr. Seymour
pushed me down into the bed of the wagon, drawing the
blanket tightly above my head.  In a moment, however, and
as if in comfort of my seclusion, Constance's hand crept
beneath the robe, and feeling about, rested at last warm
and loving against my cheek.  Pressing it to my lips, I was
content, nor wished, if I could, to stir from where I knelt.

"Now, Gilbert, hold your breath, for here is your loving
aunt," Mr. Seymour exclaimed a moment afterward, pulling
up his horses.

"Good evening, Miss Holmes," he spoke up, politely, as
she stopped beside our wagon; "I hope you are quite
well and that nothing has occurred to mar the happiness of
your life."

"Thank you, I am very well," my aunt answered, but as
if not desiring to prolong the interview.

"I have just been over to Wild Plum after Constance, who
has been spending the day with your nephew," he went on.
"A wild lad that, Miss Holmes."

"Indeed, it was very kind of Constance," my aunt
answered, but not as if at all pleased with his familiarity.

"I suppose you are on your way to get the young
scape-grace.  He told us you thought to come after him,"
Mr. Seymour continued, appearing not to notice her manner.

"Yes, I am on my way to bring my nephew home," she
answered, coldly.

"Well, I hope you will find him all you desire, but I fear
he will not be much comfort to you."

"I know of no reason why you should speak in that way,"
she replied, with some heat.

"Perhaps, madam; but take my advice, and look well to
him, for if I ever saw a roving vagabond he is one.  There,
there, Constance, keep still, will you?  The lad's slippery,
Miss Holmes, slippery, and upon my soul I believe he had
it in his mind to decamp when we came away.  I never saw
anything stamped in a lad's face more plainly," Mr. Seymour
answered, soberly.

"You are too severe, Mr. Seymour," Aunt Jane replied.
"He has been allowed to do as he pleased since his father's
mishap; but he is not bad, and will make a good man, you
may be sure."

"I am sure you will make a man of him if it is possible,
madam, although you have not had much experience with
children," Mr. Seymour answered, dryly.  "They are
a troublesome set, Miss Holmes," he went on, "or at least
I have found it so, and that makes it the more surprising to
me that you should want to undertake so difficult a task."

"Thank you; but my brother's child is mine, and I will
do by him as he would have done had he lived; but I will not
detain you longer, Mr. Seymour.  Good night," Aunt Jane
answered, curtly, cutting short the interview.

"The evening is likely to be chilly, madam," Mr. Seymour
replied, pleasantly; "can't you make use of this robe?
We have another in the bottom of the wagon"; and he laid
his hand on the blanket that hid me, as if he would gladly
give it up, but my aunt answered back that she would do very
well with the one she had, and so drove away.  "A determined
woman that, Constance, and with a wonderful head for affairs.
There is not a man in the county half as smart," he went on,
as the sound of my aunt's vehicle was lost in the distance.

When we were again on our way, Constance chided her
father for speaking so badly of me and for saying I looked as
if I intended to run away; but to this he only laughed, and
putting his horses to their topmost speed, we soon reached
Constance's home.  On the way, Mr. Seymour would by no
means allow the blanket to be removed from about my head,
lest, he said, I should be seen by some passer-by and word
conveyed to my aunt.  When at last I was free, I found
myself in the stable-yard of the Dragon, the tavern kept by
Mr. Seymour in the town of Little Sandy.  Getting down,
Constance took my hand and led me into the house, and here,
ascending to the floor above, she opened a door, and when we
had entered, closed it and drew the bolt.  Screening the
windows, she presently lighted a candle, and doing so, stood
revealed to me beside the table, a smile, half mirthful, half
sad, showing in her beautiful eyes.

Thus we regarded each other, I thankful for my escape,
and she showing plainly how happy she was to have in some
way aided it.  As we thus contemplated each other a strange
thing happened, for from her young face, as I looked, the
timid dependence of youth faded away, and in its place there
came the look and presence of a woman; this as plainly as
the dawn is merged in the light of day.  Nor could I ever
afterward think of her otherwise.  There was a change in me,
too, no less real.  For as I stood watching her, every boyish
feeling fell from me as if it had never been, and from that
time on I thought and felt as men feel.  Thus quickly and
surely do sorrow and loneliness of life rob our youth of its
sweet prerogative.  Whether she was conscious of any change
or not I do not know, but henceforth she was different, as
I say.  In that moment, too, as we looked into each other's
eyes, the true and unquestioning love that we ever afterward
bore each other stood revealed.  This I know for myself,
though the truth of it as regards her I was not conscious of
at the time, not being wise in such matters; but while we
stood thus, her eyes fell before mine and her face flushed, and
all at once she became possessed of a shyness not like her at
all.  So that instead of coming to me as she had done before,
she busied herself about the room, lighting first one candle
and then another, until the whole apartment was ablaze.
This, too, with such show of embarrassment that I stood
gazing in wonder, not understanding the one nor the other.
When there were no more candles to light and she had
regained some control of herself, she turned to me, saying
simply:

"This is your room, Gilbert."

"It's a fine one, and I hope it will be a long time before
I shall have to give it up," I answered, the thought of leaving
sending a chill to my heart.

"Maybe you will not have to go at all; or if you do, not
far," she answered, with a reassuring smile.

"Uncle Job lives a great way off, if I'm to go with him,"
I answered, not much comforted.

"Perhaps your aunt will give you up, now she sees you do
not care to live with her; then you can go and come as you
please," she replied, her face lighting up as if she thought it
might be so.

"No, Constance, aunt will never do that.  She never gave
up anything on which she had set her heart," I answered;
but even as I spoke my feelings changed, and so I went on
without stopping: "I'll not go with Uncle Job, but will stay
here.  Why not?  Aunt Jane's never harmed me"; and on
the moment all my fear and hatred of her vanished, so averse
was I to being separated from the dear girl before me.  Hearing
me, Constance smiled her approval, as if she too thought
that the best way, and presently, looking about, asked:

"How do you like your room, Gilbert?  I hope it will
please you."

"I never saw anything half so fine before," I answered,
staring about me.

"Your father and mother always occupied it when in
town, and your mother never tired of the pictures and the
laces about the windows and bed."

"They're beautiful, but where did all these things come
from?" I asked, examining the furniture of the room more
carefully.

"Papa and mamma brought them from England when they
came to this country," she answered.

I recall all this now, and vividly, because of the part the
room and its furnishings afterward played in my life, and this
under circumstances so peculiar that each article became at
last fixed in my mind as if its image were engraven there.

Of the many things the apartment contained, not the least
wonderful was the high canopied bedstead, with its rare lace,
about which Constance had spoken.  Scattered about the
room were many chairs, some upright, some reclining, but all
curiously carved and odd and of old fashion.  In the center
of the apartment a great table stood, and from its fat sides
and legs lions and tigers looked out as if ready to spring upon
you, so real were they in every particular.  At one end of the
room brass andirons, with tops like tigers' heads, adorned
the fireplace, and at the side a shovel and tongs of similar
pattern.  The walls of the room were tinted, and on these
pictures hung, and among them one of George III.  Above
this, and as if in guardianship, there was a portrait of the
younger Pitt, but who he was I did not then know, any more
than of the other.  The room was called the Treasury, and
in it and nowhere else, I afterward came to know, Mr. Seymour
lived again the life of his youth.  Here he preserved all
the mementos of his young wife and of the land and home
they had left beyond the sea.  Here, after her death, it was
said he would shut himself up for days together, from all save
Constance, until, the mood passing, he would emerge again,
the quiet, unobtrusive man the world knew.

Why Mr. Seymour left England was not known, but Constance
thought it had in some way to do with his marriage to
her mother, a delicate woman, who proved not strong enough
to withstand the hardships of the new country, and so
sickened and died.  Nor was it known why Mr. Seymour had
chosen to keep a tavern in preference to some calling of
greater dignity, unless, all occupations being alike to him, he
had believed this not so difficult as the others.  Whatever
may have been the reason, certain it was he spared no effort
to do acceptably what he had undertaken, and thus it came
about that his hostelry was held in high esteem throughout
the country by all who had occasion to patronize places of
this character.  He called the tavern—for so such places were
designated in the new country—the Dragon, but whether
from some early association or because he in secret reprobated
the place, I do not know.  The Dragon's sign hung in the
open street, and had for its background a delicate peacock
green, designed to convey the idea of a soft, voluptuous sea.
On the edge of this expanse a fierce dragon stood upreared
with open mouth and protruding tongue.  Of St. George,
however, there was neither sign nor hint.  This strange
omission, which the knowing had discerned, it was whispered
was intentional on Mr. Seymour's part and out of regard for
the sentiment of the country, which at that time was by no
means friendly to Great Britain or her patron saint.

Mr. Seymour had many ways out of the ordinary, and
among them an odd habit, it was thought, of taking Constance
to the woods on pleasant days, where they would wander
about, hand in hand, gathering leaves and flowers.  Or if
a shrub pleased them, they would pluck it up by the roots
and transplant it to the little garden she tended in the yard
beside the Dragon.  This fondness of Mr. Seymour for
immaterial things, and the time he gave them, was much
commented upon by the busy community in and about Little
Sandy, and was thought by many to seriously cripple his
business, if not foretell its final ruin.





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.. _`GILBERT'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE TIMBER-WOLF`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


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   GILBERT'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE TIMBER-WOLF

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When we had examined all the beautiful things the room
contained, or made pretense of doing so—for I was ever
interested in Constance to the exclusion of other matters—she
pointed with a show of pride to the battered head of an animal
fastened above the door by which we had entered, exclaiming:

"See, Gilbert, where papa's put the horrid thing!  I can
never look at it without a shudder."

"It's ugly enough, I'm sure," I answered; "but what is it?"

"Surely you ought to know, if any one," she answered,
taking hold of my hand and leading me close to the object.

"It's so cut up one can't tell whether it's the head of a pig
or a panther," I answered.

"It's neither; but you're only making believe, Gilbert?"

"No; but I never saw anything half so ugly."

"Oh, fie! how stupid you are, or make out to be."

"Well, what is it?  I can't guess," I answered, but in no
hurry to have her tell me, so sweet was her voice and so
entrancing her contention.

"Well, I've a good mind not to tell you, but it's the head
of the wolf you killed.  Papa had it mounted just as it was
brought from Wild Plum; and it grows more ugly every day,
I think," she answered, scowling at the hideous thing.

"I'd never have known it, it's so shrunken and wrinkled,"
I answered, gazing at the object with new interest.

"Then you remember, do you?" she asked, coming close
to my side, as if it were still alive.

Yes, I remembered the wolf well enough, but most because
it concerned Constance, and had, besides, so much to do with
her father's kindness to me then and always.  On this account
it is proper I should tell you the story; and though it may
seem out of the ordinary and improbable now, it was not so
regarded at the time.  For you must know that in the early
days the panther and bear and many other savage animals
made their homes undisturbed in the depths of the great
forests of Illinois, and among the first recollections of my
childhood were the cries, sometimes fierce, but more often
doleful, of the wolves about our home.  Our situation indeed in
respect to such visits was peculiar, for from the plain that lay
on one side there came the gray or prairie wolf, and from the
forest opposite, his fierce brother, the black or timber wolf.
The first was a cowardly brute, hardly above a chicken in
courage, and given to pilfering about the stables and
hen-houses, though sometimes venturing as far as the kitchen if
there was anything it could steal.  The timber-wolf was
larger, and when hungry would attack animals ten times its
size.  Indeed, when famished, it did not fear man, and in this
way numbers of the early settlers lost their lives.  In the
summer and fall, when food was plentiful, it rarely visited us,
but in the late winter its cries at night were so common as
hardly to attract attention.

Thus it was one day in the early spring, when the grasses
were fairly started and the trees beginning to sprout, or only
the laggards slept, as loth to waken now as they were quick
to go to sleep in the early autumn.  The day being warm and
fair, Constance and I had ventured into the great forest, not
far, indeed, but apart, the foliage shutting us off from view.
At such times the thing that delighted her most was to run
in and out among the trees, as children from the city always
take pleasure in doing when visiting the country.  In this way
we had become separated for a moment, when suddenly there
came to me from out the still woods a quick and agonizing
cry.  It was Constance's voice, and something to chill one's
blood.  Nor has a long life sufficed to still its vibrations, and
often in the night it awakens me now, with the same dread as
when I heard it in that afternoon in my far-off youth.  Starting
up in affright, I let fall the basket I carried, but retained
in some unconscious way the small ax I had in my hand, my
father's gift, and this fortunately, as it afterward turned out.
Listening, and the cry being repeated, I hastened in the
direction whence it came, but as I advanced it receded, faster and
faster, until after a little while it came to me only plaintively,
and then not at all.  Hurrying forward, I after a time reached
an opening in the forest, and doing so beheld on the opposite
side a huge wolf, gaunt with hunger, carrying Constance in
his mouth, with high uplifted head, as if her weight were
nothing.  Nor was it much to speak of, for she was but a child,
and delicate as the lilies that bobbed and curtsied in the
black pond on the edge of the great woods.  At sight of the
wolf I stopped, so benumbed with fear that I could neither
move nor cry aloud, and thus I stood with open mouth,
without any sense whatever, doing nothing.  What could I do?
The house was now far away, and only women there, and if
I sought them it would be too late.  While thus unable to
think or act, I caught sight of the weapon I held, and with
it courage returned to my heart—not much, to be sure, but
enough.  Something might be done with so good a weapon,
and with the thought I hastened across the opening and
plunged into the forest, following the direction the wolf had
taken.  After running some distance without response to my
cries or finding any clew to guide me, I stopped again, filled
anew with fear and dreadful forebodings.  Surely she was lost,
and her life a prey to the savage beast that bore her away.
At the thought, taking fresh courage, I plunged ahead, and
now into the very heart of the forest, thinking this the
direction the animal would be most like to take.  Thus minutes
like hours passed, as I struggled forward through the dense
undergrowth, but neither hearing nor seeing aught of her
I sought.  Worn out at last, I sank down in despair, tears
blinding my eyes.  Beyond, the great forest stretched away
unbroken to the far west, receding ever to lower and lower
levels, there to meet noiseless, half-hidden creeks or black,
impassable swamps.  Throughout its great expanse, and as
a cover for the wild beasts that frequented its depths, dense
undergrowth grew, and resplendent as in a garden.  So much
I knew from my father, who had penetrated its vast solitudes,
and at another time I should have been stirred by its solemn
splendor; but now it had neither beauty nor variety, revealing
only darkness and terror, wherein a hideous tragedy lay
concealed.  Such were my thoughts as, after some moments'
resting to gain new breath, I struggled to my feet and started
afresh, but now without any purpose other than to follow
aimlessly on.  Going forward in this way, I came at last upon
an opening in the trees, and there, a few feet off, and in the
interval of the forest, I beheld the wolf, with tongue
outstretched and bloodshot eyes, standing at bay.  As I came
into the cleared space, the animal raised himself erect and
turned his fierce countenance on me as if inviting attack.
This I did not think to offer, but losing all consciousness,
I rushed forward, crying, "Constance!  Constance!"  Thus
I reached the animal, and it not moving, I raised my weapon
and struck it full in the face.  The blow was not hard, for
I was weak and dead with fear; but the brute not attacking
me in return, and blood following the stroke, I struck again
and again, sometimes missing altogether, but more often
hitting my mark.  Whether the animal was exhausted by its long
flight, or surprised into fear by my quick attack, I do not
know, but that it was dazed I must believe, for it made no
effort to attack me, but stood sullenly before Constance's
body, neither advancing nor receding.  Finally, my blows
growing weak, and the animal making as if it would spring
upon me, I struck it again, and now with the strength of both
my arms, full in the face.  At this, as if grievously hurt, or
else losing all courage, it gave a mournful cry, and turning,
darted into the forest.  Seeing this, and my strength being
gone and my heart numb with fear, I fell forward unconscious
beside Constance's prostrate body.

When I came to, my head was pillowed in her lap and she
was stroking my hair, kissing me the while as if to bring back
the color to my face, calling, now in a fever of fright and then
again plaintively and coaxingly:

"Gilbert!  Gilbert!  My Gilbert!"

Feeling her soft breath on my face, I feigned unconsciousness,
loth to move; and thus I lay for a while, not stirring,
nor conscious of any reason why I should.  Then the thought
of the wolf came back to me, and I sprang up, terror-stricken
lest the animal should return, alone or with its fellows, as these
fierce brutes were sometimes known to do when crazed with
hunger.

"Quick, Constance!  We must be off before the brute
returns," I cried, taking hold of both her hands.  To my
appeal, however, she returned no answer, but sat still, her
face, torn and bleeding, turned imploringly toward mine.
"You're hurt!" I exclaimed, filled with fear; "but come!
I can carry you, and it's not far"; and stooping I raised her
in my arms as easily as I would a child.

"No, I'm not hurt, Gilbert," she answered, trembling and
clinging about my neck; "but I thought you were dead, and
your springing up frightened me as much as the presence of
the wolf."

"Are you sure you're not hurt in any way?" I asked, looking
at her scared face and torn garments, not believing she
could have got off so easily.

"Yes—and you?" she answered, peering into my face.

"I'm all right; but how could you have escaped so easily?"
I asked, in wonder.

"I don't know, for I knew nothing after the first moment
till I found you lying beside me," she answered, disengaging
herself from my arms.

"See where the brute held you," I answered, pointing
with a shaking hand to the marks of its teeth in the heavy
woolen frock she wore.

"If my dress had been lighter, he might not have been
able to carry me off at all," she answered.  "But where is
the beast, Gilbert?  And see, you are covered with blood,
too!"

"Come!  We must leave here as quickly as we can.  The
wolf didn't have any more courage than a sheep, and ran
away; but he may come back with the pack, if they're near by,"
I answered, looking about uneasily.

"How can you find the way, Gilbert?  No one has ever
been so far as this before, I know," she replied, scanning the
dark trees as we hurried forward.

"It's no great distance, and I could find my way blindfolded,"
I answered, confidently; and so, guided by the sun,
and this happily, we at last reached the edge of the forest just
as the night was coming on.  Here my mother, who had
become alarmed at our long absence, was awaiting us, and as
we came into view, she ran forward, crying:

"My children!  My children!  How could you frighten
me so!"  When, however, she had come near to where we
were, and saw the blood on my garments, she stopped and
came nigh to falling, but recovering herself, hurried forward
and clasped me in her arms, exclaiming: "My son! my son!
What dreadful thing has happened to you?"

Nor would she move or release me till we had told her the
story from beginning to end.  Then, kissing us, she put her
arms about our bodies and led us to the house, and there kept
us by her side until my father came home and heard the story.
He, more used to danger, embraced us tenderly, and not
waiting for a fresh horse to be saddled, mounted the one he
had, and taking Constance in his arms, carried her to her
home in town.  The next day Mr. Seymour came out to Wild
Plum with Constance, and together we all visited the spot
where the encounter had taken place; but my father, following
the animal's trail by its blood, presently gave a cry, and we,
running forward, found him standing over the wolf, which lay
dead on the ground.

That is the story, and it was the battered head of the
animal, that Mr. Seymour because of some sentiment had
preserved, that now stared at us from above the chamber door.

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NOTE.—Mr. Gilbert Holmes, in reviewing
this part of his life,
thought, for some reason, that the story
of the timber-wolf should be
omitted; but to this Mrs. Holmes would
by no means listen, treasuring
every word as if it were Gilbert himself
and a part of her life.
Because of this I have included it
as it was told me, and partly, too,
because it explains Mr. Seymour's love
for Gilbert as a youth and the
great confidence he had in him always.
It also illustrates Gilbert's
courage, which was so simple and found
expression so naturally when
anything called it forth that he was never
conscious he possessed it, but
always spoke of the fear that oppressed him
in the emergencies of life,
though it was not fear at all, it was apparent,
but merely the agitation of
a sensitive nature.  For of all men,
none ever lived who were more
brave than he; and it was said of him,
and truly, as a general of cavalry
in our great war, that no leader pressed
forward with such ardor in the
charge, and similarly it was told,
none gazed upon the empty saddles
after the conflict was over with so
sorrowful and pitying a heart.—THE AUTHOR.





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.. _`DRIFTWOOD FROM THE THAMES BATTLEFIELD`:

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   CHAPTER IX


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   DRIFTWOOD FROM THE THAMES BATTLEFIELD

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While Constance and I stood with clasped hands gazing at
the wolf's head, Mr. Seymour entered the room, followed by
Uncle Job.  At sight of the latter my heart went out to him
with tender emotion, and I ran and embraced him as I would
a dear friend.

"I hope you find yourself in good spirits, and none the
worse for what has happened?" he inquired, affectionately,
taking my hands in his and kissing me.

"Gilbert's in fine spirits," Constance spoke up, looking at
me as a mother might on a petted child.

"Yes, and I can't thank you enough for what you've done,
uncle," I answered.

"Don't talk that way, child, for you owe me nothing," he
replied.  "I was sorry to leave you in doubt so long, but
there was no other way."

"It didn't matter; but I'm afraid I'll be a great burden to
you," I answered, remembering what I had thought in regard
to this.

"Nonsense!  Only I'm not sure but you would be better
with your Aunt Jane than with me; but your mother would
approve what I am doing if she were alive, and that is what
governs me," he answered.

"I'm sure she would," I replied, feeling that he spoke the
truth.

"Then you are pleased?" he asked, smiling, as if comforted
by my answer.

"Yes, but I fear Aunt Jane will be very unhappy when
she finds I have gone without money or clothing.  Wouldn't
it be right to send her word that no harm will come to me?"
I asked, a feeling of remorse coming over me that I had shown
her so little respect.

"She will not fret nor lose an hour's sleep over you, my
boy," Uncle Job replied.  "Her heart will close up like an
oyster when she finds you are gone; but when we are well out
of the country we will let her know.  She will never forgive
you, but it doesn't matter, for she was never friendly to our
family, anyway."

"Mother used to say we didn't understand her," I answered,
remembering her words.

"Your mother found excuses for every one, so tender was
her heart; and your Aunt Jane is not to be blamed if she is
ice instead of flesh and blood," he replied.

"Please, Job, leave Aunt Jane in the quietude of her farm
for a while.  The die is cast, and nothing can change it now,"
Mr. Seymour broke in, good-naturedly.  "Come, Constance,
let us have dinner served here, where we can have the evening
to ourselves—and make haste, for we are starving," he added,
putting his arm about her as she turned to leave the room.

At the dinner which followed, it was my great good fortune
to make a new acquaintance, and one I had occasion to prize
more and more as the years went by.  This in the person of
Constance's companion and teacher, Setti, a young person
who had lately come to make one of Mr. Seymour's family;
and strangely enough for such companionship, and improbable
you will say, she was of pure Indian blood.  No one, however,
would have known this, for except that her hair and eyes were
black and her complexion olive rather than dark, she was in
no wise different from those about her.  She was above medium
height, with graceful figure, and soft, shy manners that
were truly captivating, and in regard to this last there was no
difference of opinion.  Her history, while it would be strange
now and romantic in the extreme, was not thought peculiar at
the time of which I speak.  For you must know she was found
when a child, playing beside the body of her dead mother on
the Thames battlefield, where Tecumseh fell, a little way
across the Canadian border.  The officer who thus discovered
her took her to his home and educated her, treating her in all
things as his child.  This until some months back, when, his
family being broken up by one of the dreadful scourges of
sickness common in the new country, Mr. Seymour had asked
her to become the companion and instructor of Constance.

While nothing was known of Setti's parentage, it was
thought she was the daughter of some great chief, from the
ornaments clasped about her neck, and which she still wore.
Of these, one was a cross of mixed gold and silver, sunk in an
oval frame of copper and lead, the handiwork of some Indian
craftsman, who, it was apparent, had only rude tools and
molten metals with which to work.  Another ornament, and
one that struck you strangely, was a serpent, hammered out
of pure iron and inlaid with silver; but of its significance
nothing was known.  Afterward, when I came to know this
sweet creature as one does a sister or cherished friend,
I could never discover anything to indicate her savage ancestry,
save, perhaps, a reticence of speech unusual in attractive
women—if I except, perhaps, a startled look she sometimes
wore when coming suddenly upon any new or remarkable
experience in life.  This peculiarity, however, we see in
people of our own blood, and so it should not have been thought
strange in her.  In all other respects there was nothing about
her to mark the abrupt step from savagery to civilized life,
for her intelligence was in all things of the order and delicacy
that characterizes refined women.  Her beauty and sweetness
of disposition, too, were such as to confirm the romantic
notions I have ever held respecting the Indian character; and
it was no doubt due to her and other kindly influences that
I was first led to believe our treatment of the Indian tribes
had been somewhat lacking in wisdom and humanity.  Mr. Seymour
was also of this opinion, and never lost an opportunity
to express his views on the subject, and with considerable
abruptness.

"Setti's affectionate nature and sweetness of temper," he
was in the habit of saying to his friends when the subject was
brought up, "are natural to her—God's gifts; and had a wiser
and more tolerant course been followed by our government,
all the Indian tribes of America would have been led to accept
civilization, as she has been—not grudgingly, but with their
whole heart and soul.  Either that, or they should have been
left apart to follow the processes every race has passed through
in its progress from savagery.  Instead, we have the sad sight
of great Indian nations debauched and hunted down and
destroyed, as if they were a plague upon the earth.  Surely
they were worthy of something better, and should have been
preserved to mark for all time the magnificent men and women
who made up our native Indian population.  To do this we
would have had to recognize their right to live and multiply
unmolested, as we do others more fortunate in color and
birth; or failing in that, have subjected them to gentle
treatment and wise laws.  Surely they were worthy such care and
consideration.  Homer's Greeks, to make a point of it, were
no better, nor scarcely more civilized, than the Sacs and Foxes
we have but just driven like wolves beyond the confines of
civilization after robbing them of their lands and villages."

Mr. Seymour's views, and others like them, however noble
and humane, were not regarded by the community as meriting
attention except in a sentimental way, one and all being
animated by a desire to dispossess the Indians of their lands as
quickly as possible, and without reference to their rights or
any feeling of humanity whatever.  However, he was not the
less strenuous in giving them utterance, even to the extent of
offending his friends and patrons.

"Bad faith and cruel harassment of the Indian tribes on
their lonely reservations," he would say, "have characterized
our government's policy from the first, and forms, indeed, so
gross a crime that coming ages will reprobate it wherever men
love justice and hate swinish greed.  It will not in any way
excuse us that we are hungry for the property of our
neighbors, and because of this agree to treat the Indian as an
inferior being.  He is nothing of the kind, for God never
made more perfect men physically, and the mind conforms
in all things to the body.  It is nature's law.  Nor does it
excuse our acts, however much our passions may be aroused,
that the Indian in his savage state kills and mutilates his enemy.
Achilles, the ideal Greek, circling the walls of ancient Troy
with Hector's body chained to his chariot, has never been
surpassed in cruelty and ignoble pride in Indian annals.  The
comparison is still more odious when we think of the
hecatombs of harmless men the Homeric Greeks sacrificed to the
manes of their honored dead.  The Indian's heaven is lighted
by no such baleful fires.  Nor have we any reason to suppose
the red man more backward than the Greek, for he is greater
in courage and much superior to him in physical strength and
patient endurance."

"If Achilles lived in our day," Uncle Job once answered,
"we would not lose an hour in appropriating his incomparable
horses and sending him to the wilds of Iowa to join that other
savage, Black Hawk, saying to ourselves the while that we
were well rid of a nuisance and disturber of the peace.  Too
much can't be expected, though, of our young country, Henry.
It is too full of the bumptious exuberance of animal life.
Children in experience make very poor governors; they are
too headstrong and intolerant; but we will do better later on.
Only mature nations, like mature men, know how to govern
well.  It's a pity, but so it is, and will be always, and the
weak and dependent must suffer whenever contrary conditions
exist."

Thus tender-hearted men declaimed in the years that are
gone, but fruitlessly.  These thoughts, however out of place,
recur to me now and struggle for utterance when my mind
reverts to the gentle being who came into my life that evening,
and who afterward, and so long as she lived, did so much
to add to the happiness and well-being of those with whom
she was brought in contact.

When at last we were seated about the table, Mr. Seymour
asked grace, and this with such show of reverence that I was
awed by it as something new and strange.  For such a thing
was not usual, you must know, in the new country.  Not that
men were lacking in respect for religious observances; on the
contrary, but time pressed, and, moreover, it was thought that
such delicate matters should be left to those trained, so to
speak, in things of that nature.  On occasion, to be sure, the
more venturesome would, if asked, raise their voices openly;
but such practices were cause rather of wonder at the courage
they evinced than desire to emulate them on the part of the
more timid of the community.  Mr. Seymour's custom, however,
seemed to me to be so good and reverent that I determined
if I ever grew to man's estate to do the same; but such
resolves, however commendable, are rarely followed, for when
I came to have a home of my own, and children sat about the
table, I put it off, as weak men ever do in cases of this nature.
For a long time the dinner promised to be without speech,
all seeming to be oppressed at the step that had been taken—a
step that would, for good or bad, color forever the life of
at least one of their number.  At last Mr. Seymour, looking
across to where I sat, said, with an encouraging smile:

"I hope, Gilbert, you don't feel any regret at what has
been done?"

"No, sir," I answered; "why should I?"

"Nor have any disposition to turn back?"

"It would be too late for that, I'm afraid, even if I wanted
to," I answered.  "Aunt Jane would never forgive me so
great an offense."

"No, not too late, if you regret the step.  The blame for
what has been done is all ours, and no part of it would rest
on your head," he answered, kindly.

"I don't regret it, but I'm sorry for Aunt Jane," I
answered; for, however loth I was to live with her, she was
entitled to my respect, if not my love.  So much, I thought,
I owed my father's memory.

"Well, you may be sorry," Mr. Seymour answered.  "We
all admire your aunt, and if she would unbend a little and let
her face relax into a smile on occasion, she would be a most
attractive and lovable woman; but immersed in her thoughts,
and formal of manner because of it, she is like the icebergs
one sometimes meets in midocean, she is so cold and inaccessible."

"It's her way, and doesn't mean anything, mother always
said," I answered.

"Perhaps so; but age does not change or soften her way,
as it does most people.  Your Uncle Job may not prove as
watchful a guardian as she would have been, Gilbert, but your
heart will be the warmer and your figure the more supple for
the freedom," Mr. Seymour went on.

"I'm sure I shall be content," I answered, looking at
Constance, not finding it in my heart to say I could be happy
with any one away from her.

"He will never have any other company save yours, nor
desire for any.  So you are likely to see a good deal of him,
and always to your betterment, I am sure," Mr. Seymour
answered.

"Why do you say that, Henry?" Uncle Job asked, looking
up in surprise.

"Because you are destined to be an old bachelor, Job,"
Mr. Seymour answered, "and of this I am sure.  Charles,
Gilbert's father, used to say the same.  You lack time and
inclination to find a mate, and more's the pity.  In such
company, Gilbert," he went on, "your craft must hug the shore
or sail into the open, as fate decides; but wherever wind and
tide may take you, here is hoping you may have a prosperous
voyage," and Mr. Seymour raised a glass of wine to his lips,
and much to my astonishment, bowed to me as if I were a
man grown.  He was, however, always surprising those about
him in some such pleasant way.  Indeed, I thought his bearing
so fine that for him to single out any one for notice was
a distinction to be remembered and be proud of ever afterward.
Thus strongly does kindliness and courtesy of speech
ever impress the young or inexperienced in life.

"We all want to join in that toast, Henry," Uncle Job
broke in, reaching for a goblet of water that stood beside his
plate.

"Won't you join me in a glass of wine, Job?" Mr. Seymour
went on, observing his action.  "You will sleep the better for
it.  No?  Well, I won't urge you; but you will excuse me,
I know, if I say it has always seemed strange to me that in
this new country, where all save the pious tipple, and even
they indulge sometimes behind the door, you should so rigidly
abstain."

"It looks odd, I suppose," Uncle Job answered, "but you
know it doesn't grow out of any assumption on my part.  I
simply don't care for liquor, and can't cultivate it, for the same
reason you give for my not marrying; I haven't the time."

"Well, that is a clever way to put it," Mr. Seymour
responded.  "You are all the better, though, for being free.
I have been used to the custom since a boy, and so it would
seem odd to dine without wine of some kind.  It is all a
matter of habit, however, and in this new country, where any
kind of good liquor is hard to get, it is better to eschew it
altogether, as you do, if one can.  Many reprobate the use of
wine, I know, but that is an extreme way to look at it, for
it is as old as man, and so not to be criticised as if the fashion
were new."

"Custom never makes a bad practice the better, though
it may excuse it," Uncle Job answered, good-naturedly.

"No, but it is the excesses of those who use liquor that
should be condemned; but there doesn't seem to be any
middle course in most cases."

"That is not the only thing that is carried to excess in our
new country," Uncle Job answered.  "The habit of chewing
tobacco is quite as harmful, and one that ought to be frowned
upon by all men with the beating of drums and tom-toms.
This for sanitary reasons, if for no other."

"That is as men think," Mr. Seymour, who was sometimes
disposed to be very democratic, replied.  "The custom
is not nice, but it will die out when men live nearer each other
and have leisure to observe the habits of their neighbors.
Our people are not more peculiar in this than in giving up the
pipe for the cigar."

"That was bad taste, for a pipe is every way superior to
a cigar.  It is more cleanly and costs less and is not so
harmful," Uncle Job replied, with animation; for however
abstemious he might be in regard to the use of liquor, he was
seldom without a pipe or cigar in his mouth.

"The pipe will come into fashion again when men have
more leisure," Mr. Seymour answered.  "Now they have
scarce time to bite off the end of a cigar or say 'Lord forgive
me!' ere they die, so busy are they in bringing the new world
into subjection.  However, to talk about something of more
interest to these children, what are you going to do next?
What are your plans, Job, if I may ask?"

This reference to the future caused both Constance and me
to stop our chatter and lean forward not to lose a word of
what was said, but little comfort did we derive from Uncle
Job's reply.

"I have a plan, and it is to leave for home to-morrow
morning," he answered, abruptly, looking across the table to
where I sat, as if to see how I took it.

"Why so much haste?" Mr. Seymour expostulated.

"Well, the more promptly we act, the less trouble we are
likely to have.  No one ever caught Miss Holmes napping
before, and while we may have misled her up to this time,
it is not possible to do so long.  The safest way for us, then,
is to hurry away."

"Surely, Uncle Job, there's no such hurry," I broke in,
my heart ceasing to beat at the thought of going so soon.

"I would like to stay longer, but why take the risk of
delay, my son?  There is nothing to detain us, and the sooner
we are off the less likely we are to be interfered with.  So let
us start in the morning—and that reminds me, I ought to go
and procure the things you need for the journey, Gilbert, if
you will excuse me, Henry," he asked, turning to Mr. Seymour.

"A day or two wouldn't make any difference, I should
think, Mr. Throckmorton," Constance interposed.  "No one
will look for Gilbert in this room, and he has not thought of
going so soon."

"Keep still, you little puss, and don't meddle in such
serious business," Mr. Seymour interposed, half seriously, half
in mirth at her earnestness.

"Well, I don't see any reason for such haste," Constance
answered, as if that ought to settle it.

"Nor I," I added, shutting my jaws tight, so greatly was
I wrought up over the prospect.

"There is no other safe way.  Miss Holmes would be
down on us like a hawk before noon to-morrow if she doesn't
put in an appearance to-night.  Indeed, it would not surprise
me to see her enter this room any minute," Uncle Job
answered, in a decided way, at which we all turned and
glanced toward the door, as if expecting to see her enter, as
he said.

This disposition of the matter I thought worse than going
to Aunt Jane's, and when Uncle Job and Mr. Seymour presently
left us to get things in readiness for the morrow, I turned
and clasped Constance in my arms in an agony of grief at the
thought of parting from her so soon.  Thus for a long time
we mingled our tears, our hearts too full for speech; but after
a while, regaining our composure, we fell to talking of the
future, and what we would do, and how we would meet, and
this with so much earnestness that we quite forgot our present
troubles in the contemplation of what was to come.  Thus it
is ever with the young; the illusions of life dry their tears and
cheer them on when older people sink down in despair and die.





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.. _`AN AWAKENING`:

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   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN AWAKENING

.. vspace:: 2

When at last Constance left me for the night, I threw
myself across the bed without removing my garments, that
I might the sooner lose my sorrows in the forgetfulness of
sleep.  Without avail, however, till the night was far spent,
and then only for a moment; for awakening, I found Aunt
Jane bending over me grim and determined, a cruel smile
lighting up her cold, impassive face.  Yes, it was as Uncle
Job had said.  She could not be misled, and spying out my
hiding-place, had bribed the attendants, and so gained access
to my room—and I was lost.  Stifling my cries, she beckoned
her servants to her side, and they, taking me in their arms,
bore me through the silent house to the carriage that stood
waiting before the door.  Thrusting me within, they drove
away, muffling my voice till we were far beyond the town.
Then releasing me, as if in mockery, I beat my head against
the sides of the vehicle, screaming aloud for help, but vainly,
for no answer was returned to my angry cries.  This till my
strength was gone and I sank back exhausted in my seat.

Thus we reached her home in the gray of the morning, but
not to enter, for turning into a vacant field, she hid me in
a house half buried in the ground, apart and far from the
traveled road.  Here they left me, but returning in the evening,
covered my prison deep with dirt, so that it resembled a
gigantic grave.  In this loathsome cell I remained for many
weeks, mold gathering on my garments and fever racking my
worn frame.  Nor was this all, for from out the sides of my
prison snakes and lizards peered at me with lack-luster eyes
as I sat brooding the day through, and at night monstrous
field-rats, gaining entrance, ran to and fro across my body,
or warmed themselves beneath my jacket.  Here in the early
morning or late at night my aunt came to visit me, striking
the door of my prison with her staff as she called my name.
Grieved and incensed, I for a long time refused to answer,
but at last, rising to my feet in rage to upbraid her for her
cruelty, I awoke, trembling and covered with sweat, to find
Setti rapping on my door and calling my name:

"Gilbert!  Gilbert!"

Springing up, I ran to her, crying:

"Here! here!  Save me, save me, Setti!" clasping my
arms about her body as I spoke.

Startled by my action and wild speech, she sought to
disengage herself, but observing my distraught air, bent down
and kissed me, saying soothingly:

"What is the matter, Gilbert?  What has frightened you?
You tremble, and your face is as pale as death."

"It's the cold and damp," I answered, scarce knowing
what I said, only that I sought to cling to her the tighter.

"That is not it, Gilbert, for the morning is soft and
warm," she answered, peering into my face.  "You are ill or
hiding something from me.  What is it?"

"Oh, I've had a dream, a dreadful dream—or it was true,
I don't know which.  I thought Aunt Jane came and took me
to her home and hid me in a cave where no one could find me
or hear my cries."

"Oh you poor boy!  It was only a dream, for see, this is
the Dragon, and your uncle is downstairs, and Constance will
be here in a moment with your breakfast."

"Let's go to her; it's better than staying here," I answered,
looking back into the room, unable to command my voice
or trembling limbs.

"No, Gilbert, not till you are yourself again.  Constance
must not see you in this way, for the poor thing is dead
with grief already," she answered, striving to quiet my
agitation.

"I'll stay, but don't leave me, for I'll not stop here alone;
I can't!" I cried, fear still overcoming me.

"See, it is nothing," she answered, entering the room and
looking about.  "It was all a dream, Gilbert.  There, you
will be yourself again in a minute"; and putting her arm
about me, she led me to the open window, and looking out, I
saw the day was just breaking.

In this manner, and after some time, I regained my
composure, so that when Constance entered she in no wise
suspected that anything had gone amiss.  Spreading the table,
Setti motioned the servant to go away, and making some
excuse, she presently followed, leaving us alone.  Seating
myself, I made pretense of eating, but only that, so deeply was I
stirred by what had happened and the thought of parting from
Constance.  Now, though a long life has elapsed since that
unhappy morning, I can see her as plainly as then, striving
to smile or say some cheerful word, but more often with tears
filling her gentle eyes and clogging her utterance as she sat
sad-faced and despondent by my side.  In this way I made
believe I had some appetite, till the horn sounded the departure
of the stage.  Then, springing to my feet, I took her in
my arms and kissed her a thousand times, but without speech
of any kind, so full were we of the sorrow of parting.  At last,
tearing myself away, I hurried below, where I found Mr. Seymour
waiting for me in the hall.

"Good by, God bless you!" he cried, with a striving at
gayety as he put his arm about me and led me to the door.
"Remember, Gilbert, that we love you always, and will
welcome you back with open arms whenever you choose to come,"
he concluded, his voice choking.

My heart too full for utterance, I raised his hand and
kissed it, and without stopping, hurried on to where Uncle
Job stood waiting to put me in the stage.  Thus we went
away, and turning, I saw Constance looking down on me from
the room where we had just parted, waving me a last farewell.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE NEW COUNTRY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE NEW COUNTRY

.. vspace:: 2

When we were clear of the village and the straggling houses
that lined the road beyond its limits, the sun was well above
the horizon, lighting with ever-lessening shadows the great
prairie spread out before us.  Refreshed and enlivened by the
pure air and the companionship of the quiet country, I looked
about me, curious as to the route we were following and the
far-reaching prospect on either side.  On our right the gentle
Mauvaise Terre pursued its slow and devious course through
the quiet plain, marked throughout its winding way by trees
and drooping bushes.  To the south, low down on the hazy
landscape, the great forest about Wild Plum, so dear of
memory, showed its black depths in the soft morning air.  This
far-off glimpse of my home stirred the sorrows of my heart
anew, but a turn in the road shutting out the view, I soon
found myself scanning with curious interest the placid
landscape on which we were entering.

Our great state, now so thickly peopled, had then, save
here and there, only widely scattered inhabitants.  Its forests
and prairies were still undisturbed, save by the birds and wild
animals that sought in their vast solitudes the security and
food they craved.  Of highways there were scarce any, and
these as nature had left them, except at some impassable
place where neglect would have barred the way.  The streams,
quiet and uneventful, pursued their noiseless way across the
level plains, amid flower-strewn banks, unvexed by obstructions
of any kind, save, perhaps, at points far removed on the
great rivers, where primitive ferries added to rather than
lessened the solitude of the gentle landscape.

In this way Nature's aptitude for grouping the beauties of
her abundant harvest found material with which to work her
will unvexed by man.  The great prairies, looped together or
apart, formed natural parks, interspersed throughout their
length and breadth with quiet lakes and still-running streams,
the whole fringed about with slumbering forests filled to the
edge with every kind of foliage that could attract the eye or
engage the mind.  This grouping of forest and lawn, separate
yet forever together, blending and scintillating in the
sweet air, filled the heart of the traveler with the peace and
restfulness that only the quiet of the country can afford.
Man's presence here, I thought, as I looked forward on the
road which scarred the face of the grassy plain as if cut with
a whip, can only disfigure, not help it in any way.

Such was the prospect, but of its beauty I was only partly
conscious.  This is not strange, though no more so in the
case of the young than of those of mature age.  For the
infinite is ever beyond us, no matter when or how presented.
We can, at best, only understand the small things of life, the
make-believes of the world.  The petty park, the trick of
some cunning landscape gardener, elicits our admiration and
unstinted praise, and this properly; but the wide expanses of
Nature, in which beauty blends in every line and shadow, pass
by us unnoticed, or at most with only feeble comprehension.
Their symphonies are beyond us, or at best, find only a faint
echo in our hearts.

In this manner, and only half-conscious of what I saw, we
pursued our way; but in excuse I may say one must share
in the quietude of Nature to be able to drink in her beauties
to the full.  This I could not do—my awakening had been too
rude; nor was our vehicle one to invite comfort or reflection.
Hard usage had long since dulled its springs, and its narrow
seats suggested poverty of material rather than desire to put
one at his ease.  Public need, however, it was apparent, could
afford nothing better, and so the traveler was fain to be
content, and was.  Of paint or ornamentation it had none, and
the horses, dulled out of all semblance of animation, dragged
us forward in sullen discontent.  In front, beside the driver,
a mail-pouch lay, and in the body of the vehicle two seats
faced each other, and behind these a rack for baggage.
Above our heads a coarse canvas was upheld by rude supports,
and at the sides soiled and tattered curtains flapped uneasily
in the morning air.  The vehicle, however rude, was thought
to denote some attempt at splendor, and never failed to call
the more curious to the roadsides as it went back and forth
across the country.

Such were the surroundings, you must know, under which
I set out that sunny morning in May, 1838, to take my first
step in the serious affairs of life.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE UNKNOWN PASSENGER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE UNKNOWN PASSENGER

.. vspace:: 2

For a long time we rode on in silence, Uncle Job sitting
back in the corner of the stage, busy with the sad thoughts
that darkened his fine face.  Perhaps he might have spoken
some word had we been alone, but there was another passenger,
in the person of a tall gentleman with melancholy visage,
who sat beside him wrapped in a great military cloak, as the
fashion was at that time.  Whether he came from Little Sandy
or beyond I did not know, for we found him thus and asleep
when we got into the stage.  Nor did he arouse himself till
the sun was well up and the air full of warmth and the
perfume of the prairie.  Then he stirred uneasily, and finally,
after a prodigious yawn that cracked his jaws and caused his
face to open up cavernous depths one would not have thought
possible in any man, he opened his eyes and looked about.
Amid such struggles, I idly speculated, man must first have
awakened to life; and pleased at the conceit, I stared at him
the harder, looking point-blank into his worn face as if some
secret lay hidden there, though I knew that only impertinence
prompted my rude behavior.

Of all situations in life there is no such place in the world
for studying mankind or spying out their secrets as the
old-fashioned stagecoach.  Of escape to the modest and shrinking
there is none, and of concealment not so much as a wink.
Here all alike yield up their treasures, however loth.  A
gimlet could not more surely penetrate the heart than the cold,
unfriendly eyes that peer into yours scarce a yard away.  Old
people of discretion and some pretense of manners may put
a limit to their curiosity, but the young none whatever.  Thus
I sat watching our fellow-traveler, noting the processes of his
awakening, and wondering what kind of a man he would turn
out to be—merchant, or preacher, or boor, or all in one.  For
youth is ever thus inquisitive, and more often than otherwise
at the expense of good manners, as in my case; but it is upon
such small things, it may be said in excuse, that the mind is
constructed and some knowledge of men and affairs finally
attained.

When the gentleman at last awoke, he after a while took
notice of my fixed attention, but not unkindly.  Stroking the
beard that covered his lower face, and seeing only an
inquisitive youth, he opened his eyes to the full and smiled
down on me with kind benignancy.  This smile so instantly
transformed the man, brightening his face and lighting up the
depths of his eyes, that I stirred uneasily, as if by some
imperceptible movement he had taken the place of the one I had
been watching: and this was true; for when the smile died
away, the other man—and it was another man—with the worn
face and inscrutable eyes straightway reappeared.  This other
man, homely in looks, neither invited nor repelled confidence,
but his face had about it something I had never seen before
and shall never see again.  Youthful, it had an air of
immeasurable age and sphinx-like silence and mystery, the face of
a man still young, but without mirth or hopefulness.  Of its
melancholy there was no fathoming the depth or cause.
Worn and seamed, shadows filled its cavities and lingered
about its shrunken surfaces, giving it an air of weariness one
never sees except in the faces of those who have suffered
much.  Its expression was as of a man who looked at you
from out his grave, but not forbiddingly.  Rather as if seeing
nothing in the surroundings he craved, or that could by any
possibility satisfy his longings.  Such, too, was the man as I
afterward came to know him, and as all the world finally knew
him.  For through the cracked and shrunken surfaces of his
face a great soul looked out, but a face wherein expectation
was lost in disappointment and dreary waiting.  Seen in the
shadows of the stage, its angularities and deep-sunken eyes
saddened the beholder as might the wailing of the wind on an
autumn day; and this, it was apparent, would ever form its
fixed expression, no matter what fortune might come to
brighten the life of its possessor.

His hands, great like his body, lay limp before him, and
in their huge proportions bore evidence of the usage such
hands are put to in a new country when poverty leads the way.
Observing them, my eyes again sought his face to determine,
if I might, what manner of man he was, but to this scrutiny
his eyes returned no answer.  They were, as I have said, as
if belonging to a dead man, or one feigning to be dead, yet
having in their hidden depths a spark of life that might need
only occasion to cause them to burn with indignation or warm
with love.  Above the veiled face that might hide an emperor's
front or only plodding vacuity there rose a towering head,
disfigured but not hidden by the hair that clung about it, as
if filled with tears or winter's rain.  Seeing, and not seeing,
I sat, absorbed and staring, yet not forgetting his greeting
and the sudden change that followed.  Surely a man must be
something out of the common, I idly reasoned, to have one
moment the mien of a god and the next to shrink to nothing.
Such change, I dimly saw, as it is sometimes given the young
to see, could not be natural, but had its origin in some misery
of life that led its possessor to seek rest and opportunity in
evasion, or else had changed the man from what he was at first.
Every part of this singular being corresponded to his face, so
that no loophole was left by which to come at his real presence.
Thus balked, my mind filled with romantic imaginings concerning
him as he had stood revealed by his benign salutation,
and I saw—though only as a youth might see such things and
ponder them—that the face was one that in its processes could
at will still the minds of men or cause them to follow its
possessor, if profit in trade or other motive called forth its hidden
power; a face that at the fireside or in the turmoil of politics,
if its owner were that way inclined, would win and retain the
love of those about him; a face so hidden or so open in its
candor that no one would think otherwise than that its every
thought stood revealed.  A noble face, and without wrong,
but concealing in its depths, as I afterward came to know,
ambitions so boundless and hopes so great that the means
necessary to attain their ends in this undeveloped country
appeared so commonplace and vulgar that every instinct of
the man's aspiring soul revolted at the disgusting sacrifice.
Such, truly, was the inward nature of the then unknown man
who sat silently facing me as we went forward in the warmth
of that far-off day.  Not all that I have said, indeed, came
to me as I sat staring, but something akin to it, afterward to
find more mature expression as I grew to man's estate.

While thus watching and dreaming, I became conscious,
in turn, of his fixed attention.  Not, indeed, as if he saw me,
but as if studying some natural object, as if wondering within
himself whether the thing he looked at was of vegetable or
animal growth—a cabbage, perhaps, or a man just sprouting.
Observing his look, I dropped my eyes and turned away, and
seeing this, he relaxed his gaze, and reaching forward laid his
great hand on mine, saying:

"Well, my young friend, why do you turn away?  Never
did I see a look more steadfast or prolonged."

"I hope you'll excuse me, sir," I answered, ashamed and
blushing.

"There is nothing to excuse; but did my face interest you
because it is homely, or was there something else you saw
there besides plainness?  Come, tell me!  First, though, let us
be friends"; and clasping my hands in his, the God-like smile
again lighted up his face, driving the dark shadows before it
as the summer wind drives the black clouds across a lowering
sky.  "If I had a son, I should like him to be something like
you in complexion and build; so come now, tell me of what
you were thinking."

His voice—and this I noticed—seemed not to have any
beginning or ending, but fell on the morning air like a chime
of bells heard afar off through the silent woods, so sweet and
soft it was.  Nor could I feel embarrassment in his presence
once he had spoken, but rather as if contact with him had in
some way made me more worthy of regard.  Because of this
I responded freely enough to what he said, answering:

"I was wondering, sir, how it came that you have two faces,
if you will excuse me."

At this he smiled, as if not displeased at my reply, answering:

"Have I two faces, do you think?"

"Yes, sir; or so it seemed to me."

"Well, perhaps I have; and what would you say if I told
you one was my business face and the other one I keep for
my own entertainment?"

"I would think it strange, sir," I answered.

"Would it be?" he replied, pleasantly.  "People, you
know, who are on the lookout for custom strive to present as
smart an appearance as possible.  Most of the goods merchants
keep they expect to sell, but there are articles in every
stock for which there is little or no demand or profit in the
handling.  These the merchant keeps to gratify his pride of
proprietorship.  Perhaps I have such a weakness, but with
which face do you think I seek preferment, my son?"

"Surely that which people like best; but why doesn't that
please you, too?" I answered, led on by his engaging manner.

"Perhaps because I must use it of necessity," he replied,
reflectively, and as if answering some serious question.
"Maybe it is love of contrast, or perhaps the natural recoil of
the mind.  We love the blue sky the more because it is often
overcast, and in turn the clouds and the storm are welcome
after days of sunshine; so it is with men.  Sometimes the
contrasts are natural, and perhaps they are in my case; but how
happens it, my young friend," he went on in his kindly way,
"that so young and slight a lad as you should be alone and so
early on the road?"

"I beg your pardon," Uncle Job here broke in; "he is my
ward, and traveling with me, if you please.  I have been so
wrapped up in my thoughts that I had quite forgotten where
I was, and am much obliged to you for recalling me to
myself, and for your kind notice of my nephew."  This was
a very long speech for Uncle Job to make to a stranger,
but being a man much given to regard the little politenesses
of life, he saw in the speech and kind attention of our
companion his gentleness of heart, and seeing it, was attracted to
him, as men ever are toward one another.  "We are very
happy, sir," he went on, "in having the pleasure of your
company on our journey, if you will permit me to say so."

"Thank you.  The society of agreeable people who want
nothing, the politicians say, is a thing to prize; and as we are
likely to be long on the road, I must consider myself fortunate
in your company and that of your nephew," he answered, with
grave politeness.

"Companionship is doubly agreeable traveling these lonesome
stretches of country, and my nephew and I are glad
indeed of yours," Uncle Job went on, as if to draw the other
out.

"You are very kind, sir.  Company is valuable in many
ways," the gentleman answered, and not altogether, I thought,
as if talking to us.  "If good, we approve and pattern after
it; if bad, the discomfort we suffer strengthens our better
impulses.  Much solitude, however, is necessary to man's
health.  It is no idle saying that 'Silence is golden,' for it is
in such intervals of rest that the mind is fertilized and
strengthened, spreading out and grasping the mysteries and common
affairs of life, just as the roots of a tree seek nourishment
and added hold in darkness and solitude.  Thus only are they
able to sustain the great height and luxuriant foliage the
world admires.  The steer that is watched, to use a homely
illustration, never lives to carry its meat to market, and the
child that is too much petted dies young or lives an invalid.
So men who talk too much have nothing for the mind to feed
upon, if indeed they have any mind at all; while those who
divide their time more profitably are enabled by their wisdom
and foresight to untangle the web in which those less wise
become entangled."

In this way, the ice being broken, our companion entertained
us as the hours passed.  Of all subjects, however, he
seemed to like best those relating to government, and Uncle
Job, while having little knowledge of such matters, had yet
a patriotic interest; and so the conversation of our companion
was not allowed to lag, as we journeyed on, for want of
an attentive and appreciative listener.





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.. _`THE PLACE OF REFUGE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PLACE OF REFUGE

.. vspace:: 2

The undulations of the great prairie we were traversing
added to its beauty without in any way restricting the distant
view, but late in the forenoon there loomed before us an
elevation higher than the others and so noticeable as to attract
and hold attention.  Our companion, indeed, watched it
intently from the moment it came into view, and this without
speaking or motion of any kind, as if he were enraptured with
the view, or saw something not perceptible to Uncle Job or
myself.  When we at last reached its base, he called to the
driver to stop, and excusing himself, got down and made his
way to the top of the hill, and reaching its summit, stopped
and gazed about him and then upward, as if offering a prayer.
Remaining thus for some time, his tall figure outlined against
the distant sky, he at last turned and slowly retraced his
steps, taking his seat in the stage without speaking.  Whether
oppressed by his thoughts or interrogating our silence, I know
not, but after a while he turned to Uncle Job, as if in apology
or explanation, and said:

"You wonder, perhaps, at what I did, but the hill is a
sacred spot to me because of the recollections that cluster
about it and the memory of a dear friend that is gone."

"Indeed!" Uncle Job replied, sympathetically; "what you
say interests me greatly."

"Yes," our companion went on in a melancholy voice;
"and except for his courage and knowledge of the prairie,
I should have suffered a cruel death near the spot where we
now are."

Saying which he relapsed into silence again, and Uncle
Job, who was never curious about other people's affairs, or
bashful about expressing it if he was—which latter is perhaps
the more probable of the two—made no further comment, but
sat still, gazing stolidly before him.  I, not having any
modesty, and being stirred by what the stranger said, could not
restrain my curiosity, and so spoke up:

"Please, sir, tell us about it, if you will."

At this he smiled, and after a moment's reflection, answered:

"Certainly, if you would like to hear it."

"I should, very much," I replied; whereupon he turned
to Uncle Job, as if to ask his consent, upon which the latter
responded, with great heartiness:

"It would be a pleasure indeed to hear the story, if it is
agreeable to you to tell it."

"There is not much to tell, and of little account to any one
now save myself," the gentleman responded, the shadow
deepening in his face as he spoke.  "It was a new experience
to me, however, though not uncommon then or now in our
young state.  It happened several years ago, when I had occasion,
late in the fall, to cross the prairie we are now traversing.
Fortunately, as it turned out, I fell in with the friend
I speak of, and so was not alone, else I would not be alive to
tell it.  The night came on cold and cloudy, the wind, which had
been strong during the day, increasing almost to a hurricane
as the evening advanced.  Being well mounted, however, we
pushed on, anxious to reach our destination and scarce
speaking a word.  As we approached the hill we have just passed
a rim of light, no wider than your finger, attracted my attention
on the edge of the horizon.  At first I gave it no thought,
attributing it to some atmospheric disturbance; but upon its
spreading and increasing in brightness, I turned to my
companion to see if he regarded it as important.  He, however,
was fast asleep, sitting deep in his saddle with his head buried
in his greatcoat, and this though we were riding at full speed.
Loth to wake him, I said nothing for a while, but the light
increasing and our horses showing signs of uneasiness, I took
hold of his arm and spoke to him.  At this he straightened
up, snatching a pistol from his belt with the motion as if
attacked.  In a moment, however, he was wide-awake, and
no sooner did his eyes rest on the lighted horizon than to my
surprise he pulled his horse back on its haunches, stopping
abruptly as if turned to stone.  Gazing anxiously for a
moment, he exclaimed, but as if unconscious of my presence:

"'My God! the prairie's on fire.'

"The fear his voice evinced alarmed me; but as the light
was many miles away, I could not see that we were in any
danger, and so expressed myself.

"'Not in danger!' he answered, absently; 'in a quarter of
an hour the fire will have passed miles beyond where we are!'

"Even while we waited, the sky reddened and the circle of
light grew longer and wider, extending now in both directions
as far as the eye could reach.  Still it seemed so remote that
I could not make myself believe there was any danger.  Not
so my companion, who sat still, scanning the country about
us, now beginning to grow red with the coming conflagration.
Looking this way and that, his eyes at last rested on the hill
we have passed, and seeing it he put spurs to his horse,
crying:

"'Quick! quick!  We may still be in time!'

"Spurring to his side, I called out, 'If there is danger,
why not turn back!'

"'It is too late,' he answered, his voice drowned in the
hoofbeats of our horses and the rush of the wind as it swept
across the wide expanse.

"'There is still time to reach the forest,' I cried, following
on, distrustful of his action.

"'No; in ten minutes it will be here, and then the Lord
save us!'

"'If that is so, why go forward?' I persisted, as we went
on at top speed, full in the face of the advancing fire.

"To this he made no response, but pointed upward to the
hill we were passing, as if in some way our hope of safety lay
there.  When we had circled its base and reached the farther
side, and that nearest the fire, he threw himself from his
saddle, and in a voice so loud and fierce that it sounded high and
clear above the shrieking wind, cried:

"'Blindfold and hobble the horses, and for God's sake
don't lose time!'

"Saying which, he took from his saddlebags an old-fashioned
pistol, and slipping the flint from out its socket, threw
himself on the ground, and with its aid and the steel of his
weapon sought to ignite the dry grass which covered the plain.
Succeeding after a while, he gave a shout, as one might when
saved from death, and springing to his feet, gathered a wisp
of grass, and igniting it, trailed the flame along the base of
the hill, first one way and then the other.  In a moment the
fierce wind catching the fire whipped it forward and upward,
so that while my task was yet half done the flames had swept
the sides of the height, and covering it, passed on.  Following
in a few minutes, we reached the summit, suffering little
harm from the smoking and blistered earth.  Arriving there,
we were none too soon, for now the fire, that a little while
before seemed so far away, reached us with leaps and bounds
and such deafening roar that had we not restrained our horses
we could by no means have kept them under control, so great
was their terror.  Reaching the edge of the burnt ground on
which we stood, the flames leaped high in the air, as if striving
to reach the spot whereon we stood, and this again and again,
but after a while dying down without doing us any harm whatever.

"As the fire approached, it did not follow any given line,
as one would think, but was caught up by the strong wind
and thrown forward, and this in such quick succession that
the whole plain seemed to take fire at once.  It was in some
respects like what one may see on the water when a hurricane,
sweeping the tops of the rolling waves, carries them upward
and forward, to let them drop finally like a deluge of falling
rain.  So the flames which we stood watching were continually
lifted and carried forward by great leaps and bounds, and
with such speed that the eye could only faintly trace their
progress.  At times, indeed, the earth itself seemed to be
aflame, and all things about to perish, so fierce and
all-pervading was the heat.

"As the fire came on a curious thing happened, for from
out the tall grass about the base of the black hill whereon we
stood the wild animals that live in the plain, with lolling
tongues and bloodshot eyes, burst into the open, and seeing
us, mounted to the summit, and crouched at our feet,
trembling and panting, as domestic animals might have done, all
their wildness clean gone out of them.  At last, as the grass
about us ignited, a fawn ran into the opening, but only to fall
exhausted on its very edge.  Seeing this, my companion ran
to where it was, and taking the animal in his arms, brought
it safely to the top.  Afterward, not less curiously, when the
fire had passed and we began to stir about, all the animals
took fright and fled, their fear of man returning as if by one
accord once the danger was gone.

"Thus we were saved, and in the manner I have described.
When the fire had died down, and there was no longer any
danger, I sought to express my thanks and admiration for my
companion's coolness and bravery.  He, however, as if thinking
lightly of what had happened, was already preparing the
horses for our departure, and with such expedition that ere
I had recovered myself they were in readiness for us to mount.
Springing into the saddle as if urged to haste by some motive
unknown to me, he cried aloud:

"'Come, quick! the danger is past; I must be off!'

"Mounting my horse without response, we took our way
down the side of the hill, and reaching its base, he stopped
abruptly, saying:

"'I can't go on with you, but must hasten across the
country to my home.  My wife will have seen the fire and be
crazed with fear until she knows I am safe; but if you would
like,' he went on, seeing the look of distress in my face,
'I should be glad to have you go with me.  It will not be
much out of your way, and you can ride into town in the
morning if you wish.'

"To this I answered that I should be only too glad to do
as he said.  'But how,' I asked, 'can we find our way across
the country on such a night, with every landmark gone?'

"'I know the direction, and my horse will take me home
without bridle or spur or swerving an inch from the true
course.'

"'Go on, then,' I answered, and without saying more we
started; and after an hour's ride across the black expanse at
a pace I thought only a madman would dare, we reached his
home in safety, where we found his wife, as he had thought,
prostrate and in tears.  Our welcome was such as seldom falls
to the lot of men in this world, though Mr. Holmes strove to
make light of the risk we had run.  She knew better, however,
and so what he said did not lessen the shock; and at supper,
which was soon spread, she ate nothing, but sat idly by, never
taking her eyes off his face.  Nor did he succeed in calming
her during the evening that followed, though she said little
or nothing.  Thus we escaped, and alas! brave man, only
that you should afterward be overtaken by a fate scarcely less
cruel!"

Here our companion brought his story to an end, and leaning
forward rested his face in his hands, as if consumed by
the sad thoughts the recollection called forth.  Waiting
a while, Uncle Job spoke up, but with voice so low and
broken as to be scarce audible:

"You used a name just now that is dear to us beyond
speaking.  Perhaps you remember Mr. Holmes' other name?"

"Yes, Charles; and his wife's name was Margaret," he
answered without moving.

Hearing this, Uncle Job turned toward me and held up his
hand as if in warning, but I overcome by what I had heard,
burst into a paroxysm of tears, crying out:

"Father!  Mother!"

At this outburst our companion raised his head, his look
of melancholy giving place to one of surprise.  Thus he
continued to regard me for some time, until at last, understanding
the meaning of what I said, he reached forward in tender
pity, and lifting me up pressed me against his heart.  Releasing
me after a while, he took my hand, and leaning forward,
looked in my face as one might gaze into the face of a friend
long mourned as lost.

"Yes, the same; his mother's face and eyes, and something
of his father's look, too," he murmured, as if talking to
himself.  "How strange that in the shadow of this hill
I should meet their child.  Gone; I thought never to see
them again, but here they look out on me as before."

Overcome, I made no answer, and thus we went on in
silence until our little party having in some measure regained
its former composure, the gentleman, taking my hand, spoke
up again:

"Tell me, my son, where you live, your home, if you do
not mind."

"I'm going to live with Uncle Job," I answered; "but
where, I do not know."

"I asked, thinking some time to be of service to you.
Who knows: It would not be more strange than our meeting
here; but this I want to ask of you, my child, that you will
treasure the thought that I want to serve you: and that you
may always know where I am and how to reach me, take
this," and tearing a leaf from a worn book he took from his
pocket, he wrote thereon his name and handed it to me; and
I looking, read:

.. _`\A. Lincoln, Springfield, Ills`:

.. figure:: images/img-091.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A. Lincoln, Springfield, Ills

   \A. Lincoln, Springfield, Ills

This precious paper I still have and treasure, and shall
transmit to my children, as one might the relic of a saint or
the memory of an event in which love mingles and grows
stronger with the lapse of time.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

NOTE.—Mr. Lincoln at the time of which
Gilbert Holmes speaks
was in his twenty-ninth year,
but already bore in his drawn face the look
of melancholy habitual to it in later life.
This, as if forecasting in some
way the doom that was finally to overtake
him in the height of his career;
but not, indeed, until his task was done
and his country saved through
his great wisdom and patriotic effort.—THE AUTHOR.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HIGHWAYMAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HIGHWAYMAN

.. vspace:: 2

When the day was half gone, and we were worn with
fatigue and hunger, we reached the edge of the forest toward
which we had been tending since early morning.  Here in its
shadows we came upon a lonely tavern, where we found
dinner and a change of horses.  Here, too, the mailbag was
brought forth for the first time, and its contents scanned by
our host of the "White Cow"—for such was the name of the
hostelry—but unavailingly, for of letters or other matter
concerning him there was not a scrap.  Our dinner, which was
quickly served, was simple in the extreme, but greatly to our
liking, consisting of cornbread and hulled corn, with pork
and hot coffee for relishes; and then, to top all, and in the
way of dessert, wild strawberries, with cream from the White
Cow's own dairy.

When we were ready to depart the stage was brought to
the door, and taking our places, we bade our host adieu,
greatly refreshed in body and mind by our short stop.  The
way lay through the deep forest, and our progress, before
slow, now became still more deliberate, for there was scarce
more than a path, and across this the rank shrubbery
stretched its luxuriant branches as if to further bar the way.
Moreover, the road, softened by late rains, was in many places
impassable, so that we often found it necessary to alight in
order to lessen the load.  Nor was this sufficient in many
cases, but in such emergencies the great strength of Mr. Lincoln
answered us in good stead, being enough in itself to lift
the vehicle from the mire and place it on firm ground.  In
this way our stoppages were so frequent that we ceased to
give them any attention; so that finally, when we came to an
abrupt halt on emerging from a small stream, we thought
nothing of it until a man, springing from behind the
overhanging trees, called out:

"Halt!  Throw up your hands!"

Not waiting a response, he came forward with resolute
step, covering the occupants of the stage with the weapons
he carried.  Scarce had the summons been made, however,
than Mr. Lincoln, with a quick movement, thrust a pistol
forward and fired.  Missing his mark, the shot did not stay the
robber, for now, coming on with longer strides, he thrust his
pistols into the stage, crying out:

"Throw up you hands, or, by heavens, I'll blow your heads off!"

At this, seeing further resistance useless, Mr. Lincoln and
Uncle Job did as they were told.

"There! that's more polite.  God Almighty, what an ugly
shot, though!" the highwayman exclaimed, and in proof of it
held up his arm, showing the sleeve of his coat half blown
away.  "Most men would fire back, my friend, but I am more
considerate, you see, though it's not nice to welcome a man
who seeks agreeable company in so rude a fashion.  There! you
need not excuse yourselves," he went on, in a whimsical,
good-natured way; "but get down, and lest you pinch your
fingers, keep your hands in the air meanwhile.  There! like
that; thanks!"  Saying which he moved back so as to let us
alight, but keeping his pistols all the while pointed in our
direction.  When I got down, which I did with all haste, he
laughed aloud, as he did at Uncle Job; but when Mr. Lincoln
bent forward to follow, the robber, scanning his face, gave
a start of surprise, and lowering his weapons, cried out, as if
astonished beyond measure at what he saw:

"Great God!  Mr. Lincoln!"

Hearing his name thus called, Mr. Lincoln sat still,
scrutinizing the robber, as if trying to recall his face.

"Good Lord!" the highwayman went on, after a moment's
pause, "who would have thought to run across you here!  And
to think I might have killed you, of all men.  Do not get
down, Mr. Lincoln, but let me, and in that way ask your
forgiveness, and on my knees."  Saying which, and without
more ado, the bandit dropped down in the road in the
most ludicrous way possible, looking for all the world as if he
wished he were dead, so forlorn was his aspect.  To all this
Mr. Lincoln made no response, but sat gazing upon the other
with darkened brow in which anger and surprise were mingled.
At last, raising his hand to still the other, he said, in his slow,
measured way:

"What is the meaning of all this nonsense, man—if indeed
you are not mad or acting a part?"

At this the robber, still kneeling, removed his hat, which
before partly hid his face, and doing so, displayed a countenance
singularly handsome and free from look of evil or dissipation
of any kind.  Seeing him thus more clearly, Mr. Lincoln
exclaimed, in a voice full of astonishment and anger:

"Fox, the highwayman!"

"Yes, Fox; the scoundrel you saved from the gallows,
only to risk your own life to-day."

"If not me, some one else," Mr. Lincoln answered; "for
if you would rob and, if need be, murder a stranger, you
would not long respect a friend; but men like you have no
friends."

"No, nor deserve any, and I wish you had killed me;
I would like to have died that way," the robber answered,
averting his face and rising to his feet.

"I only sought to cripple your arm, as your torn sleeve
shows," Mr. Lincoln answered, looking him over.

"That was like you, but I did not deserve it, nor was
it a mercy to me."

"No, but I do not wish your blood on my hands.  You are
not to die that way, but by the hangman, Fox," Mr. Lincoln
answered, soberly.

"No, no, not that!" the other cried.  "I am not so bad
as to deserve such a death, for I have never killed any one,
and did not intend injury to you, though you will not believe
it, and ought not to."

"It is not likely; but tell me how long you have been following
this kind of a life," Mr. Lincoln asked, after a pause.

"I have not followed it at all, or only since yesterday."

"You are not telling the truth; but how could you take to
the road again after the promises you made me?" Mr. Lincoln
inquired, with a mournful cadence in his voice.

"Oh! you think I have always been a highwayman, and
lied to you?" Fox cried out at this in a pitiful way.

"Certainly; or how does it happen you are here?" Mr. Lincoln
asked, his voice filled with distress at the imposition
that had been practiced upon him.

"It was exactly as I told you at the time, neither more
nor less, though every appearance is now dead against me,
I know," Fox answered, appealingly.

"I have forgotten the particulars, or remember them only
vaguely.  Tell them to me again, and quickly; and speak the
truth as you hope to be saved," Mr. Lincoln interrupted.

"I will, but I can't speak more truly than I did before.
I was in bad company, and that was all, as I told you at the
time; but that was enough to undo me.  A little while before
you came across me in the hands of the farmers I had been
sick and unfortunate.  Traveling across the country, I fell ill
of a fever at a farmhouse where I chanced to stop for the
night; and here I remained for many weeks, while the man
and his wife, themselves far from well, nursed me back to
life.  When strong enough to go on I had nothing save my
horse with which to pay them for their kindness.  This I left,
though they would have prevented it if they could.  Going
forward on foot, and greatly enfeebled, I fell in after a while
with a man leading an extra horse.  Whether out of kindness
because of my forlorn condition or for some other reason
I know not, he asked me to make use of the spare animal.
This I did, thanking him for his kindness; but when we had
gone a little way on the road, and I was congratulating myself
on my good fortune, I observed men following us, and as soon
as they were within hearing they called to us to stop.  Upon
this I turned about, but my companion, going to one side,
entered the forest which here grew near the road.  Of this
I thought nothing, but when the party, coming up, accused
me of stealing the horse upon which I was mounted, I looked
around for my companion to confirm my innocence, only to
find he had disappeared.  They laughed at my explanation,
and would have hung me had you not come up, and by entreaty
and promises to see that justice was done, prevailed upon
them to put me in jail.  For you know how it is in this
disordered country; a man may rob another of his purse, and
even take life, and still have the benefit of a doubt, but to
have stolen a horse means death, with no trial save by men
in the heat of passion."

"That is the story I remember you told me at the time;
but what did you do afterward, and why have you turned
highwayman if you were honest before?" Mr. Lincoln
interrupted, his voice wavering between distrust and pity.

"When I was set free every one thought me guilty, nor
would they believe otherwise, saying I got off because the
jury was influenced by your belief that I was innocent, and
that it was your plea that saved me, and nothing else.  When
finally no one would give me work and I was warned to leave
the country, I turned to the road for a living, and poor it is,
for save a worthless watch I have nothing for my pains."

Here the poor robber, as if realizing anew his forlorn
condition, fell to crying as if his heart was broken.  At this we
were all greatly moved, so distressing was the sight, and from
disbelief were every one of us led to think he spoke the truth,
and in all things had been much abused by the community.
For a long time nothing was said, until at last, turning to the
robber, Mr. Lincoln exclaimed:

"Well, Fox, I am led to believe you again, though your
presence here confirms all the things said of you before.
Surely with your talents you ought to be able to do something
better than this."

"Let me have a chance, Mr. Lincoln, for there never lived
a man less inclined to lead such a life; but my good name
is gone, and I dare not show my face among honest men.
Of all the wrongdoing laid at my door this is the beginning
and end," he exclaimed, drawing from his pocket a silver
watch scarce worth the carrying, and handing it to Mr. Lincoln.
"A few hours ago, coming upon an old man, this was
all he had, and so sorrowful was his tale that in pity I was led
to give him the few pieces of silver I had in exchange.  Nor
would I have taken the watch, only that I could not see how
I was to succeed as a highwayman if I let the first man I met
escape me."

"I am afraid you would make a poor robber, Fox," Mr. Lincoln
answered; "and if you are still inclined to live an
honest life, I will help you to start anew.  Our new country
is full of such breakdowns, and happy the men who can and
will retrieve them."

Saying which, Mr. Lincoln, reaching out his hand, grasped
that of Fox, and with such fervor and good will that should
I live a thousand years I could not forget the action, nor how
it thrilled me.  At this tears welled up afresh in the forlorn
eyes of the poor wretch, and reaching forward he would have
embraced Mr. Lincoln's knees but the latter, lifting him up,
exclaimed:

"There, mount and follow us, or tie your horse behind and
get into the stage if you would like that better.  No one here
will speak of what has happened," he added, looking at each
of us in turn to confirm his words.  To this appeal we
answered with our eyes, for we were all filled with the
greatest pity.

"You are capable of great things, Fox," Mr. Lincoln went
on, "and hereafter you shall look to me till you get on your
feet again, which will not be long," he added, as if to
encourage him.  Upon this, Fox, without saying more, mounted his
horse and fell in behind the stage, where he rode on in silence
the rest of the afternoon.

No word was spoken after we took our seats, and so it came
about that I found myself again peering into the face of the
man before me, who had shown, by turns, such courage and
trusting faith and womanly tenderness.  It was less perplexing
to me now, and in its sad expression I read, as a child might,
the story of his life and its hardships; hardships patiently
endured, and that would forever make its owner tender to all
who were afflicted or in distress; a face shadowing forth
a thousand miseries, and that in youth had looked out on
a barren prospect from a body overworked and poorly
nourished; a face that hid itself behind eyes weary with
disappointment and vain striving; a face to invite confidence and
hold it forevermore; a face full of expediency, and that would
have been commanding and self-assertive had it not been
softened by long waiting upon the pleasure of others; a face
truly great, but having in its texture other and lesser strains
such as all men's have, the kingly line, not less than the
peasant's; a face in which greatness dominated all others, but
sensitive withal, and scarce fitted to endure the buffetings of
unthinking boors who, to be made useful, must be smoothed
into good-natured complaisance.  Yet such tasks its owner
set about, and succeeding, suffered naught save martyrdom,
of which mankind will forever reap the fruits.  Of my scrutiny
Mr. Lincoln took no further notice, but shrank back again
within himself, as if he would hide from every one what he
was or sought to be.  Inscrutable man!  How truly great,
and yet how truly tender and honest of heart!  Surely such
combination ne'er found lodgement in man before, nor will
again until suffering and ambition blend strains as widely
divergent.

Thus the afternoon passed until the sun was setting, when
we stopped at a wayside tavern for supper and a change of
horses.  Here Mr. Lincoln arranged for Fox to stay until his
return, some days later.  As for the latter, he could not be
moved to take his eyes off his benefactor, but sat as if
entranced, and when we drove away, watched us from the
road until our lamps were lost in the depths of the
surrounding forest.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CONSTABLE BLOTT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center medium bold

   CONSTABLE BLOTT

.. vspace:: 2

Nothing further occurred to disturb the monotony of our
journey until we neared its end, on the afternoon of the third
day, when I was thrown into a fever of excitement by the
strange actions of a man of savage aspect who overtook us as
we were slowly making our way.  Pistols protruded from his
belt, and as he passed he slackened his pace, and thrusting his
lean face into the stage, gazed about with such fierce assertiveness
that I threw up my hands, expecting we should surely be
called upon to halt; but after eying us attentively, and me
most of all, he straightened up, and putting spurs to his horse,
was soon lost in the distance.  Before this, however, at every
stop, no matter what the cause, I fell back in my seat, scarce
able to breathe, thinking to hear the report of a pistol and
an order to halt, so greatly had the adventure with Fox upset
my nerves.  Nothing of the kind occurring, my peace of
mind returned at last, so that I was able to pursue the
journey with some comfort, until, as I say, the savage little
man with the beaked nose and fierce eyes stirred my blood
afresh.

In this way our long ride came to an end on the third day,
when we alighted, none the worse for our journey, in the little
town of Quincy.  Scarce looking to the right or left, we
hurried to the river to take the boat which lay tied to the shore,
with steam up.  As I followed on, however, wide-eyed, I was
thrown into a tremor of fright by the sight of the savage
little man who had passed us on the road, who now stood as
if awaiting our coming.  With him there was another man
of great stature, but harmless-looking, with flabby cheeks
and bloated hands that seemed about to burst or drop to the
ground, so limp and dangling did they appear.  This man had
on some badge of office, but loosely, and not as if it gave him
honor or in any way added to his dignity.  Between the two,
the man of huge frame and the pigmy by his side, there was
such contrast that for the moment I forgot my fears in
staring open-mouthed.  Surely nothing more remarkable was
ever seen before.  The weazened, parched-faced, pugnacious
little man, frail of body, and with legs no bigger than mopsticks,
and chest as flat as a pieplate, stood erect and eager-eyed,
with the spring of a panther, though long past the prime
and vigor of life; while the other, scarce thirty years of age,
was shambling and heavy on his feet, and had about his
sunken eyes and spongy features the marks of a man fast falling
to decay.  The first, any one could see, was filled to the
ends of his nails with love of life, and so had studied how to
prolong it; but his companion, not regarding such things,
except as abstractions not needful for him to consider with his
huge frame and stanch stomach, was broken and winded long
before his time.

As I came up, eying them and wondering, the little man
turned to his companion, and pointing to me called in a voice
I could plainly hear:

"That is the lad we are after, Blott.  Lay hold of him,
and see that he doesn't get away."

Upon this the latter, winking heavily, as if to collect his
wits, came forward, and laying his hand on my arm, said:

"Hold on, my lad, I want you."

"What for?" I asked, staring at him.

"For company mebbe, and mebbe because I've a summons
for you," he answered, good-naturedly.

"A summons!  What's that?" I asked, confused, not
understanding fully what he meant.

"It's the beginnin' of trouble for you, I'm afeered; but
what's the world comin' to, Pickle.  Don't children learn
nothin' nowdays, not to know what a summons is?"

"Never mind that," the savage little man exclaimed; "but
tell him and march along."

"Well, sonny, it's an order to take you to court," the
other answered, placidly.

"To court!" I exclaimed, striving to free myself.

"To the justice's office, innocent.  Where else could it
be?" he answered, taking a firmer hold of my jacket.

"Why?  I've done nothing, for we have just got here," I
answered, still attempting to get away.

"Mebbe, but don't ask me, for blister my nose if I know;
but quit wrigglin'; you're harder to hold than an eel."

"Well, I'm not going to any justice's office," I answered,
slipping out of my jacket and starting to run.

"Hello, my bird!" he cried, catching hold of me.  "Now
keep quiet, or I'll put the come-alongs on you, an' I'd hate
to do that, you're so young an' fresh."

"You are a bigger boy than he, Blott, and don't know half
as much," the little man here interposed.  "What are you
about?  Are you going to stand here all day wrangling with
him?"

"If it was you, Pickle, I'd show you how spry I could be,"
Blott answered, eying the other.

Seeing no way of escape, I called at the top of my voice to
Uncle Job, who had stopped a few feet away, and stood beside
Mr. Lincoln, watching the loading of the boat.  Hearing my
cry and seeing the officer, they turned and hurried back.

"What have you got your hand on that lad for, officer?"
Uncle Job asked, as he came up.

"'Cause I'm attached to him," he answered, winking
stupidly at Mr. Lincoln.

"What do you mean!  Let go of him, I say!" Uncle Job
demanded, advancing with a determined air.

"Yes, when I've delivered him to the justice, as the summons
says, an' not before; so don't git red in the face or
meddle," the constable answered, facing Uncle Job and
straightening up.

"The summons!  What summons?  There is some mistake,
man!  No one has issued a summons for him, for we
haven't been here five minutes."

"You've another guess, my friend.  I only know what
I know, an' as the fee is small I'm not 'tending night-school
to increase my learnin'.  So stand back an' don't interfere,"
the constable answered, good-naturedly, but as one in the right.

"What reason is there for issuing the summons?  Surely
you must know that?" Uncle Job asked, bewildered.

"I don't know what he's done, nor why; but mebbe Pickle
there can tell you.  He knows everything," Blott answered,
nodding toward the little man in gray, who now stepped
forward and spoke up with great show of authority.

"The lad is a runaway, and is to be taken back to his
home; and the justice's summons is to secure that and
nothing more."

"No justice has any authority to meddle with him,"
exclaimed Uncle Job, angrily.  "Moreover, what interest
have you in the matter?"

"As to the right of the justice to meddle, that is a matter
for him to determine, having possession of the boy.  For
myself, sir, I am a lawyer, and come here at the instance of
my client to regain possession of her ward."

"Oh, rot!" Uncle Job exclaimed, in great wrath.  "No
one has a right to make any such claim.  But come, officer,
we are losing time, and nothing will come of standing here
wrangling.  Take us to the justice, so that the matter can
be explained and the lad released."

"Fall in, then, for the justice's order is to bring the lad
straight to him.  Come now, young man, no more slippin'
out of your clothes, but be good"; and with this admonition
he turned about and led the way toward the town, the others
following.

As we went forward, Mr. Lincoln, who had looked on without
remark, unable, it was apparent, to comprehend the reason
of my arrest, asked Uncle Job the meaning of it all.  Upon
this the latter explained how it was, giving him such account
of his dispute with Aunt Jane as he thought necessary, but
more particularly how she, an austere maiden lady of fifty,
and of questionable gentleness of heart, sought to become my
guardian whether or no.  This strangely enough, he thought,
for she had never been friendly to my mother, and, indeed,
was thought not to have been well inclined toward my father
at the last.  Nor had she my love or respect, for that matter.
For these reasons, Uncle Job went on, he had opposed her
wishes, and was determined to do so to the end.  To all this
Mr. Lincoln made no reply, and when Uncle Job had finished,
continued on in silence, as if summing up the case, pro and
con, as a judge might do on the bench.

The town of Quincy at the time of which I speak was one
of many small places that had sprung up on the banks of the
Mississippi about the time of the Black Hawk war.  Most of
these exist to-day as attractive cities, but others not so wisely
located have long since been abandoned, many of them being
lost even to memory.  New and unkempt, the houses of the
little city were scattered here and there, as if placed by blind
men or spilled off a tray in some unaccountable way.  Such,
however, is the beginning of all cities, their dignity coming
later, with pride and prosperity, as in the case of men.  Most
of the stores and warehouses of the town, and there were not
many, were grouped about the public square near the center
of the village, and in front of one of these, built of rough
boards and roofed with like material, our little party presently
came to a halt.  Above the door of this structure there was
a flaring sign recounting the goods sold within and the great
bargains that awaited the fortunate buyer.  Below this, one
more modest told that it was also the office of the justice of
the peace, and this not strangely, for it was common then,
as it is now in the country, thus to merge the duties of
tradesman and magistrate.

When we entered, the justice was busy tying up a package,
as were all his clerks, and this as if that were the chief end
and aim of trade in Quincy, as it was in fact, and properly
enough.  Observing us, he motioned for the officer to go on
to the office in the rear, where he occupied himself at intervals
of the day hearing such cases as were brought before him.

The store through which we now passed I thought pretentious
in the extreme, and indeed it was such a one as to cause
a country lad to open his eyes in wonder.  On the left the
shelves were packed with bottles filled with drugs, all with
picturesque and highly colored labels, as if containing tempting
delicacies or things of that nature.  Farther on there was
crockery, and this of every kind; yellow, however, over-shadowed
all other colors.  In the display of these wares perfect
candor was observed, and this without reference to the
use the article was put to; but trade is ever thus ingenuous,
having no real modesty.  For gain is a brazen hussy, and
never loses opportunity to display her charms if trade may be
fostered thereby.  On the other side of the store shelves
stuffed with dry goods reflected back the hues of bright
calicoes and delaines, interspersed with worsted and highly
colored scarfs.  Stockings of a passionate hue also hung here and
there invitingly from conspicuous places.  On the counter
gaudy jewelry was temptingly spread in cases covered with
stout wire, as if much in need of such protection.  Further
back a receptacle was piled high with fat, obtrusive pies, for
those who craved delicacies of that nature.  Beyond this
groceries and tobacco occupied the space.  Nor was this all, for
from the ceiling savory hams and succulent pieces of bacon
hung, redolent of the smokehouse and temptingly, so that
the very sight of them made one's mouth water with desire.
In the extreme rear a space was cleared, and here, facing the
front, a chair and table served for the seat of justice.  About
these were other chairs, and empty boxes tipped on end, all
arranged in the form of an amphitheater.  Still back of these,
packages of goods were piled, in which cheese and fish
predominated, as was apparent from the odor that filled the place.
At one side, to tempt the good-natured, a barrel of tobacco
stood open, inviting all who would to fill their pipes without
hindrance or pay.

Such was the court of justice into which we were ushered.
As we stood patiently waiting the coming of the judge, Blott
mopped his face and shifted nervously from one foot to the
other, as if laboring under great excitement of some kind, but
of what nature I could not tell, until at last, losing all control
over himself, he let go my arm, and springing back, cried,
in a voice of terror:

"Scat, you imps! scat!" at the same time kicking angrily
at some object he saw before him.  Seeing nothing, we all
looked at him in surprise, which he, presently noticing,
remarked in a shamed way: "I hate cats, and black ones
more particular.  They give me the shivers.  Take 'em away;
take 'em away, please, please, please!" he added, plaintively,
waving his hand.

"I have always heard it said that it was a sign of good
luck to have a black cat rub against you; but there are no
cats here," the little lawyer spoke up, after eying Blott
curiously for a while.

"Mebbe your sight's failin' account age, for there's three
of 'em peerin' from under them bags yonder," Blott answered,
looking furtively in the direction indicated.

"Three of them?  Well, well, you have got it bad.  What
do you generally take for these attacks?" the lawyer answered,
grimly, as if enjoying the other's fright.

"What do I take?  Can't a man see cats without bein'
thought queer?  Any one can see 'em," he answered, turning
to Uncle Job to confirm his statement.

"It is a clear case of jimjams," the lawyer went on; "and
if you will take my advice, you will sleep more and booze less,
my friend."

"Don't git gay now, grandpa, nor expect a fee for your
advice.  A little liquor wouldn't hurt you, or meat, either,
if I'm any judge of its effect on skeletons," Blott replied,
Without taking his eyes off the hiding-place of his enemies.

"Here, take a pull at this," the lawyer answered at length,
handing him a flask filled with liquor.  "The hair of the dog
is good for the bite, they say; anyway, it will quiet your
nerves till we get through with this trial, when I would advise
you to go and drown yourself."

To this Blott made no reply, but taking the flask, emptied
it without stopping to breathe.

"It's the drops that woman give me as has brought this
on, an' nothin' else," he exclaimed, as he wiped his mouth
with the flat of his hand.

What more he would have said or done I do not know, for
all further conversation was here cut short by the entrance
of the magistrate.





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.. _`BEFORE THE LITTLE JUSTICE`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


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   BEFORE THE LITTLE JUSTICE

.. vspace:: 2

The justice of the peace, a smiling, amiable man, given
to trade and knowing nothing of the law, nor professing to,
except as it was filtered to him through the hints of lawyers,
bowed politely as he entered, and taking his seat, said:

"I am ready to hear your case now, officer."

Upon this Blott, who had in some measure regained his
composure, stepped forward and raised his hand to be sworn,
but remembering that such formality was unnecessary,
dropped it, with a gesture of disgust, and answered:

"Please, your honor, this is the lad the summons was for,"
nodding down on me as he concluded.

Motioning me to come forward, the justice spoke up, with
a reassuring smile:

"Don't be frightened, my son, for no one here intends you
harm."  This as if in answer to my distressed look, or
perhaps because he too had a child somewhere more happily
placed than I.  Then, assuming the air of his office, he went
on, but mildly and as if to give me courage:

"What is your name, young man?"

"Gilbert Holmes, sir?"

"How old are you?"

"Twelve, if you please.'

"You look older.  Are your parents alive?"

"No, sir."

"Have you a guardian?"

"No, sir."

"What near relatives?"

"My uncle, Job Throckmorton, and my aunt, Miss Jane Holmes."

"Where does your aunt live?"

"On her farm, near Little Sandy."

"Does she seek to become your guardian?"

"Yes, sir."

"Does any one else?"

"Yes; Uncle Job."

"Is your uncle present?"

"Yes, sir," I answered, turning around and pointing him
out to the justice.

At this Uncle Job, taking a step forward, bowed, and
addressing the justice, said:

"This lad is my nephew, if you please, and I am taking
him to my home.  He is in my care, and I trust you will allow
us to to go on without further hindrance."

"I am sorry to put you to any trouble, sir, but I must
look into the matter now that it is brought before me," the
justice answered, politely, scrutinizing Uncle Job as he spoke.
Then turning to me he continued: "If you were allowed
a choice, my son, which would you choose for your guardian,
this gentleman or your aunt?"

Ere I could answer, the gray-faced little lawyer, thrusting
himself to the front, interposed angrily, saying:

"I protest, your honor, against this method of trying the
case.  It will not lead to anything definite, for the lad is not
of age to choose for himself, and has therefore no voice in the
matter.  I—"

"Excuse me, sir, but what interest have you in the matter?"
the justice interrupted, annoyance clearly showing in
his mild face.

"My name appears as attorney in the affidavit, as you
ought to know.  It is Sylvester Moth, lawyer, and I am here
to represent the interests of my client, Miss Jane Holmes,
from whom this lad was abducted by Job Throckmorton,
surreptitiously and with malice aforethought."

"I protest that what he says about the lad's being abducted
is not true," Uncle Job objected.

"We will come to that in a moment," the justice answered,
pleasantly.  Then turning to Moth, he asked: "Is the Miss
Holmes you refer to the guardian of the lad?"

"Every one understood she was to act in that capacity,
your honor, and it was generally recognized as the only fit
thing.  Because of this, legal steps were thought to be
unnecessary; but upon the matter being brought to the attention
of the proper tribunal, in the emergency that has arisen,
the judge has expressed a desire to pass upon it in due
form—and in Miss Holmes's interest, I may add."

"Let me see his summons," the justice interposed.

"Please, your honor, upon hearing of the lad's abduction,
the necessity for haste was so great that I only had time to
consult the judge informally before my departure.  There
can be no doubt, however, what his decision in the matter
will be."

"Why should he favor Miss Holmes, may I ask, in preference
to the other claimant?" the justice said, glancing in
the direction of Uncle Job, who stood looking on with a face
black as midnight.

"Because of the two she only is fit to serve.  There can
be but one choice between them, as you yourself must
acknowledge when you hear the facts.  Miss Holmes is
a woman of mature years and great respectability, and
possessed, moreover, of large property, so that she is able to
look after the lad's comfort while young, and advance his
fortunes when he comes to manhood.  She is his aunt, his
father's devoted sister, and deeply attached to him, and
earnestly solicitous of his bringing-up and final position in the
world, and for these reasons should be his guardian."

"Is not this gentleman equally worthy, equally solicitous?"
the justice asked, as Moth came to a halt.

"No, your honor; it is impossible.  The lad's reputed
uncle, Job Throckmorton, who is he?  No one knows.
A youth without friends or fortune or fixed abode!  Who can
tell what he designs doing with the lad?  Who will hold him
accountable?  Who trace him hereafter?  A myth—here
to-day, to-morrow where?  What fate has he in store for this
tender and homeless youth?  We may surmise, and doing so,
hesitate.  Will it be a home and careful schooling and
Christian example, such as Miss Holmes offers?  Or—the thought
chills me—the slave-block perhaps, and afterward some far-off
plantation in the everglades of Florida, where a fortune
may be had for such a lad?  In view of this, and other things
that will occur to a man of your experience and discernment,
can there be but one course to follow in disposing of the lad?
No; and in this I am sure we will agree."

This tirade was more than Uncle Job could patiently listen
to, and thrusting himself forward, he again addressed the
justice:

"May it please you honor, this man's insinuations in regard
to myself and what I will do are unworthy of your notice.
What he says about my having no fixed home is true, but
I will devise ways for caring for the child, and such as his
father and mother would approve and applaud were they
alive.  I am most tenderly attached to him, and having no
family, will make his happiness the concern of my life.  This
I pledge you my word."

This true statement Uncle Job thought unanswerable; but
while he hesitated, considering whether it was best to say
more, Moth broke in again, more vehemently than before.

"Stuff!  Nonsense!  Talk, your honor; nothing else.
Mr. Job Throckmorton, if I know anything of men, is nothing
more or less than an adventurer.  He seeks possession of the
child to gratify a spite against my client, the lad's loving aunt,
and not from any interest in the child himself.  His malice
is born, I may say, in misapprehension and fostered by a
vindictive spirit that only a man with a bad heart could have.
Miss Holmes offers her nephew a home, shielded by love, and
holds out to him the care of a wise and tender mother.  Could
more be asked?  In one direction, your honor, security and
happiness await the youth.  In the other, uncertainty,
distressing doubt—at best the life of a vagrant.  In view of all
this, I crave your enlightened action in furtherance of the
beneficent purposes of my client.  This, I may add, will be
secured by your holding her nephew to await the summons of
the judge having jurisdiction in the case."

Such disposition of the matter, it was clear, struck the
justice as being, under the circumstances, a way that could be
safely followed, and looking toward me, he nodded as if in
acquiescence.  Thus in a moment all my hopes were destroyed—and
oh, the grievousness of it!  To be disposed of out of
hand, as if I were a mere baby and helpless, when, oh, how
dim and immeasurably distant childhood seemed to me!  Not
a thing, indeed, of yesterday, but far off, as if it had never
been.  No, never was I to know again the unconscious happiness
of youth, but in its place the maturity that sorrow and
abandonment quickly bring.  Thus mourning, my thoughts
turned, as in every emergency of my life, to Constance.
Sweet Constance!  How her heart would bleed did she but
know of my sad plight, and this unhappiness she would share,
with embrace of love, as always; but oh, how unavailingly!
Thus thinking, I was comforted as if she were near me, and
in the thought forgot my misery and where I was.

While my mind was thus filled with tender remembrance
of my love, Mr. Lincoln arose and made his way forward to
the cleared space before the justice, and the latter, observing
him, stood up, and with a smile of recognition, shook him
warmly by the hand.  After some further exchange of
greeting, wherein both seemed pleased, the justice asked:

"Do you desire to appear in this case, Mr. Lincoln?"

"Yes, if you please," he responded, moving back a step
and bowing to the justice, as if in recognition of the dignity
of the law, howsoever presented; "and may it please your
honor," he went on, in his slow, melancholy way, "I venture
to do so without solicitation, but properly, I think, in view
of the unfriended state of this youth.  I am, I may say, in
a measure familiar with the case, and may add that it appeals
to me deeply.  What has been said by my brother lawyer in
regard to the social position, wealth, and high character of
his client, Miss Jane Holmes, is true in every particular," he
continued, bowing to Moth.  "She is well known to me, and
that her every thought in regard to her nephew is creditable
to her I cannot doubt.  She has no object in desiring to
befriend him save his good, and this I firmly believe, and in
this view of the matter she has my gratitude and admiration,
as she should that of every man."

"You see, your honor," Moth here broke in, exultingly,
"he confirms what I have said in every particular."

"Will you keep still!" Blott spoke up, laying his hand on
Moth's shoulder.  "You can't hold the yarn an' wind it, too,
Pickle.  Let the other side have a chance, man.  Why you're
as full of wind as a bellus."

"While we may admit Miss Holmes' worth," Mr. Lincoln
resumed, "that does not lessen the claim of Mr. Throckmorton;
and before proceeding it is my duty, as it is the duty of
every one when the character of another is aspersed, to clear
it from suspicion, so far as may be.  This I desire to do in
the case of Mr. Throckmorton, for Mr. Moth is misinformed,
and grossly so, in regard to him.  On no other grounds are
his statements worthy of his calling as a lawyer or the dignity
of the court he addresses.  The facts are in every way
honorable to Mr. Throckmorton.  The candor of his face is proof
of this, and I beg of you to study it attentively.  The
Almighty thus stamps the character of his children so that
all may see, if they will.  This is especially true of the young.
For if malignant or uncharitable, time has not been granted
in which to hide it behind the smile of complaisance; and if
honest, distrust has not yet led its owner to conceal the truth
behind a mask of cunning or a smile of incredulity.  Thus we
may judge, and never mistakenly, and we may do so in this
case without going astray.  I am confident of Mr. Throckmorton's
uprightness and good intentions, and believing as
I do, hope to make it equally plain to your honor.  This is my
reason and excuse for appearing here.  It has been my good
fortune to be the close companion of these young gentlemen
for several days, and during that time my opportunities for
studying them have been such as rarely fall to one's lot, and
unconsciously too, and without purpose on their part.
Moreover, I know Mr. Throckmorton through others, and no man
stands higher in the regard of men, for he is trusted and his
word accepted wherever given.  Such is the testimony.  That
he will do as he says in this case, there can be no shadow of
doubt, and I confidently appeal to you to believe him.  He
has no home, as has been said, and that is to be regretted;
but he has the boy's love and entire confidence.  In return
his heart is tenderly regardful of the youth's happiness.  Is
not that a home in which childhood may safely dwell, if virtue
and strength abide there?  Can such a home be weakened or
destroyed?  Can it be lost, as wealth may be?  Is it not the
most secure anchorage and the only refuge for the young?
Can the substantiality of wealth or position alone replace it?
Here, your honor, a phase of the case presents itself that
I approach with reluctance.  My brother lawyer has recounted
the virtues of his client, and to all he says in that respect
I cheerfully subscribe.  I leave it to candid men to judge,
however, which of the two, Miss Holmes or Mr. Throckmorton,
is the more likely to enlist the lad's sympathy and love.
The maiden lady of fifty, a recluse upon her farm, without
knowledge of children, with a demeanor that cannot, unhappily,
be called inviting, or the young man, with a warm heart
and blood still running fresh and vigorous along the lines of
youth this child is treading, and will for many a day?  Every
instance, I am constrained to believe, recommends Mr. Throckmorton
in preference.  He had the mother's love and the
father's confidence, and he loved them in return.  Miss
Holmes, if her heart responded to theirs, gave no sign, for
they died believing in her indifference, if not her enmity.
This lady now seeks control of their child, knowing what she
does.  Can we have any doubt in regard to the youth's feelings
or preferences?  Nothing, it seems to me, could be more
inopportune, more incongruous, than Miss Holmes's action.  It
needs no great discernment on our part, your honor, to trace
this lad's future.  Had his father and mother lived, they could
have controlled him.  He would have been obedient and patient;
but dying, others cannot fill their office unless he loves
and trusts them.  No one else will he obey.  That is human
nature; for lacking the wisdom that only comes of experience,
he will revolt when discipline clashes with desire; for even in
the case of men, you know, judgment and prudence travel
with halting step when inclination leads the other way."

"Nonsense, you honor!  What he needs is a master with
a good wrist and a stack of rawhides," Moth angrily interrupted.
"What would become of the world if such ideas were
to govern the bringing-up of children?  Why, we would have
a nation of bandits, and no man would be safe."

"Will you oblige me," the justice objected, "by not
interrupting Mr. Lincoln again?"

"Put him in the jug, your honor, for contempt.  He'll git
fat on the fare, an'll fool the rats, for they haven't any likin'
for bones if there ain't any meat on 'em," Blott spoke up
excitedly, appealing confidently to the justice.

"You may withdraw, officer; we will not need you longer.
I will myself look after the lad," the justice spoke up,
scrutinizing Blott's flushed face and trembling limbs.

"All right, your honor, I'm glad to git rid of the job; but
if anything should turn up needin' somebody to handle Pickle,
I'm your man, an'll not ask any fee either," Blott answered,
scowling upon Moth as he made his way from the room.

"The heart of guardian and child must be responsive,"
Mr. Lincoln went on when quiet had once more been restored;
"and can there exist any bond of sympathy between Miss
Holmes and this young lad?  No.  How many wretched men
and women does the world hold to-day, made so by disregarding
truths of this nature!  How many are there broken and
lost who might have led useful lives but for lack of a
sympathetic heart in which to confide when young!  A child bereft,
as in this case, is like a man cast naked upon an island.  The
world it knew is gone, and with it the love that nourished its
life.  It cannot, if it would, easily take up with new conditions.
Yet upon its being able to do so finally depends its
acceptability and usefulness to society when grown to manhood.
Viewing the problem thus, can we conceive of any duty devolving
upon those who execute our laws more delicate, more tender
of application, than the disposition of children subject to their
control, a disposition so fraught with good or bad to those
whom it affects?  The bodies and souls of those needlessly
wrecked in youth because of lack of conscience or care in this
respect cry out against the neglect of their just needs."  Here
Mr. Lincoln's voice quavered and died away, as if some black,
unwholesome recollection of his own youth had suddenly
obtruded itself across his mind.  "To leave this feature of the
case, however," he went on, slowly and in alow voice, "of
which I have, perhaps, said too much, what are the rights
of the parties?  For the law is made to protect every one, and
cannot be subverted now, more than at another time, that good
may possibly follow.  In this case it is clearly perverted, for
there is no just warrant for holding the lad.  Of this there can
be no doubt, though circumstances for the moment may excuse
it.  The summons of the proper court has not been issued,
and only a court of competent jurisdiction can act in its place.
I need not point out, your honor, that acting alone you
possess no authority, though conjointly with another justice you
might.  Putting aside this feature of the case, is there, I ask,
any call for intervention?  I feel assured there is not.  The
happiness and well-being of the child may safely be intrusted
to Mr. Throckmorton, and sincerely believing this, and pledging
you my faith that it is so as man to man, I ask that your
honor annul the order of detention and let the lad go free";
and so concluding, Mr. Lincoln bowed to the magistrate and
stepped back.

"May I ask your honor," he resumed after a moment,
"that you will act in the matter with such promptness as you
can, as we very much desire to go on by the boat now about
to leave?"

Moth, however, had no intention of submitting the case
without further hearing, and pushing forward, exclaimed:

"I protest, your honor, that this—"  However, he got no
further, his protest falling on deaf ears.  For the justice had
heard enough, and holding up his hand to command silence,
said:

"I have to thank you, gentlemen, most heartily; and while
listening to your statements have endeavored to weigh what
you have said fairly.  My conclusion is, that I have no right
to act in the matter, and that being so, the case is dismissed."

At this termination a great silence fell on the assemblage,
followed by a shout of approval from every one present; but
Mr. Lincoln, not waiting to hear more, grasped my hand, and
turning, walked rapidly from the room.

Gaining the boat, I looked back to see Moth, who had
followed, regarding me with such savage determination that
I shuddered at the sight, feeling that in him I had and should
ever have a bitter and unforgiving enemy.





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.. _`THE SINGLETONS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SINGLETONS

.. vspace:: 2

At the time of which I speak steam was only just coming
into use on the Mississippi, and men went far out of their way
to see the great boats that plied back and forth, and seeing
them, stood spellbound, as did I.  Nor have change and
lengthening years served in any way to dull the recollection of that
far-off day.  Every detail comes back to me now; the clanging
bell, the hoarse whistle sounding croupily across the water,
the great boat coming buoyantly on, its busy decks, the
passengers standing by, the gurgling water, the swash of the
wheels, the rhythmic music of the exhaust, the black smoke
trailing on behind, and, most striking of all—so simple are the
impressions of youth—the letters painted in vivid plainness on
the surface of the rounded wheelhouse.  Naught is wanting
to complete the picture, and if by chance some sound like the
deep bell or croaking whistle strikes on my listening ear, it
awakens afresh the scenes of that far-off time as if they were
but yesterday.  Not, however, as then, to thrill with ecstasy,
but rather with pleasurable melancholy, like an echo from the
past, so sad it is.

While the boat was making its way to the channel of the
river, our little party ascended the stairs which led to the
saloon above.  Reaching the quarter-deck, what was our
surprise to find Blott facing us, and unconcernedly, as if knowing
us but casually, if at all.  At sight of him, Uncle Job
stopped abruptly, and after regarding him a moment, angrily
inquired:

"What are you doing here, constable?"

"I'm holdin' down this mattin', an' as you've got feet,
s'pose you come an' help me," Blott answered, moving about
uneasily on the piece of carpet whereon he stood.

"You are following this lad," Uncle Job answered, paying
no attention to what he said.

"Now, don't lose yourself, old man; I'm no trailer.  Moth
done you dirt, mebbe, but I never did nothin' to you, have I?"
he asked, facing us and striving to appear calm.

"Perhaps not, but you are here to spy on us now."

"Not on your life; an' let me advise you, my friend," he
answered, opening and shutting his hands nervously, "not to
use that word too much in this country, or it'll git you into
trouble.  I'm no spy, least of all for Pickle."

"Then what are you doing on this boat?" Uncle Job
inquired, by no means convinced of the other's good intention.

"Mebbe I'm toorin', but I ain't," he answered, more
quietly.  "I'm doin' the disappearin' act, though, an'
to-morrow they'll be draggin' the river, I 'spect, thinkin' I'm
drowned."

"Where are you going?"

"That's nothin' to you, but I don't mind tellin' now we're
off.  I'm goin' to Rock River, where I fit Black Hawk, to lie
on its shady banks an' listen to the birds an' ripplin' waters.
It's too noisy an' excitin' here, an' people stare, for I've bin
seein' things that ain't real, they say—though you seed them
cats yourself, didn't you?" he went on, excitedly, peering into
Uncle Job's face.  "They was as plain as day to me."

"Is that all you have seen?" Uncle Job answered, evasively.

"No; monkeys an' snakes, an' wassops as big as eagles.
Things like that, out of the way, sorty, but all real, though it
seems queer."

"Well, you know what causes it," Uncle Job answered.

"You bet; it comes from usin' toothache drops an ole
woman give me, filled with opium or pisen of some sort."

"Toothache drops!  Bosh!  It comes from drinking whisky."

"Well, there's no use disputin' 'bout it; but if it's whisky,
I'm all right, an'll git over it, for I'm goin' to cut myself
down, an' that I've made up my mind to."

"Why don't you stop altogether?" Uncle Job asked.

"I can't, Job; I'd rather fall ninety-nine times than resist
oncet.  That's the way I'm built, you see, an' it's no use
tryin'."

"Nonsense!  You can stop if you want to."

"That's what people say; but if you had the thirst in the
throat an' hot cravin' an' crawlin' in the stomach that I have,
when the malary's comin' on an' the sky's red, an' you dasn't
put out the light, nor shut your eyes for seein' things at night,
you'd not give it up.  Nor'll I, but I'm goin' to be more
moderate-like."  And ceasing to speak, he reached out as if to
pick some object from Uncle Job's coat, but finding nothing,
looked up abashed, and without saying more, turned and
walked away.

Thus reassured in some measure in regard to Blott's purpose,
we went on to the saloon of the majestic vessel.  Here
again I live in the memory of the past and what I saw, but
not without a sob filling the throat, that it should all have
proven so unreal.  For it is not what we see as children, but
the newness and strangeness of it, that causes our hearts to
beat and our eyes to open with wonder.  Never afterward, and
that is the pity of it, does the splendor of real things cause the
pulse to throb as do the small things of youth.  For the vast
apartment on the threshold of which I now stood seemed to
my inexperienced eyes grand beyond the power of speech.
Nor was it cut off in its limits, but reached away in perspective
like the lengthened glade of a forest—a forest wherein
overhanging clouds were frescoed with golden filigree and
glistening silver, from which descended, as if held by
outstretched arms, row upon row of glistening chandeliers,
resplendent with radiating surfaces and pendent crystals.
Such was the view; not cramped or confined, but reaching far
away and bathed in light and soft, illusive shadows.

In the center of this vast room, tables succeeded each
other as far as the eye could reach, while on either side chairs
with gilded backs stretched away like disks of beaten gold.
Above these, and from the borders of the ceiling, ferns and
wild roses drooped, and beside them windows, half-concealed,
gave a soft and glimmering light, as if the day were just
beginning.  On the sides of the room there were doors without
number, of pearly white, inlaid with gold, and on the floor
crimson carpets that gave back no sound to the footfall more
than the moss one finds in the shadows of the dark woods.
Such things I saw, and standing, wondered, and there I would
have stayed; but to those about me it was only commonplace,
so quickly are our impressions dulled by use.  So, with scarce
time to catch my breath or give expression to my thoughts,
we hurried on to our room—and oh, its snugness and compactness!
A playhouse fit for children indeed, but for bigger animals
all too small!

When we emerged the great hall was full of the bustle and
stir of supper, but of this last I remember only a little.  For
my mind was busy with other thoughts—with Wild Plum, my
mother, Constance, the forlorn highwayman, the weazen-faced
lawyer.  This so fully that I scarce noticed the eager
throng that laughed and chatted by my side.  When supper
was over, Uncle Job went forward to smoke, and I being alone,
set out to explore the great palace, so calm and steadfast, yet
pulsating as with the breath of life.  This last in greater
semblance of reality because of the far-off sound of the exhaust,
so like a man breathing heavily in his sleep.  Curious and
loitering by the way, I after a while approached a part of the
saloon set off by a great screen.  This division I for a time
respected, but presently reaching the barrier, and being
curious, passed beyond.  A group of ladies occupied the space
thus set apart, and seeing this, I stopped, and would have
turned about.

No sooner, however, did I come into view than one of them
of gentle presence, detached herself from those about her and
came toward me.  Reaching the spot where I stood, to my
great amazement, she clapped down on me as my mother was
wont to do.  Folding me in close embrace against her bosom,
she kissed me as if I were her son, saying with tender emotion:

"My sweet child! how glad I am to see you again, and to
know you got safely off from that little dragon of a lawyer.
I have not thought of anything else since I returned to the
boat, and oh, the pity of it and the pathos of the trial!  I could
not stay to see the end, but still I felt that no one, and least
of all that kind-faced judge, could resist the adorable man
who pleaded for you as for his son."  Thus she went on, and
giving me no chance to say a word, led me to a sofa, and
drawing me to a seat beside her, sat down, her arm about my body.
"Come now, my dear, tell me all about yourself and your
Uncle Job, and that acrid old Aunt Jane, for I know she is
both old and sour."

"My aunt's cold, madam, but she's more like ice than
vinegar," I answered, not knowing what to say.

"Because of that you do not love her?"

"How can I, for she doesn't love me as my mother did."

"No one, my sweet child, ever will, save one, if you are
lucky.  But where do you come from?" the lady went on, as
if to make me forget my unhappy state.

"From Little Sandy, madam."

"How quaint!  And who is Uncle Job?  What a droll
name for so sprightly a gentleman."

"He is my mother's brother, and is to be my guardian, I hope."

"I hope so too, for I am sure he will be more indulgent
than the other; and children do so much need indulgence,"
she went on, looking over at the little group she had just left.
"Where are you going?  How I wish you might live near us!
I have children of my own, but I am sure I could love you
too"; and with that she bent over and kissed me again, as my
mother might.

"It would be better than I could hope, to be near you, but
I am glad I've seen you, anyway," I replied, returning her
caress, so gentle and kind were her ways.

"You have not told me where you are going.  In this
sparsely settled country one can never hope to live near
anybody; but still," she went on comfortingly, "you might not be
far away."

"I'm going to Appletop, where Uncle Job lives, but I have
no idea where it is," I answered.

"Why, that is where we are going.  How fine!  You will
be near us, and can come to me when you want anything—and
you will come, anyway, I know, my dear?" she went on,
pressing her cheek against mine.

"I will indeed," I replied, scarce able to restrain my tears.

"Well, now that we are to be neighbors, I am going to get
acquainted with your Uncle Job, and make him promise to
leave you with me when he is away.  But come, I want you to
get acquainted with my children"; and rising, she took my
hand and led me across the room to the group she had left
when I entered.  "This is the young gentleman, my dears,
I was telling you about when he came in just now," and she
smiled as if expecting them to be as interested as herself.
"This is my daughter Amelia, Gilbert," she went on, "and
this is Viola, and this is the baby, Betty, though she is sixteen,
and a pert miss, as you will find out when you come to know
her," the sweet lady concluded, kissing her affectionately.

They were all fine-looking children, like their mother, with
smiling faces and amiable manners, having about them the air
of young people who have no thought beyond the present.
Seating myself, I was overjoyed at being again in such
company: for, as I may have told you, I have ever found my
greatest pleasure in the society of women.  Seated thus, it
seemed a long time since I had felt the fragrance of their
presence or listened to their gentle talk.  Thus I was in the
mood, ever more common to me than any other, to sit without
speaking, and watch the faces of the dear creatures, and smile
back my heart's response to their sweet ways and pretty
speeches.





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.. _`THE SHADOWS OF LIFE`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII


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   THE SHADOWS OF LIFE

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While occupied in the agreeable manner I have described,
our little group was joined by a gentleman whom the lady
welcomed as if he were a brother or dear friend—and not too
heartily, I thought, for his person and manner were engaging
in the extreme, and such as to attract and hold the attention
of any one.  Of commanding presence, and full of the glow
and fire of life, his years sat so lightly upon him that he seemed
only to have reached manhood, though he was in reality quite
thirty years of age.  Calling him to take a place by her side,
he responded with pleasure, his high and noble features lighting
up in response to her salutation and those of her children
with so much animation and kindness that I was at once
captivated by him, as in the case of Mr. Lincoln.  When he was
seated Mrs. Singleton spoke up, without preface of any kind,
as was her way:

"Oh, Jefferson, I have had the queerest adventure!  Something
like a play at the theater, only a hundred times more
exciting."

"Indeed," he answered, encouragingly.

"A play wherein a little tigerish lawyer sought to carry off
a child.  Without avail, though, for he was beaten off finally
by a melancholy knight who appeared suddenly on the scene,
to the great joy of those who were looking on," the lady
concluded, with rising voice.

"I am sure it must have been interesting," he answered.
"Pray tell me about it."

"Yes, it was interesting, and something more than that.
I was shopping, you must know, while the boat waited at
Quincy, and in the most accidental way ran across the trial.
The quaintest thing it was, too, that any one ever heard of.
It was before a little justice, in the back part of his store, and
all about the possession of this young gentleman," she went
on, laying her hand on mine, "who was being fought over by
his Uncle Job, a fair-spoken young man, on one side, and a
little dragon of a lawyer, who moved about like a hawk hovering
over a brood of chickens.  Oh, you should have seen him!"

"He was put to rout, though, finally, as you say?" the
gentleman responded, smilingly.

"Yes; and in the end the good fairy carried off the child in
triumph, as it does in the story-book."

"It must have been a sight worth seeing," he answered.

"Indeed it was.  When the trial was going on you could
have cried out with pain and rage, but not have laughed to
save your life, it was so pitiable.  It was grand, too; and what
made it so was the presence of the sublime man who pleaded
for the child—did he come on with you, Gilbert, the lawyer,
I mean, who defended you?" the good lady stopped abruptly
to inquire.

"Yes, madam."

"Well, Jefferson, you must hunt him up, for to know such
a man is an inheritance in itself, he has such gentleness and
wisdom; and oh, the pathos and mournful sweetness of his
speech!  His knowledge of mankind, and of children most,
I would never have believed any one could possess—and he so
young, too"; and the lady stopped as if to conjure up anew
the tall figure and melancholy face of Mr. Lincoln.  "When
he pleaded for his little friend, such sweetness of soul and
honesty of heart shone in his face and lighted up his eyes that
I know I shall never see the like of it again.  Oh, you must
know him, Jefferson, indeed you must!"

"I am sure it will be a pleasure, after what you have said,"
he replied.  "But what is the name of the gentleman?  Surely
such a man must be well known."

"No, I think not, for he is only a young lawyer making his
way.  I inquired his name in the store as I came out, and
they told me it was Abraham Lincoln.  Is that it, Gilbert?"
she asked, turning to me.

"Yes, madam; and except for him I should have been lost,
I know," I answered, remembering the desperate strait I was
in when he came forward to plead my cause.

"That you would; but his benignity of manner and ingenuous
truthfulness of speech no one could resist.  His voice,
Jefferson, was filled with such sweet melancholy that I could
not listen without my eyes filling with tears.  Oh, I could be
enthusiastic in his praise if such a thing were possible to me,"
the good lady concluded, with a sigh.

At this reference, the gentleman's eyes wavered for a moment
and filled with mirth, but respecting her kind heart and
the intuition women have of men, he answered, soberly enough:

"I know Mr. Lincoln, or did at one time, for he was with
General Gaines in Black Hawk's war, and commanded a
company of Illinois troops."

"Indeed!" Mrs. Singleton responded.

"Yes; and he was much commended, I remember, for his
tact and courage."

"I can well believe it; but you were yourself in that war,
Jefferson?"

"Yes."

"Your dear wife, I remember, never tired of telling of the
years of peril you passed among the Indians in this far-off
country.  Surely, such wisdom and courage in a mere lad would
have made a great name had you stayed in the army."

"It is very kind of you to say so, but I was only one of
many who risked their lives similarly in the uprisings and
ambuscades of the Indians."

"Yet you have always been friendly inclined toward them?"

"Yes, their cause has always appealed to me; nor was the
danger ever sufficient to efface it from my heart."

"Their wars have been so cruel, though, Jefferson."

"They fight in the way they have been taught," he
answered, gravely, "and for their homes, as white men do and
will.  Their love of country is not less than that of our race,
and greater, maybe, for they live in its very bosom.  Everything
they treasure is threatened by the inroad of the whites,
and has been from the beginning, the waves rolling on and
over them like a cruel sea from which they cannot escape.
They have sought to check or stay them, but only here and
there have they been successful, and then only for a moment.
Their fate is pathetic, and such, it seems to me, as to make
men cry out.  Brave and lost souls, they are like little children,
made old and savage by the subtlety of the whites and our
disregard of plighted faith."

"Why did you quit the service, Jefferson?  Surely it was
a great loss to our country," she went on, as was her way,
without stopping to give him time to reply; "and how does it
happen that you come back here?  Some speculation, I
suppose, for I hear the country is full of opportunities of that
kind."

"No, madam; I am on my way to Dubuque to adjust the
claim of a poor man who is kept out of his rights, partly by
reason of my action while in the service," he answered, simply.

"Pray tell me about it," Mrs. Singleton asked.

"There is little to tell.  When I was in the service the
government sent me to Dubuque with troops to remove the
miners who had established claims there in advance of an
understanding with the Indians, and who, up to that time, had
obstinately refused to move."

"Did you succeed?" Mrs. Singleton interrupted.

"Yes; partly by show of force and partly by persuasion,
they were in the end prevailed upon to withdraw, but only on
my pledging my word of honor that I would see to it finally
that every man was reinstated in his claim."

"Has not this been done?"

"Yes, except in the case of one man, and it is to aid in
reinstating him that I am now on my way to Dubuque."

"Have you come all the way from your home in Mississippi
to do this?" Mrs. Singleton asked, half incredulously, and yet
with a note of admiration and believing in her voice.

"Yes; there was no other way," he answered simply.

"Oh, happy the cause, whatever it may be, that such men
serve!" she answered, glancing at him with the pride women
ever feel in the honor of men.  "Surely, something great must
be in store for one so brave and just and truly honorable."

"I have no thought of greatness, dear madam, but live on
my plantation, busied with its small affairs, and the sad
thoughts that fill my mind of her I lost," he answered, his
face clouding.

For a time nothing further was said, but after a while,
looking up, he continued, curiosity and interest showing in his
face: "How does it happen, Mrs. Singleton, if I may ask, that
I find you and all your belongings in this far-off land?  What
was it that tore you up by the roots, to transplant you to this
savage country?  Surely, you had no thought of leaving
Mississippi when I saw you last."

"In that you are mistaken, Jefferson, for we have always
looked forward to such a thing, but not to speak of it, except
among ourselves.  It dates back, indeed, to a time long before
John and I were married," the lady answered; and here, at
mention of her husband, her face suddenly became overcast,
as one awakened from some pleasant dream to find a world
full of worry and unhappiness.

"I do not understand, but perhaps you do not care to speak
of it," he answered, as if puzzled by her manner and disturbed
look.

"No there is nothing to hide.  Our leaving grew out of
an intolerable dislike of the surroundings of my home life that
I had when a girl.  I need not tell you what it was.  Perhaps
I was not justified, but when John asked me to marry him
I refused unless he would come North.  How could he, though?
He had his father's plantation and the care of its slaves; and
so he pleaded with me, but though I loved him, I would not
yield.  Thus weeks and months passed, he urging and I
refusing, always with tears.  Finally my mother, who knew of my
reasons and how firmly I could cling to them, thought of a way
out of our trouble.  It was this: We were to marry and
continue on, but if we had children, so she planned, we were,
before any of them came of age, to leave the South and come
North.  To this we agreed, and gladly, for we loved each other
devotedly, as we have to this day and will to the end."  Here
stopping, her face clouded again, as if some dire thought
obtruded itself upon her to disturb her happiness and peace
of mind.

"How strange; and yet I do not know that I should say
that," he answered, after a while, "for others have done the
same before and will probably to the end"; and ceasing to
speak, his face showed in its lowering depths a trace of fear
as of a vision of some far-off time when a nation should look
upon slavery with her eyes and stand firm as she had stood.
"Are you satisfied you have acted for the best?" he went on
presently.  "Your daughters will find the new life far different
from the old, I fear."

At this reference Mrs. Singleton turned to her children,
but they had long since gone to some other part of the boat.
Facing her companion again, her eyes filled with tears, which
she sought in vain to restrain; and seeing this and her deep
agitation, I made as if I would go, but looking at me, she
invited me to remain.  Whether it was she felt the need of so
soft a creature as I, or for some other reason, I know not, but
plainly she asked me by her look to stay, and so believing,
I sat still.

"I am not disturbed by that, Jefferson," she went on.
"Their new life will give them self-reliance and strength.
The hardships, I care nothing for.  Besides, we were prepared
to meet and lessen these, but it is in this that all my
expectations have gone astray," the good lady concluded, sobs
choking her utterance.

"In what way, madam, may I ask, if I do not obtrude myself
upon you?" he asked, with the affection a son might show.

"Oh, can I tell you, or ought I to!  Yet every one will
know it soon.  Yes, I must and will, and oh, Jefferson,
I beseech you, for the love our families have borne each other
for a hundred years, save my husband! save him from
himself!"  Saying which, she arose and threw herself on her
knees before him, tears streaming in torrents down her sad
face.

"My God, madam, rise, I beg of you!" he answered, lifting
her up.  "What danger menaces him?  You know I would
risk my life to save you or your family!  I have not seen
Mr. Singleton since I came aboard.  What is the matter, and how
can I serve him or you?" he concluded, his voice agitated so
as to be hardly distinguishable.

"John has always been a devoted husband, and in everything
regardful of me and our children, until the last few days.
Now he is no longer himself," she answered, striving to
control her emotion.  "He has changed in everything.  A demon
has possession of him, follows him, tempts him, lures him on
and on—in the morning, in the afternoon, in the night, never
leaving him.  Oh, my poor John!  He has scarce spoken
a word to me since we started.  Save him, Jefferson, save him
from the wretch who is ruining him body and soul!  Surely
men ought not to stand by and see such things.  Oh, my poor
husband!  my poor children!" the lady concluded, burying her
tear-stained face in her hands.

"Pray be calm, madam, I beseech you, and tell me what
is the matter, and how I can aid you."

"It is all on account of our neighbor, Colonel Burke, whom
you know, and who, under the guise of being a planter and
a gentleman, lives only to rob those he can tempt or deceive.

"Yes, I know him.  All he has he has acquired by gambling
and trickery; but I thought he had left our country."

"He did, but only to return, and knowing John had everything
we have in the world about him, found excuse to travel
on the same boat with us, and from the first has lured him
on to play.  John, poor man, losing each day, yet hoping to
regain his losses, has kept on till now our fortune is all but
swallowed up, if indeed it is not wholly gone.  Oh, save
him, I beseech you, Jefferson, for the honor of men and the
happiness of my poor children."  Saying which, Mrs. Singleton
pressed her hands to her face in agony of shame and grief.

"What you have told me, dear madam, surprises and
distresses me beyond anything I can say; but rest assured, if it
is possible to save your husband and break the man who has
entrapped him it shall be done," he answered, rising to his feet.
Then taking Mrs. Singleton's hand, he bowed over it with
such courtesy and gentle tenderness that his manner, I thought,
was in all things like that which characterized and set apart
Mr. Lincoln from other men.

When he had taken his departure, which he did without
delay, overcome with emotion I put my arms about the dear
lady, as if I might thus comfort and shield her.  Some grain
of sense, however, returning to me presently, I kissed her
as I would my mother or Constance, and bidding her good
night set out to find Uncle Job.  Coming across that amiable
gentleman in another part of the boat, I asked him to go with
me, and this he did, but with some surprise, because of my
abruptness of speech and the scant ceremony I showed.
Taking hold of his hand, I led him to the upper deck, where we
found ourselves alone, save for Mr. Lincoln, who was walking
back and forth in deep thought.  Seeing us, he came forward,
and after a few words we all sat down on a bench that stood near
by.  Then, without delay or any kind of preface, I told them
of the kindness Mrs. Singleton had shown me, and the deep
trouble she was in and the cause of it, not leaving out a thing.
My story, I must believe, lost nothing in the telling, for they
gave me rapt attention, and when I had finished I sprang up,
crying out, without giving them time to speak:

"You will help her, Uncle Job, I know; and please come
with me now, and I'll take you to the gentleman who's
promised to save her husband."

At this, and without a word being said, they arose and
followed me.  When we reached the great saloon the gentleman
I sought stood apart, watching two men at play.  Glancing
in their direction, I saw Mr. Singleton, and of this I was sure,
for such anguish I never saw in man's face before.  His
companion, on the contrary, nowise disturbed, sat back at his
ease, and with an air of being bored; but this was his mask,
as it is of all men in similar cases.  Going up to the gentleman
I sought, I plucked his arm, and upon his turning about, said:

"This is my Uncle Job, and this is Mr. Lincoln, about
whom Mrs. Singleton spoke.  Uncle Job'll be glad to help you
save her husband, I know."

"I am glad to meet you, gentlemen," he responded,
politely, greatly taken back it was apparent by what I said.

"I had not thought of calling any one to my assistance,"
he went on, after a moment's pause, "nor do I know that anything
can be done, but it is kind of you to make the offer, and
I thank you with all my heart."

"I am glad to place myself at your disposal, as my nephew
says, if I can be of service to you in any way," Uncle Job
responded.

"Thank you," the other replied.  Then turning, he
extended his hand to Mr. Lincoln, saying: "I feel it a
happiness and an honor to know you, Mr. Lincoln.  My good
friend, Mrs. Singleton, who heard you plead for our young
friend here, is so filled with admiration at what she esteems
your greatness of soul that she cannot find words to express
her thoughts.  Let me make myself known to you, however.
My name is Jefferson Davis, and as you may perhaps remember,
Mr. Lincoln, I served with you in the Black Hawk war."

"I remember your service in that war very well, and before
and after," Mr. Lincoln answered, grasping Mr. Davis's hand.
"It is the common property of our state, I may say, and for
it you have the love and gratitude of our people, whom you so
faithfully served.  I am glad indeed of the opportunity to
meet you again, and to be able to express some part of the
obligation we are under for your services."  Here, stopping,
Mr. Lincoln by some chance looked down at me, and seeing
the distressed look in my face, went on: "Now, if you will
excuse me, let us take up the matter about which Gilbert has
told us, not idly, but with a desire to aid the lady who has
enlisted his sympathy.  If Mr. Throckmorton or I can serve
you in any way, Mr. Davis, please command us."

"Surely, sir, this lady's distress appeals to us as strongly
as if we saw her being robbed by footpads on the open
highway," Uncle Job spoke up with great energy; "and I wish to
place myself at your service, Mr. Davis, to throw the scoundrel
overboard or horsewhip him, it doesn't matter which."

"Thank you, gentlemen.  Our common manhood is concerned
in the matter, however distasteful it is.  I hope we
may be able to hit upon some means of saving Singleton and
the fortune that is the mainstay of his wife and children, for
they will be helpless without it.  This place is too public,
however, to discuss such a matter, and if you will come to my
room we can talk it over there more freely."

Mr. Lincoln and Uncle Job assenting, they went away,
leaving me alone.  When they were gone, I turned again to
the players, but after watching them for a while, feeling tired,
sought my bed, where I was soon lost in the dreamless sleep
of youth.





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.. _`THE DUEL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE DUEL

.. vspace:: 2

In the early history of travel on the great river, gambling
was common, and nothing thought of it more than eating and
drinking.  When, therefore, breakfast was over the following
morning, the gentlemen, who stood about in expectant groups,
sat down to play, and from that time on, except when meals
were served, there was little or no diminution of the game.
Throughout the day and far into the night the play went on,
sometimes with uproar and curses and show of pistols and huge
bowie-knives, but more often without speech or movement of
any kind.  Around each group lookers-on gathered, but
quietly, refraining from so much as touching the chairs of
players, lest the latter be unlucky in consequence.  Many had
charms, according to their fancy: one a hawk's bill, another
a mildewed penny, another the toenail of a murderer; but
above all other things, a rabbit's foot was thought to be most
efficacious for bringing good luck.  When these devices failed,
new cards were called for, or men exchanged seats, no means
being left untried to propitiate the goddess of good fortune.
In such simple ways as these are the minds of gamesters
sustained and diverted, not here or there only, but the world over.

Of the players, some had the semblance of calmness, others
were irritable, some truculent; all observant.  The panther
about to spring upon his prey could not be more watchful or
less pitying.  The game was always the same—poker; and
if by chance a chair was vacated, it was quickly filled by
another so that there was never any falling off in number or
interest.  The players were one and all oblivious of their
surroundings, or if the passing of a boat or other happening
caused an idle craning of the neck, it was without interest or
consciousness.  Lust of money lighted up every countenance,
and in this there was no difference.  Those who lost were
morose, some profane; others, half-crazed, cried out pitifully,
like children.  All, however, were alike anxious and resentful.
Those who won were less repulsive than the others, but not
less greedy, reaching out for their winnings with glistening
eyes and soft chucklings, sometimes with boisterous hilarity,
for flesh and blood cannot stand everything.  A glance told
who were winners, who losers; wrinkled foreheads and anxious
faces, oftentimes trembling hands, marking the latter.  With
the former there was a certain comfort of ease, but they were
not the less alert and watchful, lest opportunity for gain should
pass unnoticed.  Avarice here made no effort to conceal its
ugliness, but stood without garments, shameless and unconfused,
striving by cunning and bravado, or the mere act of
waiting and watching, to satisfy its cravings.  This not
strangely, for such is ever the case where money is at stake,
though the novelty of the situation and the tenderness of
men's hearts may rob the practice of its repulsive features in
the case of gentlemen and novices.

My interest, however, was not with the throng, but with
Mr. Singleton and Burke, and these I singled out and watched,
as they sat somewhat apart, and doing so, meditated many
evil things against the latter, but unavailingly.  As the game
went on, Mr. Singleton from time to time took papers from
his pocket and handed them to Burke, for which the latter
gave him money in exchange.  All the while the poor
gentleman lost, and this until the middle of the afternoon, when,
with an oath, he pushed all there was before him into the
middle of the table.  Burke, after a while, and as if hesitating,
put up a like amount.  Then the end came.  Singleton had
lost.  At this he sat rigid, staring before him, while I, standing
by, counted the exhaust of the boat as if it were the pulsations
of his life.  At last, catching his throat as if choking, striving
the while to appear calm, he exclaimed:

"You have won, Burke; that is all.  I am ruined, and can
play no more."

Upon this, Burke, drawing the money toward him, answered
in a soft, purring voice, as if surprised at what he heard:

"I am sorry, Singleton; but I have won honestly, you will admit."

To this the other made no answer, but after a moment
dropped his face on his arms as they lay extended on the table
before him.

At this ending, Mr. Davis, who stood back of Mr. Singleton,
leaned forward, and looking Burke coldly in the face,
said, in a voice so low that it was scarce audible:

"You are not sorry, Colonel Burke, but have overreached
Singleton, and because of it, should return every dollar you
have won."

"I have won fairly; it is mine, and I will return nothing,"
Burke answered, looking up surprised at what the other said.

"You have not won honestly, and I must insist that you
return the money as I say," Mr. Davis answered, calmly.

"Not a cent; not to save his life," Burke answered,
scowling.

"Yes, you will.  You have cheated him, as you have others;
and it is not strange, either, for while professing to be a
gentleman, you are nothing but a common thief and blackguard,
and as such I shall brand you publicly, so that the gentlemen
of my country may hereafter know you for what you are."

Astonished beyond measure at what Mr. Davis said, Burke
fell to trembling as if stricken with palsy; but after a while, his
face darkening, he gathered himself together, exclaiming:

"You lie, sir, if you say I have cheated Singleton"; and
with the words he drew a pistol, and would have killed
Mr. Davis had not Uncle Job restrained him.

"You are not only a cheat, but an assassin, and would kill
me without a chance to defend myself, as you have more than
one of my friends.  You are a coward, and would not think
of resenting what I say unless opportunity offered to
assassinate me," Mr. Davis answered, looking Burke in the face,
but without moving or raising his voice.

"You lie!" Burke answered, striving to raise his weapon;
but Uncle Job preventing, took it from him, saying soothingly,
and with a fine air of cheerfulness:

"You must not kill him in that way, Colonel, if you do not
care to give up the money, but make him answer for his words
as gentlemen are expected to do when they say aught against
another.  He is bound to give you satisfaction, bound to
Colonel.  Excuse me," he went on, in answer to Burke's look
of surprise, "if I am meddling in a matter that does not
concern me, but I can't stand by and see a man thus insulted.
You must call him out; it will not cause you any trouble
afterward."

"He will not call me out, nor do I care to meet him,"
Mr. Davis answered, coldly.  "All I ask is that he return the
money he has taken from this poor gentleman, or even half
of it, if he will not pay back the whole."

"I'll not pay back a cent, and you lie if you say I will
not call you out!  I will, and kill you, as sure as there is a God
in heaven!  I only wish there was opportunity," Burke replied,
rising to his feet, his rage passing all bounds.

"You will not lack opportunity, Colonel Burke, for here it
is," Mr. Davis replied, his high courage flaming up.  "The
boat is slowing up for wood, and the country about hidden
with trees, so we can settle our affair without interference,
or its coming to the knowledge of any one, if you are not
inclined to return Singleton's money."  Burke making no
response to this, Mr. Davis presently went on: "Come, then,
if you have the courage, which I doubt," saying which he
turned toward the forward part of the boat, Uncle Job
remarking so that both could hear:

"Go on, Mr. Davis; I will attend to the details of the
meeting."

This near prospect seemed not at all to Colonel Burke's
taste, and he would have held back, but Uncle Job taking his
arm and urging him to protect his honor, partly by pushing
and partly by coaxing, prevailed on him at last to follow
Mr. Davis, who had now been joined by Mr. Lincoln.

All this time Mr. Singleton had not stirred, but lay as if
fallen in a fit.  Nor did he make any sign of life as we moved
away; for I followed on, though some way off, determined to
see the end of it.  Passing the crew, who were loading wood
amid the cries and curses of the mate, Mr. Davis struck into
the forest, the others following.  In this way, coming presently
upon a cleared spot, he stopped, saying:

"This place will do.  Mr. Lincoln, will you favor me by
acting with Mr. Throckmorton, should he require assistance?"

"Certainly, I will be glad to serve you in any way I can,
Mr. Davis, though this is something new to me," Mr. Lincoln
answered, in a kindly voice, but without any enthusiasm
whatever.

"It is new to me, and distasteful and nowise expected,"
Mr. Davis responded.  "There is, however, no other way now;
and besides, only private justice can reach such men as Burke.
He has robbed other friends of mine and murdered them
afterward, as he would have murdered me a few minutes ago."

To this Mr. Lincoln made no reply, save to grasp Mr. Davis'
hand.  Holding it thus a moment, as if about to say
something more, or reluctant to leave the other, he at last
turned about without further speech.  Uncle Job meanwhile
coming up, calmly surveyed the field as if such things were
matters of everyday occurrence with him and of no account
whatever.  At last, looking toward Mr. Davis and Burke, he
asked:

"Is it your wish that I should attend to the details?" and
on their bowing assent, he went on: "As the meeting must
be with pistols, the distance is the only thing to consider.
Have you any wishes in regard to that?"

"I am quite content to leave the matter in your hands,
Mr. Throckmorton," Mr. Davis responded.

Burke saying nothing except to nod his head, Uncle Job
went on:

"If the matter is left to me, I shall arrange that you stand
back to back twenty paces apart, and upon the word being
given, turn and fire, or advance before firing, if you wish.
Each principal will be entitled to one shot and no more.
Is this satisfactory?"

"It suits me," Burke spoke up quickly, in a soft, insinuating
voice.  "Count five, the last number being the signal to
fire—the last number, you understand."

"The arrangement is satisfactory to me," Mr. Davis
answered; "but be quick, if you please, for time presses."

Matters being thus arranged, Uncle Job placed Mr. Davis,
and doing so gave him one of the two horse-pistols he had
brought with him, and such as were in common use in those
days.  Then pacing twenty steps away, he placed Colonel
Burke as he had done Mr. Davis, giving him the duplicate of
the other's weapon.  The principals being thus fixed, he
rejoined Mr. Lincoln, who stood looking on with troubled
countenance.  Facing about, Uncle Job turned toward Burke, as if
expecting to see him throw down his weapon and cry for
mercy.  Instead, he stood firm, and with a look of such
deadly hate in his sallow face that I shuddered at the sight.
Seeing this, Uncle Job turned to Mr. Lincoln as if uncertain
what to do next, but Mr. Davis, observing the pause, spoke
up with some impatience, saying:

"Come, Mr. Throckmorton, why lose time?  Let us get
through with the business."

At this, everything being fixed, and there being no excuse
for further delay, Uncle Job called out, but no longer with
any heart in his voice:

"Are you ready, gentlemen?  Remember, when I count
five, turn and fire, or advance before firing if You choose.
Remember, five is the signal.  Are you ready?  One, two,
three, four—" As the last number was called, Burke whirled
about, and with quick aim fired.  At this Mr. Lincoln's and
Uncle Job's faces blanched, and they turned to Mr. Davis as
if expecting to see him fall, Uncle Job calling out mechanically
the final number, "Five."  Upon hearing this, and not before,
Mr. Davis turned about unharmed, but feeling his shoulder
with his free hand as if he had been hit.  Looking in the
direction of Burke and observing his smoking pistol still
upheld, Mr. Davis' face lowered and he hesitated for a moment;
then, without remark of any kind, he straightened himself up,
and keeping his weapon extended, advanced slowly toward
where his opponent stood.  As he went forward, Burke's
face, from being red, turned purple, and then a livid white,
his eyes and cheeks falling in as if he had been dead a month.
When Mr. Davis had gone some distance, Burke, unable to
control himself longer, screamed out in deadly fright:

"For God's sake have mercy, Mr. Davis!  Don't kill me!
No, no, you can't, Mr. Davis; it would be murder."

.. _`RESTITUTION.`:

.. figure:: images/img-140.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: RESTITUTION.

   RESTITUTION.

Paying no heed, Mr. Davis kept on until he was within
a few feet of Burke.  There stopping, the fire of his eyes
seemed to consume his enemy, for Burke, losing all control
of himself fell on his knees, crying out in the most craven
manner:

"For God's sake, as you are a Christian, don't kill me,
Mr. Davis!  I'll give back the money; I never meant to keep
it, I swear to you, as God is my judge.  I have children,
Mr. Davis—little things.  Surely you could not kill me"; and
moaning and purring like a cat, the wretch dropped on his
elbows, limp and undone.

"Let you live to go on robbing and killing men, you
scoundrel!  You deserve a dozen deaths for the murders you have
committed," Mr. Davis answered, without stirring or lowering
his weapon.

"I know it, Mr. Davis, but have mercy!  I will never play
cards again if you will let me off, nor harm any one!  So help
me God!  Have mercy! have mercy!" and he dropped his
face on the ground, unable longer to look upon Mr. Davis's
towering height and angry countenance.

"You do not deserve to die by the hands of a gentleman,
and I will spare you, though you would have murdered me;
but on condition that you turn over to Mr. Throckmorton the
money you have taken from Singleton, and afterward do as I
say," Mr. Davis answered, without making any move.

Upon this, Burke, rising to his knees, answered in his soft,
whimpering voice:

"I will do anything you say, Mr. Davis.  I never meant to
keep the money, and Singleton shall have every cent back";
and clutching his pocket with trembling hands, he drew forth
a leather book, and searching it through and through, presently
gave Uncle Job a handful of papers and money, saying:
"There, that is all I have; every penny!"

Receiving what was tendered, Uncle Job put it in his
pocket, and then, as if to assure himself, took the book from
Burke's hand, and looking it through, presently came upon
another paper, which he held up to view, saying:

"See, Mr. Davis, he would still have robbed Singleton of
this, a bill of exchange for five thousand dollars."

"I did not know it was there, I swear to God!" Burke
answered, dropping forward again on his elbows, as if this last
act would surely cause his death.

"You did, you scoundrel," Mr. Davis rejoined; "but no
matter.  What I require of you now is that you remain here
until the boat leaves, for if you come aboard or show yourself
or cry out, I will kill you as I would a wolf."

"You will not leave me here, Mr. Davis, surely?" Burke
purred, looking around at the dark forest.

"Yes, I will," Mr. Davis answered.  "A walk of a few
miles will take you to a landing where you will find a boat by
which to get out of the country.  Come, do you agree?"

"I must, if I am allowed no choice," Burke replied, rising
to his feet.

Upon this ending of the matter Uncle Job secured the
pistol Burke had dropped, and the three, without exchanging
a word, took their way to the river, the bell clanging the
boat's departure as they neared the landing.  On the way
Uncle Job lagged far behind, and with downcast head and
sorrowful visage.  Poor man! he had judged Burke to be a
coward, and sure to give up Singleton's money rather than fight.
So that his bravado on the field, and attempt to assassinate
Mr. Davis, had come to him in the nature of a shock, and now
when it was all over, his having suggested the meeting appeared
to him in the light of a very foolish, if not criminal, act.
Because of this he did not feel elated over the restoration of
the money, as he otherwise would, but looked upon what he
had done as silly in the extreme, and mourned accordingly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ABRAHAM LINCOLN AND JEFFERSON DAVIS—THE PARTING OF THE WAYS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold white-space-pre-line

   ABRAHAM LINCOLN AND JEFFERSON DAVIS—THE
   PARTING OF THE WAYS

.. vspace:: 2

When we returned to the boat Mr. Singleton had not
stirred, but lay as if dead or asleep.  Going straight to him,
Mr. Davis laid his hand on his shoulder, and this with some
impatience, if not anger, I thought.  At first Mr. Singleton
did not move, but after a while looked up confused and
blurred, as if awakening from a debauch.  Collecting himself,
he arose and extended his hand in greeting, as if he had not
known before of Mr. Davis' presence on the boat.  Accepting his
overtures, but somewhat curtly, it was apparent, Mr. Davis said:

"I come to tell you, Singleton, that Burke has left the
boat, but before going wished to return the money he had of
you, as he has designed doing from the first, he says.  To
accomplish this he has made me his messenger, as you see."  Saying
which, Mr. Davis laid the money and papers Burke had
turned over on the table before him.  At this Singleton drew
back, flushed and scowling, replying in a harsh voice:

"I'll not accept it, Davis.  It is his, and the more scoundrel
I for risking it and ruining my family.  No, he won, and
that is the end of it."  Saying which he sank down and buried
his face in his arms as before.

"Very well," Mr. Davis answered, curtly, and placing the
money in his pocket without saying more, proceeded to the
cabin set apart for ladies.  Here finding Mrs. Singleton, he
called her aside, and after telling her as much as he thought
proper of what had occurred, leaving out indeed all reference
to the encounter, I thought, he handed her the package.  When
she was able finally to comprehend that the fortune of her
children had thus been restored, she burst into a flood of tears,
and would have fallen had he not supported her.  Recovering
herself after a while, she sought to kneel to him in gratitude,
but he, lifting her up, made such light of the affair that she
was able presently to resume in a measure her natural
cheerfulness of manner.  Then, and as if in remembrance of her
husband's dignity, she said, tears dimming her eyes:

"Will you not oblige me, Jefferson, by giving the money to
Mr. Singleton.  Please do this for me."

"I have already offered it to him, dear lady," Mr. Davis,
answered, "but he will by no means accept it.  So there
is nothing for you to do but take charge of it, for Burke has
left the boat and will not return."

"God will surely bless you for your kindness in saving my
husband and protecting my children," Mrs. Singleton
responded, her emotion again overcoming her.  Upon this
ending, Mr. Davis stooping down with grave respect took her
hand and kissed it, saying:

"I have a favor to ask of you in return, dear lady, and it
is that I may present the gentlemen who have acted with me,
and without whom I could have done nothing.  You already
know and admire them, and they are every way worthy of your
high regard."

Saying which, and without waiting for a reply, he went
forward, and finding Mr. Lincoln and Uncle Job, presented
them to her with every expression of regard and friendship
that one can in speaking of another.  Taking the hand of each
in turn, Mrs. Singleton pressed it between both her own, but
overcome so that she could not speak.  Then inclining her
head and smiling upon them her tender thanks, she went to
her husband, and seating herself beside him, put her arm
about his neck in loving embrace.

Thus this dear lady's sorrows came to a happy ending
through the efforts of the gentlemen who had been brought
together in the strange manner I have related.  Never before,
I must believe, have men stood beside each other in such
unconscious regard of the greatness of their souls and the
exalted destiny fate had in store for them as Mr. Lincoln and
Mr. Davis.  Looking back now to that far-off day through the
mists of gathering years and over the heads of intervening
men, I see them again, as then, distinct and apart from all
others; and thus I shall always see them.  In many things
they were alike, differing only in unimportant particulars.
Mr. Davis' bearing was truly great, his carriage and dignity
and chivalrous character stamping him as one born to command.
Yet in all things his kingly air, for it was truly so,
was softened into sweet conventionality by gentle courtesy
and regard for the small things of life.  Of his countenance,
how shall I describe it, except to say that it was singularly
handsome, and so exquisitely refined and attractive that no
one could look upon it except with favor.[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

[\*] The painting of Mr. Davis in the War Department
at Washington fully bears out
what Gilbert Holmes says of Mr. Davis in this respect.
For of all the faces there
grouped of the War Secretaries, since the foundation
of our Government, his is by far
the most refined and attractive.—THE AUTHOR.

.. vspace:: 2

Differing from Mr. Lincoln, with whom he afterward came
to share the events of a great epoch in the world's history,
Mr. Davis's life had been nurtured in love and amid surroundings
every way attractive.  The crucible of misery through
which Mr. Lincoln had passed, and that ever caused his heart
to pulsate with tender emotion, Mr. Davis had happily
escaped.  Yet in all things he was not less gentle, nor did he
in any way lack in conception of men's needs or desire to
further them so far as lay in his power.

I had no thought, in recounting the story of my life, it is
proper for me to tell you, to say aught of Mr. Davis or his
chivalrous action in Mrs. Singleton's behalf, as my share
therein was not worthy of mention.  I have, however, been
led to change my mind in this, for the reason that afterward,
in the great struggle between the North and South, I had
occasion to experience his gentleness and kindness of heart
in my own person.  At the time to which I refer I was confined
in Libby Prison, broken in health by long confinement and
irritating wounds, and above all, distressed on account of my
dear wife, who was ill and sorely afflicted.  Fearing a
disastrous termination to my troubles, after many days' anxious
thought I wrote to the President of my distressful plight, and
doing so, recommended myself to him by recalling the memories
of the past, and especially the link of friendship that
bound each of us to Mrs. Singleton, who was now grown to
old age, but still beautiful and kindly as in the years that were
gone.  Sealing my letter with much trepidation of heart, it had
scarcely left my hand when a Confederate officer came with
directions for me to accompany him, and doing so, he took
me straight to the President.  Mr. Davis received me with
every show of hospitality, afterward plying me with tender
inquiries about the Singletons and their life in the new home.
Then, so great was his courtesy, he took me to sup with his
family, where it was my good fortune to meet many of the
officers of the Confederacy, and among them that great and
serene man General Lee.  Very kind they were to me too,
and amiable of countenance and full of gentle speech,
solicitous in all things of my comfort and ease of mind, that
I should not feel myself to be a stranger in an enemy's
country.  When I returned to my prison, which I did much
cheered in mind and body, the officer in command presently
brought me word that the President had directed I should be
permitted to be at large in Richmond, on my giving my word
of honor to respect the parole.  That is how it happened, you
must know, that I was not among those who escaped from
Libby Prison, some to reach their homes in safety, but many
to suffer recapture or perish by the way.  Directly after this
Mr. Davis sent for me again, and receiving me graciously, as
in the first instance, gave me a pass through the lines, there
to remain on parole until exchanged.  This with many kind
messages to the Singletons and expressions of good will toward
myself.  For his act of unsolicited grace, by which I was able
once more to be with my dear wife and children, I cherish him
in grateful remembrance, as you may well believe, and each
day with deeper and more tender affection.

Mr. Lincoln took leave of us the third day, much to the
regret of every one, for in so short a time his kindness of
heart and the simplicity of his nature had won the regard
of all, as they never failed to do throughout his eventful life.
This exalted man had many peculiarities, and all of them
agreeable.  The angularity of his features, not the least, lent
piquancy of interest to what he said, and discovering this in
early life, he used it, and wisely, to further his ambitious ends.
For his story-telling was but a political device, designed to
win and control the rude and impulsive men among whom his
lot was at first cast.  Afterward, when President, it became
an instrument of vast significance to his country, to be used
in the divertisement of those who surged about him in greed
of place and preferment, or for other objects not consistent
with the good of the state.  In that moment of the nation's
peril, when wealth melted away unnoticed and men sunk into
the ground without a cry, this simple device of an alert mind,
not less than what was truly great and majestic in his nature,
helped in its place, and as intended, to control and hold the
government on its appointed course.

Of Mr. Lincoln I saw but little more as a youth, but in
after days the chance fell to me to have been of supreme
service to him, had I been wiser or more alert.  This on the
fatal night of his assassination, in April, 1865, when the hearts
of men stood still and the nation cried out in anguish; but
being dilatory, without knowing it, the chance passed.  I was
in Washington at the time, brought there by some small affair
of the army, and late in the afternoon, loitering about my
hotel, a rumor reached me, though how I did not know, that
some demonstration was contemplated in connection with
Mr. Lincoln at the theater that night.  Regarding it as unimportant,
and yet thinking it otherwise in the disturbed condition
of affairs, I determined to be present.  Arriving at the theater,
and observing Mr. Lincoln's unprotected state, and remembering
why I came, and yet not knowing why, I passed to the
side where he sat, striving as I went, but vainly, to think of
some excuse for going to him, or, indeed, for being there at
all.  As I pressed forward, perplexed whether to go on or turn
back, a gentleman brushed past me, going in the direction
of the President's box.  Upon the moment, and in impulse of
thought, I reached out my hand to stay him; and this I had
done, but looking up, saw it to be the actor Booth, whom
I knew to have access to places of this kind.  Thinking idly
that he was on his way to the stage, I stepped aside and let
him pass; and alas that I did so, for while I was yet
deliberating, and some distance from the President, I heard the
report of a pistol, and a moment afterward saw the assassin
leap upon the stage, with that strange cry of his mad brain,
"*Sic semper tyrannis*."  Thus the opportunity to serve my
benefactor came without my knowing it, and the strangeness of it
all has closed my lips till now; but it recurs to me at this time,
to add to the mournfulness of the picture as I look back to
that far-off parting on the great river in May, 1838.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WHAT THE CANTEENS HELD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center medium bold

   WHAT THE CANTEENS HELD

.. vspace:: 2

One evening, some days after leaving Quincy, we again
ran across Blott, and seemingly not different from what he
was at first.  Accosting him, Uncle Job asked:

"How do you find yourself to-night, Blott?" but this as if
seeking diversion rather than from any interest in the poor
wretch.

"Oh, I'm just runnin' by gravity.  The insects is botherin'
me, but not's bad, not's bad.  Why, they made more noise
than a fannin' mill at one time, givin' me no peace, nor lettin'
me sleep," Blott answered, kicking mechanically at some
object before him.  "Tell me," he went on, with the old
scared look, "how're the stars appearin' to you to-night,
Mr. Job?  Sorty as if rain was comin'?"

"No; how do they look to you?"

"Like red blotches with purple rings about 'em, an' movin'
here an' there quick, as if they was alive."

"You are ill, Blott," Uncle Job answered, sympathetically.

"No; it's nothin' but them toothache drops, an' it'll work
off.  You think it's whisky, mebbe, but it ain't, for I've drunk
it for years, an' it's never hurt me before, an' I don't believe
it'll hurt any one.  No; it's the drops an' the malary," Blott
answered.

"What makes you think you have malaria, Blott?" Uncle
Job asked.

"Why, I've had it ever since Black Hawk's war, six years
ago.  It come of sleepin' out nights."

"Were you in that war?" Uncle Job asked, his voice
showing more interest.

"Was I?  I was one of the main guys; had a horse, an'
helped pull the cannon an' things.  The malary come on me
first at Stillman's Run, where Black Hawk scart us stiff."

"Is that why the battle is called Stillman's Run?"

"It wa'n't a battle, just a volley an' a whoop an' a scramble
to git away.  Why we were that scart you could have
stood on our coat-tails, they stuck out so."

"Tell us about it; I am sure it must be interesting,"
Uncle Job responded, offering Blott a chair and taking one
himself.[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

[\*] In Mr. Holmes' references to Blott he at first
manifested some impatience with
was not strenuous in the matter and so I have included it,
feeling it worthy of regard
because relating to an historical event of great
importance to the people of the Upper
Mississippi Valley, in which Blott took a part.—THE AUTHOR.

.. vspace:: 2

"You see we were all cooped up at Fort Dixon," Blott
went on, seating himself, "when Major Stillman determined
to go an' do somethin'.  So we marched out, full of
expectation an' ignorance, in the direction where Black Hawk was.
When he heard we was comin' he sent out three Injuns with
a white flag to meet us.  These we took prisoners, an' some
of our people killed one of 'em.  Then the boys in front lit
out after the mounted scouts Black Hawk had sent to see
what become of his flag, an' succeeded in killin' two of these.
When Black Hawk saw this he took to the woods, an' by an'
by, when our fellers come along, the Injuns gave a great
whoop an' fired in the air, not hurtin' anybody.  At that we
turned an' run, an' them in the camp hearin' us comin' an'
thinkin' we was Injuns, lit out, every one on his own hook,
an' never stopped till they'd got under cover.  It seems funny
now, but it wasn't funny then.  I happened to be on a
long-legged mare that you couldn't see for the dust when she was
runnin', an' so kept ahead.  It was lucky for me, too, for them
who got off first in the panic, thinkin' in the dark that them
who was tearin' after was Injuns, fired, an' so a lot of our
people was killed that way.  Scart!  Why we thought every
bush or shadder was an Injun, an' one of our fellers' bridle
ketchin' on a stump, an' he thinkin' it was an Injun, jumped
off to surrender; but when he saw what it was, he gave the
tree a whack, an' mountin', never stopped till he'd reached
Dixon.  If anythin' on earth can make an Injun laugh, they
must have laughed that day."

"What was Black Hawk doing in Illinois, anyway?" Uncle
Job asked.

"He came over from Iowa to have a dog-feast an' a talk
with the Pottawatamies an' plant corn for his people, he said.
Anyway, if he'd meant war, he wouldn't have brought his
women an' children, would he?  But our people was scart, an'
said it was contrary to the treaty.  'Tain't likely, though,
that our boys would have killed the flag of truce bearer, or
shot Black Hawk's scouts, or run away, as they did finally,
but a wagon breakin' down that had a barrel of whisky aboard,
some of our soldiers drank all they could an' filled their
canteens with the rest.  It was their drinkin' of this stuff that
brought on the trouble, an' for that reason it ought to be
called the "Canteen War."

"So that is where you got the malaria, was it?" Uncle Job
interrupted.  "But were you in the battle of Bad Axe, too, in
that war?" he went on, tilting his chair against the wheelhouse
and crossing his legs, as if going to make a night
of it.

"Well, I should say I was; but shakin' an' as full of malary
as a 'possum is of fat."

"Tell us about it, please," Uncle Job demanded, lighting
a cigar and offering one to Blott.

"Well, we lined up there finally, with Black Hawk's
warriors an' twelve hundred Injun women an' children in the
willows on the water's edge between us an' the river.  When
we'd got 'em cornered they wanted to surrender, but this
our fellers wouldn't have, an' disregardin' the white flag, as
before, shot 'em down like rabbits whenever one showed his
head."

"That was cruel."

"Yes, but clean-like an' satisfyin' to our boys, who didn't
want any prisoners, but was in for finishin' it onct for all."

"Was there no outcry?"

"Not a cry.  The men an' squaws just dropped in their
tracks like lead when we shot 'em down, them as was only
hurt tryin' to creep away into the swamps."

"Did the Indians show fight?"

"When they saw they was bein' shot like pigeons, an' no
attention was paid to the white flag, they fired back, an' so
a lot of our fellers was killed that needn't have been.  Some
of the Injun women tried to swim the river with their little
ones, but the men on the steamboat killed or drove 'em back.
Some did git over, though, but the Sioux killed an' scalped
these, I heard."

"Did you take any prisoners?"

"Yes; some women an' children, but not many men."

"It is shameful that white men will be so cruel, even in the
heat of anger," Uncle Job exclaimed, puffing out great clouds
of smoke.

"Mebbe, but that's the way they fight Injuns.  'Tain't as
if one man was fightin' another, but like he'd fight a panther
or wildcat."

"Was Black Hawk in the battle?"

"No.  He was up the river with some warriors, tryin' to
git our army to chase him, so's to give his squaws an' children
a chance to git across; but our people was too smart for
that."

"Was Black Hawk a brave man?" Uncle Job asked.

"Yes; a badger to fight an' a fox to git away if need be."

"What became of him when the war was over?"

"He surrendered, an' they sent him to Jefferson Barracks,
an' when I saw him he was draggin' a ball an' chain around
like any common thief.  Afterward, though, they let him off
on his agreein' to go to Iowa."

"Was he a good general?" Uncle Job persisted.

"Yes; like a lightnin'-bug on a dark night in battle.
First here an' then there, an' so quick you couldn't git a bead
on him.  He never slept in a campaign, some claimed.  Torpid
Liver an' Split Ear, our Injun scouts, said he could go
a week without sleepin', though I didn't believe that; but in
the chase from Stillman's Run to Bad Axe he couldn't have
slept more'n an' hour a day.  Except for his copper color,
he was as fine a lookin' man as I ever saw; an' when he put
his eyes on you 'twas as if two coals of fire was just droppin'
into your stomach, they were so fierce an' hot-like.  For all
that, he wasn't cruel, an' didn't drink, an' was agin scalpin'
an' torturin' white prisoners, or deviltry like that, though
when fightin' other Injuns he follered the custom of his
people."

"I saw such an Indian once," I spoke up, remembering
the chief who had rescued my father and mother.  "He looked
like a king, and his eyes burned you."

"You never saw any one like Black Hawk unless it was
him, for there ain't any other such Injun," Blott answered.

"What else happened in the war?" Uncle Job asked, lighting
a fresh cigar.

"Nothin', except such things as always happen in Injun
wars.  Shootin' an' burnin' an' skirmishin' here an' there,
day an' night, an' women an' children scart to death, though
mostly without cause," Blott answered, making a furtive
dive at some object before him.

"Were you hurt in any way?"

"No, 'cept I got the malary; an' for months I didn't do
nothin' but take quinine an' whisky, first one an' then the
other."

"The other mostly, I fear," Uncle Job interrupted, drily.
"When you got well why did you not quit drinking?"

"I never got well, or if I felt better, the fear of the thing
kept me from quittin'.  Oh, it's awful!—the malary, I mean;
an' I feel it comin' on now, an' if you'll excuse me I'll go an'
git somethin' to head it off afore it gits the start."  Saying
which, Blott rose to his feet and hurried away before Uncle
Job could ask him another question.

"Poor devil, he will never overcome his malaria as long
as there is whisky to be had," Uncle Job remarked, as we
watched him disappear down the stairway.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ROLLAND LOVE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center medium bold

   ROLLAND LOVE

.. vspace:: 2

Cloudless days and nights scarcely less brilliant added to
the pleasure of our journey, and this fortunately, for we were,
throughout, greatly delayed by reason of low water and
drifting sands and shifting currents.  These, however, are ever
obstacles in the summer months on the upper river, but at the
time of which I speak the stream was little known, and the
pilots, in the main, ignorant of the courses of the river, so
that we were hindered more than would be the case at the
present time.  The delay, however vexatious it might have
been under some circumstances, only added to the pleasure of
the many who, like myself, were abroad in the world for the
first time, and so little or nothing was thought of it.

On the fourth evening, Uncle Job asked me to go with
him to the upper deck, and this I was glad to do, for there
the view was always finer than at any other place.  Seating
ourselves, we idly watched the river and the country round
about, enjoying to its full the serenity and tranquil beauty of
the night; and to me it has ever been memorable in this
respect above all others.  The stars reflected on the placid
surface of the water seemed fixed in its depths, and nowhere
else, so bright and steadfast did they appear.  Far off, the
moon, at its full, filled the valley with mellow light, except
at some distant point where it glistened in silvery whiteness
on the surface of the broad river, or was lost in the gathering
mists beyond.  About us the distant hills stood out like
sentinels, silent and observant, as if noting our progress, or
asleep in the fullness of nature.  On one side a black forest
banked itself against the blue sky, save where some giant
tree, lifting its head above its fellows, was outlined for
a moment against the distant horizon.

"From out that forest, now so still," Uncle Job spoke up,
softly, as we watched, "there came, only a little while ago,
the fierce cries of the Sacs and Foxes as they gathered for
battle or were scattered by our pursuing armies.  Now where
are they?" he added, sadly, as if stirred by the picture.

Farther on, patches of hawthorn and elder peered out
from the steep bank of the river, or lurched forward into the
stream, as buffaloes or wild horses will when stooping to
drink.  Back of these, on lonely peaks, towering cottonwoods
and elms stood watching us, and as if mourning our inroad
on their peaceful domain and the confusion it presaged.  Thus
we sat without speaking, attentive, yet half-asleep, watching
the view that changed with each passing moment, yet never
changed at all.  When in this way the night was half gone,
Uncle Job, who had scarce moved, uttered an exclamation of
impatience, and stretching his legs across the guard, spoke
up, though not as if he were addressing any one in particular:

"If no more delays occur we ought to reach Rock Island
in the morning, or by noon at the farthest."

"Yes," I answered, not regarding what he said.

"A beautiful place it is, too—great trees lining the sloping
bank, with a grassy plain beyond, backed by a forest reaching
down to the edge of the town," he went on, as if reading from
an advertisement.

"It must be fine," I responded, nowise interested.

"It is not an island, though, in any sense, as one would
suppose.  Nor rocky, either, but with green, soft as velvet,
reaching to the water's edge.  At one time its people thought
it would be a great city, perhaps the greatest, but already the
belief is dying out.  That is the way, though.  A town
springs up in a day, only to be followed later by a rush to
some other place, and so everything has to be commenced
anew"; and he sighed, as if these transformations had been
the cause of many grievous disappointments to him in his
short life.

"Have you ever lived in Rock Island?" I asked, seeing
he wanted to talk.

"Yes, for a while, as I have in other places; but only to
be caught up and carried on to some new town," he replied.

"Will you ever get fixed in one place, do you think?"
I asked.

"How would you like to live in Rock Island for a while—say
a month or two?" he replied, as if not hearing my idle
question.

"Why do you ask, uncle?" I answered, wondering what he
meant.

"Oh, we have a relative there.  A sort of a cousin, named
Rolland Love, and a very agreeable man, too.  He married
a second cousin of yours when young, but she dying, he has
married again; so he is a cousin and not a cousin, if you can
make that out."

"If he was once a cousin I suppose he is always a cousin,
isn't he?" I answered.

"I suppose so, and more particularly," he replied, "as he
is a man to open your heart to."

"Are we going to stop at Rock Island?" I asked, conscious
that what he was saying led up to something, I could
not tell what.

"Yes, if you think you will like it," he answered.  "I want
to see Rolland, and there is a matter that has been troubling
me ever since we left Quincy.  What would you say to staying
with him a while, until matters quiet down?" he went on,
abruptly, as if to have an end to something that oppressed him.

"Are you going to stay, too?" I asked.

"Well, no—or only for a day or so; but I will only be
a little way off, and we will see each other often, you know,"
he answered, reassuringly.

"Do you wish to leave me there?" I asked, a great lump
filling my throat at the thought.

"Yes, for a while.  It will throw Moth off the track if he
tries to follow us, as I fear he will, for your aunt will spend
half she has to get you back, the old shrew!" he exclaimed,
angrily.  "Think of her sending Moth on to Quincy.  She is
mad through and through, and now Moth, the scamp! will be
equally determined," and stopping, he seemed as if trying
to make out the persistence and cunning they would evince
in the pursuit.  To all this I made no answer, being filled
afresh with direful forebodings.  For I had fondly thought
the last few days had done away with fear of Moth, the river
cutting off all possibility of his troubling me further.

"If I can arrange to leave you with Rolland for a few
weeks," Uncle Job resumed, presently, "I will go home and
take measures to put it out of the power of your aunt to
molest you further.  After that we will have clear sailing, and
can do as we please."

The prospect thus held out of being freed from Aunt
Jane, now brought up afresh, served in some measure to
reconcile me to what he said.  Nevertheless, it made me feel
very sad; but in the week that had elapsed since we left Wild
Plum, now so far in the past, I had grown old, or had the
semblance of it, and so spoke up with some cheerfulness.

"I'll be glad to stay if you think it is best, uncle.  I must
learn to be away from you sometime, and I might as well
begin now, I suppose."

"That is my brave little brother," he answered, with
a click in his throat.  "It is the best thing we can do, I am
sure.  No one will dream of looking for you there, and I will
be only a few miles off, anyway.  Rolland will be glad to
have you come and stay with him, I know.  You will like
him, too, for he is the gentlest man in the world, and will
treat you more like a companion than anything else.  He
never knows any distinctions as regards age, he is so simple
in his ways."

"I am sure I shall like him," I answered, anxious to put
his mind at ease.

"He is funny about some things," Uncle Job went on,
"and microscopical, like many clerical men; but the lens
through which he looks at the world is amber instead of ink,
for there is no guile in him, nor crustiness of any kind."

"Why do you say he's microscopical?" I asked, not knowing
what he meant.

"Because of dealings with small things and of looking at
them mostly through the point of a pen.  The world with
such men too often takes on the hue of the ink that fills their
eyes, instead of the blue sky and shining sun."

"I never thought of that," I replied.

"It diminishes the perspective, you see, and so a drop of
ink is oftentimes enough to hide or drown a dozen men.
Rolland is not like that, though, and if he ever drowns
anybody it will be in honey, so sweet is his nature."

"Oh, I am sure I'll like him; but what does he do?" I
asked, now anxious to prolong the conversation.

"He is a kind of land clerk, but his work does not take up
all his time, and so he has a good deal of leisure.  This, I am
sorry to say, his habits sometimes lead him to misuse, but not
often.  Such things are common, though, here, and not much
thought of; but in his case they keep him poor and prevent
his rising in the world, as he would do otherwise."

"Is his wife like him?" I asked at a venture, not knowing
what to say next.

"I don't know, for I've never seen her.  When our cousin
died and Rolland's home was broken up he was like one lost,
and so after a while determined to marry again.  There being
no one in Rock Island he thought suitable, what did he do,
the simpleton! but write to a friend in St. Louis to pick him out
a wife.  This his friend did, and after a little correspondence,
Rolland went down after his bride.  They were married within
an hour after his arrival, and before the day was over were on
their way home.  It was quick work, but his business did
not permit of his being away, I suppose," Uncle Job added,
as if to explain the necessity for so much haste.

"What a queer way!  And has it turned out as he would
like?" I answered, wondering what kind of a wife one would
get in such a fashion.

"I don't know," he replied, "as I have not seen him since
he brought her home; but you will not see much of her, and
I am sure it must be all right.  If you think you will not like
it, though, say the word, and we will go on together and take
the chance of fighting off your aunt until matters can be fixed
up."

"No, I'll stop with Cousin Rolland if you think it best,"
I answered, not being able to see why the new wife should
alter our determination one way or the other.

"Yes, for the present, anyway; and now that it is settled,
let us turn in, for it is long past midnight," Uncle Job
answered, getting to his feet.

The arrangement thus concluded I did not afterward seek
to change, though it caused me to toss and tumble about for
many an hour after I went to bed.  The next morning I awoke
more reconciled than I had thought, and indeed was inclined
to it now rather than otherwise, offering, as it did, some new
excitement which, youth-like, I set off against any objections
there could be.

When we reached the little town of Rock Island, which
we did the middle of the forenoon, we parted from the Singletons
with many kind expressions of regret.  Mrs. Singleton,
now happy again in the reunion of her family, embraced and
kissed me, making me promise I would come and see her as
soon as I got to Appletop.  This I was only too glad to do,
for I had become very fond of her and the young ladies, all
having been kind to me from the very first moment of my
meeting them.  The leave-taking of Uncle Job was much
more prolonged, and unduly so, it seemed to me, in the case
of Miss Betty, and afterward, I noticed, he turned about
continually, as we mounted the shore, to wave her a new farewell.
This I thought strange, for commonly he was inclined to be
very reserved with ladies.  As we turned to leave the boat
I was surprised to observe Blott making his way toward the
town.  Hurrying to him, I caught his hand, crying out:

"Please, Blott, you're not going to betray me to Moth,
nor tell him I have stopped here, are you?"

"Be off with you!  What do you take me for?" he answered,
with considerable temper.

"Promise me, though," I pleaded.

"Well, I swear I won't, so help me," and he raised his hand
as if being sworn.  "I'd stop drinkin' first, my little bantam,"
he added in a lighter mood and as if to clinch the matter.

"Thank you; I know you'll do as you say," I answered,
relieved.

"You bet your life I will; an' if Moth troubles you again,
I'll break every bone in his nasty little body.  Mr. Lincoln's
the man for him, though, and a strange one he is, too.  One
minute so homely he'd sour milk, and the next you look up
expectin' to see the angels peerin' through the clouds an'
listenin' to what he says."  Saying which, Blott reached out
and took hold of my shoulders, as if to embrace me, but
thinking better of it, turned and went his way.

Overjoyed, I hastened after Uncle Job, whom I found
some distance off, still waving his handkerchief to Miss Betty,
who stood watching from the boat.  When we reached the
town, which lay a little back from the river, we went directly
to Cousin Rolland's office, which proved to be a very poor
affair indeed, being over a store, and having nothing in it
save a few pieces of rough furniture.  When he caught sight
of Uncle Job, as we mounted the stairs, he hastened to the
landing to receive him; and very glad he was indeed, if his
reception was a sign, for he took both Uncle Job's hands in
his and held them as if he would never let go.  When at last
Uncle Job was able to explain who I was and why we came,
he embraced me affectionately, saying with great heartiness:

"I am glad to welcome you, Cousin Gilbert.  It is so
long since I have seen any of my kin that it does my eyes
good."

"I'm glad to see you, Cousin Rolland, I am sure," I replied,
much pleased with his kind reception and cordial manner.

"We will be great friends and have many a lark together,
depend upon it," he went on, as he ushered us into his
office.

When Uncle Job explained his plans for circumventing
Aunt Jane, Cousin Rolland manifested the greatest enthusiasm,
and at a hint of the possibility of a visit from Moth, he
shook the goose-quill he held in such a savage, menacing way
that I felt at last that here I was safe.

When everything had been concluded to our satisfaction.
Uncle Job spoke of our new cousin and her willingness to
receive me as one of her family.  At this Cousin Rolland
seemed to remember her for the first time, for at mention of
her name his manner changed, and though he continued to
murmur words of welcome, he was not by any means the same
as before.  However, after some stirring about the office, he
was more at ease, bursting out anew, and in the most
animated way:

"Angeline will be glad to welcome you, Gilbert, I know she
will.  Indeed, she will esteem it an honor, Cousin Job, and
a pleasure.  You could not possibly leave the young man in
better hands, so let us talk about something else.  Yes,
indeed, it is all settled and fixed."  Saying which, he dropped
into a chair and began to arrange the inkstands and goose-quills
on the table in rows and angles, as if that was a part of
the business of his life.  This agitation passed unobserved by
Uncle Job, and I seeing it, set it down to a lover's embarrassment
at mention of his new wife, and nothing more.

"Why, do you know, Cousin Job," he went on, after
a while, "she is the dearest woman in the world, and when we
were married I was so much in love with her that I cut her
name in two and called her 'Angel.'"

"And now?" Uncle Job asked, absently, standing on tip-toe
and striving to catch a glimpse of the boat we had just left.

"Oh, now!  Well, in the stress of married life one gets to
be more formal, you see, and so I have come to call her plain
Angeline."

"Plain Angeline?"

"Yes, by her full name, you know, and simply, without
any formality.  It wears better.  Oh, she will be more than
pleased to have you with us, Cousin Gilbert, I know she will,"
he concluded, commencing anew to arrange and rearrange the
inkstands and goose-quills on his desk.

Upon these assurances of Cousin Rolland, and everything
else being arranged, Uncle Job concluded at the last moment
not to stop longer, but to go forward on the boat we had just
left.  I thought afterward that Miss Betty's presence had
something to do with this, for when we returned to the boat
they greeted each other as if they had been separated for
months instead of a few minutes.  This I wondered at
greatly, but without in any way understanding it, so simple
and inexperienced was I in the ways of the world.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`COUSIN ANGELINE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   COUSIN ANGELINE

.. vspace:: 2

Uncle Job's departure made me very unhappy, and when
I could no longer see a trace of the boat that carried him
away, my heart grew sick and tears started in my eyes at the
thought of my abandoned state.  Cousin Rolland, however,
scarce giving me time to breathe, took me here and there
about the little town, keeping up the while such a flow of small
talk that in a little while I found myself joining with the
greatest heartiness in all he said and did.  When it was time
for luncheon we went to his home, but not directly, for
making some excuse, he left me a little way off, going on alone.
This I thought very proper, I being a stranger to his wife and
the circumstances of my coming peculiar.  When, however,
he did not return for an hour or more, I became uneasy, and
some further time elapsing, was filled with fear, not being
able to understand the cause of his prolonged absence.  At
last, to my great relief, he returned, and without explaining
anything, began anew to assure me of the delight with which
Cousin Angeline entered into our plans and the desire she
had to know her young kinsman.  Thus relieved of any
anxiety, for I was never of a suspicious disposition, I went on
with him to his home in the greatest possible ease of mind.
Nothing in Cousin Angeline's manner tended to disturb this
feeling when I was presented to her.  Nor afterward, indeed,
at luncheon, for she was, on occasion and when that way
inclined, a woman of more than ordinary tact and dignity.
Much younger than Cousin Rolland, she lacked his rosiness
of color and fullness of figure, he being very red and plump
of build, while she was tall and of somewhat meager frame.
Her eyes, if I may attempt to tell you how she looked, were a
light blue, and save when at times tinged with a steeliness as of
ice, were rather attractive than otherwise.  Her mouth I thought
remarkable for its great firmness, for her lips offered no more
resistance to the eye than the edge of a knife-blade.  Her
nose, too, was noticeable, being finely formed and in all things
perfect, until at last, approaching the end, the material giving
out, or something else happening, what remained had been
squeezed into a point somewhat too sharp for comeliness, and
so left.  However, I did not observe these things at the time,
or if I did, only vaguely, being young and generally ignorant
in respect to the importance of such matters in our daily life.

The luncheon was light, but every way fit for abstemious
people, though much unlike what I had been used to at Wild
Plum, where there was profusion verging on waste in all such
things.  However, being hungry, I did not regard it particularly,
but ate with great heartiness, paying little attention to
what was going on about me.  Once indeed, as the meal
progressed, happening to glance in Cousin Angeline's
direction, I thought I detected some show of uneasiness at the
inroads I was making on her bread and butter, but not believing
such a thing possible, I gave it no further attention.
Nothing of any account was said at the table, except that
Cousin Angeline showed much curiosity concerning my old
home, and particularly Aunt Jane and her attorney, Moth.
This I thought very kind, and answered her inquiries with
great fullness, being desirous above all things to please her.
Seeing this, she smiled encouragingly, as if much admiring my
amiability and frankness of speech.

After luncheon Cousin Rolland did not stop, but bidding
me good by hurried away, and this abruptly, as if greatly
pressed for time.  Being thus left alone with Cousin Angeline,
and she seeming to forget I was there, I presently went out to
inspect the garden, some glimpses of which I had obtained
from the window.  Of gravel and cleanliness there was no
end, but of flowers no great profusion or variety, and such as
there were, I thought, had a stiff, aggressive look, as if
challenging me to come near or touch them.  Altogether they
had the air of soldiers on duty, and because of too strict
discipline or for some other good reason, had lost something of
the glow and comfort of outdoor life.  Of flowers, however,
I had never as a youth taken much account, not being able
to understand them, nor, indeed, make them thrive, as my
mother could without thought.  Because of this I was inclined
to look on what I now saw as something out of my line, and
therefore not to be lightly criticised.  In this frame of mind
I went on to where a mild-eyed cow stood watching me
curiously, as cows will when strangers approach.  Not having
any morsel with which to tempt her palate, I stroked her face
for a while, and then turned to the little colonies of chickens
that busied themselves near by.  These I saluted as old
friends, being much inclined to their cheerful companionship,
carried on as it always is with so much small talk and
pleasurable excitement.  Thus being once more in their company,
I fell into an attitude of attention and interest, to which they
at once responded by much clucking and diligent search after
the small particles of food the yard contained.  These old
friends I came in time to know very well, and with great
liking, because of their simple ways; but of their product,
which I looked forward to with interest, as young people of
good appetite will, only a small portion ever found its way to
the table.  The reason of this, as I learned at a later day,
was that the greater part was put aside and converted by
Cousin Angeline, with other small perquisites of the house,
into a secret fund for her own particular behoof and
divertisement.  This properly enough.  However, it did not come
fully to light until after Cousin Rolland's death, some years
later, when the fund thus laid away came in the nick of time
to enable her to live on in great contentment and ease of life.
This until one day a clergyman of studious habits coming
along and being desirous to marry, yet not having the time
to examine the goods he was getting, or being ignorant in
respect to such matters, he took her out of hand, as Cousin
Rolland had done before him.  However, these things being
then unknown, as I say, I confidently looked forward to a
plentiful supply of butter and eggs, as in the old time at Wild
Plum, though mistakenly, as it appeared.  When the scantiness
of fare in this respect became apparent, I did not much
regard it, I am bound to say, being always stout of appetite
for such things as fell in my way, thinking little of what was
lacking.  Indeed, I had heard it said, and wisely, that we
were ever inclined to eat more than was good for us.  This
saying was often on my Aunt Jane's lips, and she, living up
to her doctrine, was in everything healthy and well preserved.
So that if sometimes on getting up from Cousin Angelina's
table I felt that I could have eaten more, remembering my
aunt and her rugged health, I was fain to think it for the best.
Such reflections of the young, however apt, are more natural
to mature folk, being seasoned in the latter case with a philosophy
of life that the former lack.  So that if abstinence is not
always accepted by children with good grace, older people and
relatives, however remote, should make allowance for the
circumstance.

On the evening of my arrival, tea was delayed by Cousin
Rolland's not coming at the time expected, and when he
reached home I observed an unsteadiness of limb and height
of voice that I had not noticed before.  Cousin Angeline also
remarked the change, and harshly, by a word that, out of
respect for Cousin Rolland, I may not repeat.  When the
meal was over, and it was not such, I am bound to say, as to
cause one to lay awake because of too much fullness, we sat
about in great discomfort of mind, Cousin Rolland making
pretense of reading and Cousin Angeline busying herself with
some accounts that lay docketed in a precise way on her
table.  These, I learned later, had to do with the many charitable
matters in which she was interested, and to their great
and lasting good, so it was claimed.  Her contributions
toward work of this nature, however, were rather in the way
of supervision and needed advice than in the giving of more
tangible things.  In new and unorganized societies such duties,
she was often at pains to point out, were much more
necessary and difficult of procurement than the mere giving of
money.  Nevertheless, in accepting offices requiring this
disparity of service she did so without jealousy or protest, her
desire to help, she would say, leading her to act with cheerful
zeal, leaving the lesser labor of providing funds and supplies
to those competent in that direction.

When it was time to retire for the night, Cousin Angeline
made much of the cozy nook she had arranged for me, and
indeed it quite exceeded anything of the kind I had ever seen.
The couch, which answered for both bed and lounge, was put
to one side of the kitchen, and so deftly that lying down my
feet just missed the stove at one end, while my head barely
escaped contact with the cupboard at the other.  Upon trial
I found the bed hard and the clothing scant, but it being
summer this last I thought not worth noticing.  Cousin Rolland,
who had by this time regained his former composure, eyed the
bed with great disfavor, but being in disgrace, did not venture
further than to inquire why she had not given me a room,
there being one unoccupied.  To this Cousin Angeline replied
by look rather than words, but on the whole giving out that
it was unprepared, and in any event hardly suitable for such
occupancy, being in the nature of a guest-chamber.  As
I made no remark, but began resolutely to take off my clothes,
being tired with the day's doings, nothing more was said on
the subject.  Bidding me good night, they went away, leaving
me in darkness, save that, happily and as of good omen,
plenty of light came from the full moon shining through the
open window at my side.  The bed, to my young and pliant
bones, seemed at first not so hard, but later, the edge being
taken off my weariness, I awoke to find it different; but never
having set much store by such things when living in greater
luxury of life, and being still tired, I turned my face to the
wall, and was soon lost in sleep.

My life the first day was in no particular different throughout
my stay with Cousin Angeline, except such slight change
as going to Cousin Rolland's office or loitering by the river,
which latter ever drew me, by reason of its great and masterful
ways.  Unhappily for me, however, my habits, and more
particularly my manners, not being suited to city life, soon
attracted the attention and reproof of Cousin Angeline.  In
this connection, and that I might improve the faster, she cited
as examples for me to study her orphaned nephews, Rudley
and James, whose bringing-up she had supervised, and to
whom she was in all things greatly attached.  Her reference
to these young gentlemen, whom I was destined never to see,
were given, too, with much strength of utterance as time went
on and the need of reproof became more and more apparent.
For Cousin Angeline was not lacking in force of speech, as
she was fond of saying, when good might be accomplished
thereby.  Her frequent reference to Rudley and James made
them a source of anxiety to me at first, and later a cause of
fear and shame, for however strenuously I sought to follow
their example, I could never by any chance come near to
them, even in the smallest particular of their lives.  In the
larger things my failure was more marked, but not without
hopefulness at first.  Thus, when Cousin Angeline told me it
had never been necessary to bribe Rudley and James to read
the Bible, and that even as children they loved to bury their
faces in its sacred pages, I strove to become equally
interested.  So, too, in regard to keeping the Sabbath and absence
of desire to amuse myself on that sacred day.  To them, she
was wont to say, the hum of the Sunday-school was like the
music of the harps; and upright and alert, with attentive
faces, no fragment of prayer or sermon ever escaped their
hungry ears.  Of texts they could repeat every one they had
heard, down to the very last, but I, when questioned, could
not for the life of me think of one.  It thus fell out that the
feet of Rudley and James, being fixed on solid ground, all
else came easy.  It was a second nature to them to be respectful
and prompt at meals, sparing in the use of jam, and ever
regardful of those about them.  Nor could they tell a lie, or
come to the table save with shining faces.

Such, unfortunately for me, because of my shortcomings,
were Rudley and James, in all things upright and without
shred or raveling of any kind.  When I came to know how
perfect they were, I never through vanity sought to equal
them in any great thing, but struggled only to pattern after
them in smaller matters, but fruitlessly, as it turned out.
Nor was I alone in these efforts, not indeed to achieve
preferment, but bear equality in some immaterial thing.  For
Cousin Rolland came in with like scantiness of resource in
comparison with Cousin Angeline's dear father, who in every
detail of life, so it appeared, was a model of sobriety and
goodly thrift.  These comparisons, however unpalatable,
Cousin Rolland and I came in time to bear with patience;
nay, to look forward to with equanimity, as one may become
accustomed to any disquieting thing in life.  Nor did we
ever question anything she said, for Cousin Angeline was not
a woman to argue with, much less to contradict in matters
about which she had made up her mind.  If, indeed, one
were so foolish, she had a way of conjuring up something in
her own experience that would utterly and forever upset all
your arguments, however plausible they might appear.  This
trait, however, we often notice in good men and women that
we know, and so I do wrong, perhaps, to speak of it as peculiar
to her.

In all Cousin Angeline's references to Rudley and James,
the former, I came to remark, was ever named first.  Whether
this was because he was older or the more upright of life
I never knew—or if I did, have forgotten.

Thus they passed, and to my good, I hope; but in the long
years that have elapsed since that far-off time I have had, as
you may suppose, many curious reflections regarding them;
not, indeed, in the way of speculative desire for nearer
acquaintance, but rather as to how they fell out in the
end—whether they lived on to old age, looked up to and honored by
the world, or relaxing because of too great strain, finally fell
by the wayside in sheer contrariness of spirit, and so ended
their lives in shame, and different from what might have been
hoped.  Of these details and others of interest I shall now
never know, for the connecting-threads by which knowledge
might have come to me were long since severed.  Thus it has
been that at the end of all my cogitations concerning them,
I have ever been compelled, and to my great regret, to bid
them a new and reluctant farewell.





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.. _`THE FISHERS`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FISHERS

.. vspace:: 2

"Fish'll bite their own tails on a day like this, Gilbert, and
will go crazy at sight of a grasshopper," Cousin Rolland
remarked one afternoon as we came out from luncheon and
were well clear of the house.

"Yes," I answered, looking up at the sky, which was
overcast with gray clouds.

"What do you say, then, to a little diversion—after office
hours?" he asked, coaxingly, as if seeking to influence me.

"I'd like it," I answered, which he knew well enough.

"Well, then, suppose you be at the inlet at four—that is,
if your cousin can spare you," he added, winking, and
glancing in the direction of the house.

"What kind of bait shall I get?" I asked, disregarding his
reference to Cousin Angeline.

"Oh, anything.  If you could lay hold of a frog, though, we
might get a bass or pickerel, maybe; but pork or worms will do
for cat and suckers, and they are good enough fishing for me."

"All right; I'll be there with what I can find," I answered,
as he walked away.

Like all good-natured men, Cousin Rolland was very fond
of this kind of sport, and without much, if any, reference to
the weather, though if favorable, as in the present instance,
he never failed to make it an excuse.  Fishing, indeed, was
the one thing in our lives from which we derived unalloyed
pleasure, albeit partaken of surreptitiously and with fear and
trembling as regards Cousin Angeline, who looked upon such
things as weak and frivolous, and not to be countenanced,
much less encouraged.

The ground we most frequented was a little inlet below the
town, near where the Sacs and Foxes once had their home,
though for pickerel and bass we often went as far as the
juncture of the two rivers, some way off.  Hid away in the little
cove I have mentioned, Cousin Rolland kept a boat, which
I was privileged to use when I could steal away; and this was
much oftener than one would think, because of Cousin
Angeline's frequent absences from home in pursuance of her many
charitable labors.  When Cousin Rolland's work permitted,
he would join me, and loosing our little craft, we pulled into
the quiet bay in search of such sport as the day afforded.
This, however, without hope of any great catch as regards
number or quality of fish, but with many idle comments
regarding the water and nature of the bait and other things
of that kind, such as fishermen are given to.

One place in the little inlet, where the water was deep and
the bottom black with mud, catfish were always to be found
in the shade of the evening, and here at such times we were
in the habit of casting our lines; and in regard to this fish,
I am bound to say it is not generally held in the high estimation
its plastic nature and grave character merit.  Moving
about all its life in the quietude of the deep, cool water, it
comes to the surface without flutter or hurry of expectation,
but with a steady pull on the line such as one might expect
from its bulk and dignified character.  This absence of flurry
is misconstrued by the unthinking, and causes many fishermen
to underestimate the value and game qualities of the fish.
For one must not suppose that it is without feeling or spirit
because it makes so little fuss.  On the contrary, its grinding
teeth and close-set jaws clearly evince its courage and disposition
to fight if there was anything to be gained by such waste
of energy.  "Why struggle against the inevitable!" it seems
to say, and in this clearly shows itself superior to all others
of its kind, though if one would clearly understand its rage
and undying hate he has but to watch its pliant whiskers as
they wag and twirl as it emerges from the water, and afterward
when lying helpless in the bottom of the boat.  Curiously,
the head of this fish is in all things too big for its body,
but why this is so I have never heard any one venture an
opinion.  It is as if it were made for some other and bigger
animal, but there being none such about, nature had in
derision clapped it on this creature, all too small.  This
unfortunate fish afforded us no end of pleasure, but of our catch,
after giving it some examination and remark, we generally
ended by slipping it back into the stream, to be caught again,
unless, indeed, it was of considerable size and firmness, when
if we thought it prudent, we put it aside for Cousin Angeline's
table or charitable endeavors.

If it happened that we were on hand too early for cat to
bite, we fished for suckers, of which there were great numbers
about the mouth of the little bay.  It is from this harmless
fish, you must know, that feeds mainly on succulent grasses,
that the good people of Illinois derive their patronymic.
Why it, any more than another, should have had so great an
honor thrust upon it I do not know, unless, indeed, because
of its great prevalence in the sluggish streams of the state.
Viewed from the exterior, it is as shapely a fish as one could
wish, but inwardly is full of bones; not diffused, indeed, as
in the case of other fish, but tied up like faggots or sheaves
of wheat, and in such diminutive parcels that no ingenuity of
the gourmand is sufficient to evade the delicate morsels.  The
mouth of the sucker is its striking feature, however, and from
this it derives its name.  Without teeth and featureless, this
interesting fish has a way of puckering its lips into a knot and
then pursing them out suddenly, as a child will in derision of
its playmates; or perhaps more like a man who, firmly drawing
in his lips, as if nothing could ever move him from his set
purpose, suddenly relaxes and gives up all without a struggle.

Nothing could exceed our delight in snaring the inoffensive
creatures that frequented the little inlet, and indeed it is
difficult to imagine any form of recreation more refreshing or
likely to relax the overstrained nerves of men.  This more
especially, I may say, in the case of philosophers and others
not given to much hardness of muscle.  Its restive properties,
too, are far greater, I am constrained to believe, than are
to be found in the new-fangled reel and more alert game,
whereby your nervous system is much overwrought and
the fish put to a vexation of spirit every kindly man must
deplore.

In this way, and as I have described, the days went by
until two months had come and gone, when one afternoon,
as we sat watching our lines, Cousin Rolland remarked,
spitting on his bait a second time:

"Your Cousin Angeline has more work to do, Gilbert."

This news, while important, as was everything concerning
Cousin Angeline, seemingly did not concern me, and so I only
answered:

"Yes, cousin."

"She has a correspondent."

"Has she?" I replied, absently, pulling in a bullhead that
wriggled on the hook as if some one were tickling it to death.

"Cousin Angeline's fond of writing and accounts."

"This has nothing to do with the charities, though," he
answered, reflectively.

"I suppose letter-writing's strange here?" I replied,
throwing the bullhead back into the water and putting on
a fresh worm.  "But we ought always to write to our kin, and
Cousin Angeline's got a lot, you know."

"Yes, including papa and the two nephews; but it is not
her kin who are writing to her now," he replied, jerking at
his line.  "Drat it! that's the third worm that turtle has
picked off my hook."

"Try a grasshopper, cousin; but who else writes to her?"
I answered, dropping my hook close to the bottom for cat.

"A lawyer, of all men."

"A lawyer!  What can he have to say?" I answered, little
interested.

"Oh, there are many things lawyers can write about, as in
this case," he replied.  "You would jump out of the boat,
too, if you knew his name."

"Why, what have I to do with it?" I answered, looking
up surprised.

"Can't you guess who it is?" he answered, eying me sideways.

"No, unless it's Mr. Lincoln.  I don't know any other,"
I answered.

"It is not Mr. Lincoln, for he never heard of your cousin.
It is some one you dislike, and for good reason," he replied.
slowly.

"Some one I dislike!" I answered, trying to think who he
could mean.

"Yes, but it is all right, I hope.  It's—it's—Moth," he
answered at last, catching his breath.

This piece of news, which he had sought to lead up to with,
so much pains, and which if I had not been so dull I would
have guessed, I was altogether unprepared to hear.  Surely
nothing so startling could have been dreamed of, and repeating
the name over and over, I sat staring at him, unable to
say more.

"Yes, Moth," he went on, "the rascal!  I saw the letter
on her table."

"What did it say?" I asked, after a while, scarce able to
speak.

"I could only read the name, for your cousin came in at
the moment, and made such an ado about my spying into her
correspondence that I was frightened.  When I told her again
and again that I had not read a word the letter contained, she
finally appeared to believe what I said, and there the matter
dropped."

"Do you think he knows I'm here?" I asked, foolishly,
feeling sure he did.

"I am afraid so, else why should he write to her?  He must
have found out that you stopped off here, and so have traced
you.  Some one in Rock Island has written him—betrayed
you, Gilbert, I fear," he added, coloring, and winding his line
absently about the stick he held.

"Yes, but what am I to do?  I'll not let Moth take me.
I'd throw myself into the river first," I answered, scarce
knowing what I said.

"No, of course not; and if it turns out that he is really
after you, you must go to your Uncle Job.  It is only a few
hours' ride, and if there is no boat, you can go by the
highway.  There is no need to act hastily, though.  Let us watch
and see.  Maybe it is all right, after all."

"No, they're after me, and I'm not going back to the
house," I answered, determined never to come into Moth's
clutches.

"That will never do, Gilbert.  We will go home and spy
out the ground, as I have said.  Moth will never come this
far on so uncertain an errand," he added, as if to comfort me.

"Yes, he will, now that he has found out I'm here and he
has some one to help trap me," I answered, thoughtlessly, as
I should not have done, because of Cousin Rolland.  He,
however, took no notice of what I said, but taking up the
oars brought us to the shore, and securing the boat we started
for home, much cast down in spirits.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CONSPIRATORS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CONSPIRATORS

.. vspace:: 2

At the supper-table Cousin Angeline gave no sign except
that she seemed to speak more kindly than was her wont and
to put herself out somewhat to add to my comfort.  This was
so unusual that by and by if she but offered me a dish or
smiled, I was ready to cry out with fear.  For what more
natural, if she were going to give me up, than that she should
seek to lull me to sleep meanwhile by little attentions of this
nature.  Of Moth or his letter she said not a word.  Nor did
she so much as look at Cousin Rolland, who sat dumb, with
his face buried in his plate.  Most strange of all, she did not
speak of her father or Rudley and James.  This alarmed me
more than aught else, for such a thing had never happened
before that I could remember.  Thus I found nothing to comfort
me, and supper being over, I after a little while excused
myself and went to bed; but sleep did not visit my tired eyes,
and at the first peep of day I got up and went into the
garden.  Here I wandered aimlessly about until summoned to
breakfast.  Afterward, still more disturbed, my mind conjured
up a thousand improbable things, till finally, worn out with
loss of sleep and worry, I entered the house, and slipping
unobserved into the parlor, lay down on a settle that stood
in the corner, where I soon fell asleep.  How long I had thus
lain I do not know, when I was awakened by voices in the
adjoining room.  At this I got up, greatly alarmed, for of way
of escape there was none, save through the room from whence
the voices came.  Listening intently, I recognized Cousin
Angeline's voice, and then, almost with the same breath,
Moth's.  Fearing they would enter the room where I lay,
I secreted myself, and luckily, as it turned out, for in a
moment the parlor door was thrown open and Cousin Angelina
and Moth entered.

"Your letter, Mrs. Love, notifying me of Gilbert being
here was delayed, not being properly directed," Moth went
on, finishing what he had been saying; "but as soon as it
came to hand I wrote you, and have followed as quickly as
I could."

"I am glad you have come," Cousin Angeline replied,
seating herself on the settle behind which I was hidden, "for
every day the lad is away from his aunt and her restraining
influence is greatly to his disadvantage."

"I am sure of that, as indeed my client is," Moth
answered, striding back and forth.

"I have done what I could to correct his morals and
abominable habits, and while there is nothing positively wicked
about him, he is wayward, and I can plainly see a tendency
in him to go to the bad that nothing but strict discipline will
overcome.  Miss Holmes has probably observed this, too,
Mr. Miller?"

"Moth, if you please, madam.  Yes, she has noticed the
tendency you speak of, and it is because of it that I have
hastened; and now that I am here," he went on, "I will lose
no time in having him taken before the court and his aunt
appointed guardian.  His uncle abandoning him is evidence
of his unfitness, so there will be no trouble this time, I
apprehend."

"Take him before the court!  What for, pray?  No, no,
you will never get him that way," Cousin Angeline answered,
in a decided voice.

"Indeed, madam, why not, may I ask?"

"There will be delay, and in the end you will be defeated
through the efforts of his uncle and, I fear, my husband,
whose heart is like melted butter."

"Then what am I to do? for have him I will," Moth
answered, in his dogged way.

"Of course; he belongs to his aunt," Cousin Angeline
replied.  "But why bother the courts with so trifling a thing,
Mr. Miller?"

"Moth, I said, madam, if you please—Moth.  I fear I do
not quite understand your meaning.  How else, pray, can
I secure him except through the courts?"

"It is plain enough.  Take him wherever you find him.
What have the courts to do with his going back to his aunt?
It will be time enough to consult them afterward, I should
think," she answered, as if there was no other way.

"I could handle him easily enough if I could once get him
away from here," Moth answered, reflectively.  "There is
many a way to make a lad keep quiet, or silence inquiry; but
how to get him, that is the thing that sticks me."

"It is easy enough if you have the courage and tact," she
replied, decisively.

"How, madam?" he asked, surprised.

"Well, in this way, among others.  He is in the habit of
stealing off to a little inlet below the town, and quite out
of the way of observation.  I will give him permission to go
there this afternoon, and that will please him, for he would
rather idle away his time than do any useful thing.  He will
go straight to the inlet, and once there you can come upon
him unawares, and in a place where he can neither fly nor
make himself heard.  You must go early, however, and before
my husband joins him, as he will be likely to do later, being
that way inclined, I am sorry to say."

"That is all right as far as it goes, madam, but afterward?"
Moth asked, doubtfully.

"When you have him, capsize his boat, and every one will
think he has been drowned.  Then if you can't get him away,
you are sadly lacking in resources," Cousin Angeline added,
grimly, as if to spur him on.

"Suppose some one should be about.  You can't tell,"
Moth answered, dubiously.

"There will be no one, for the place is aside, as I have
said.  No one frequents it except Gilbert and my husband.
And once he is in your possession, you can drop down the river
to the first town, and from there take him home; and good
riddance to the little glutton."

"Well, the plan seems all right, madam, and I will try it,
and am much obliged to you for your advice, and the hint
about overturning the boat," Moth answered, with a chuckle,
as he turned toward the door.  "Do not fail to have him on
hand, though.  And about another matter I had nearly
forgotten," he added, facing about.  "You have been very
obliging, and my client directs me to say that she will lose
no time in recompensing you for your trouble, and of this you
may rest assured."

"Thank you; I have not expected any recompense, but
only sought to do my duty by the unfortunate lad.  However,
she can do as she likes in the matter," Cousin Angeline
answered, as if greatly pleased at the idea of a reward.  "Do
not fear in regard to Gilbert, Mr. Miller.  He will be on
hand, as I have said, or if anything should prevent his going
this afternoon, he will be there to-morrow.  It would be
impossible for him to keep away from the river two days in
succession, the little vagabond!"

"Thank you; and now as the matter is fully understood,
I will go and make the necessary arrangements," Moth
answered; and bidding her good day, took his departure.

When the street door closed behind him and his footsteps
could no longer be heard, Cousin Angeline left the room, and
putting on her bonnet, followed him, but for what purpose
I could not imagine.  Nor did it matter, for when she was
gone I sprang up, and not losing a moment, gathered such
articles of clothing as I could lay hands on, and wrapping
them about some biscuits I found in the cupboard, slipped out
of the back door and so into the alley.  Following this in the
direction of the country, I quickly reached the forest, and
hiding myself in its depths, soon found my way to the road
that led to Appletop.





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.. _`LOST IN THE FOREST`:

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   CHAPTER XXVI


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   LOST IN THE FOREST

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However much we may desire to retain the unconscious
spirit of youth, it vanishes with life's first nipping frost, and
although the leaves may not fall in a night, they have no sap
or potency left in them.  Thus it was with me from that
melancholy day when my father went down broken and
disheartened.  The shell, however, had not yet fallen apart, but
from the day that I left Wild Plum childhood vanished, and
the weeks were like years in growth and knowledge of worldly
things.  So that now, at twelve, my youth was already a thing
of the past, and not to be considered in any other light.  It
mattered not that others did not see the change.  This pleased
me rather than otherwise; but Moth made me less than
I was—a mere creature not worthy of thought—and because
of it I hated him, and my aunt not less.  They threatened all
I at present regarded, so fast had I grown in love of things
apart; and to shake them off, and in all matters go contrary
to their wishes, was now uppermost in the desire of my heart.
In this I was again successful, and going forward in the bright
sunshine, my heart lightened as I reached the summit of the
bluff and looked down on the village I had left behind.  Its
scattered houses lay bathed in the afternoon's sun, and beyond
them the great river, smooth and glistening, stretched away
on either side, broken only by the lofty trees that lined its
eastern shore.  To the south the little inlet, bordered about
with willows, where Cousin Rolland and I were wont to go,
I could plainly see; and in the heart of the village his house
stood out among its neighbors, as if somehow greater than
them all.  Looking, I imagined I could see Cousin Angeline
watching from her door, and beckoning me to return.  Knowing
it could not be, I yet was none the less alarmed, and
turning, ran on, the quicker to hide myself in the forest that
lay behind.

As I went forward my spirits mounted with every step; for
such is ever the elasticity of our young life, its shadows losing
themselves in the smallest ray of light.  Now again I was
free, beneath the spreading trees and overhanging sky, and
hurrying on, a frenzy seized me, and I sang and cried aloud
like one crazed.  Never had the odors of the woods seemed
so sweet or the flowers that bordered the road so full of
beauty.  Hastening, the murmurings of the forest and the
sight of the birds flying back and forth across my path, or
running forward in semblance of fear, little by little soothed
my mind and made me share with them the peaceful sweetness
of the surrounding scene.  The path I followed, for it
was little more, now plain, now obscure, had no set rule, but
went here and there, as in the old days of Indian life.  If the
trees were dense, it went around them, as it did the rocks and
hills.  So, too, with the slumbering pools and impassable
stretches that lay along the way.  These it dodged as if in
play, leaving Nature's tracing undisturbed as in the grace of
its first creation.  Each turn in the meanderings of the road,
as if in jealousy, hid some mystery of its own.  A vista or
cluster of trees it might be, or perhaps a distant view of
some quiet valley, clothed in vestments of color and asleep
in its hazy depths.  Thus I went on, disregardful, noting
only what was about me, softly beguiled, and after a while
silent, plucking at the wild flowers by the way, or bathing my
face in their soft perfume.  Coming in this mood upon a
wild-plum tree that grew beside the road, I gathered its leaves in
remembrance of my home, and pressing them to my lips,
thrust them into my bosom, wet with my tears.  In this way
the afternoon passed, the openings in the forest showing
more and more the sun hastening to its setting.

As I proceeded, idly and unconcerned as to what might be
before me, the sound of a galloping horse reached my ear,
and turning, I discovered Moth coming toward me at full
speed.  As I stood gazing, unable to move, scarce to breathe,
another horseman, turning into the road from the overhanging
shrubbery, followed on.  Wondering idly whether he were
a confederate or some one in waiting, my senses came back
to me, and turning, I plunged without thought into the tangled
undergrowth that bordered the road where I stood.  As I did
so Moth called my name, but not regarding it, I hastened on,
seeking only to pursue a course he could neither trace nor
follow.  When I had gone some distance in this distracted
way, the report of a pistol reached me, followed a moment
later by another discharge.  Startled anew, I hurried on, and
faster than before, not knowing what it meant, nor caring,
so that I might only hide myself in the forest depths.  Thus
I ran, always in the direction of the deep woods, making such
haste as I could, often falling, but paying little heed if I but
made some headway.  In this way I came at last upon an
opening in the trees, and here I stopped and threw myself
upon the ground, worn out with fatigue and the fear that had
oppressed me.  When I was somewhat rested it was already
growing dark, so that I could not retrace my steps had
I desired.  This, however, I had no thought of doing; the
forest hid me, and I welcomed its solitude and deepening
shadows as a cover under which I was secure.  Looking about
me, in the center of the opening a giant sycamore reared its
height far above the surrounding trees.  Dead and glistening
white, its extended limbs, long since fallen, had left an
opening to the sky, and about this the trees reached out their
arms like beggars seeking alms.  On the edge of the cleared
space, and as a tracing to the picture, shrubs and wild
raspberries grew, and dense, so as to form an impassable barrier
save where I stood.

Beside the dead tree, whence I could see the overhanging
sky, I determined to pass the night; and hastening ere darkness
set in, I gathered a handful of berries, and placing them
beside my little store of food, sat down in happy contentment
to my evening meal.  Ere this was finished, darkness had
closed in, and fatigued with the events of the day and what
had gone before, I stretched my body on the soft grass with
the dead sycamore for a pillow.  Looking up as I lay
outstretched, the sky, which was before clear, had now become
overcast, gray, filmy clouds scattering themselves across its
face like puffs of steam, and seeming to fly rather than float
in the summer air.  Nor was this the only change.  The
treetops, no longer still, gave forth faint murmurings, swaying
and curtesying to each other as if in welcome or expectancy
of some coming event.  The wind rising as I gazed, filled
the air with fitful meanings, not unlike fear, and soon flying
leaves and bits of wood tossed from the swaying trees, falling
on my face, gave notice that the storm was gaining in strength.
The moan of the forest as the wind whipped the branches of
the trees presently rose into wild uproar, like the mad rush
of multitudes of men.  Then, as if worn out with the effort,
it would die away into pitiful murmurings, only to spring up
again a moment later with greater fury than before.  Thus
as I watched, the storm came on with ever-increasing tumult
and confusion of sounds, but orderly and in sequence, like
a great orchestra getting under way.  The whirl and roar of
the wind as the rising tempest swept the impeding forest in
no wise disturbed my repose, but soothed, rather, both my
body and mind.  Now again I was once more at Wild Plum,
and listening, as in childhood, to the woods and the voices of
the air and the night.

No feature of Nature's storehouse, it may be said, is so
full of grandeur and expectancy as a storm in the forest.
A scourge, maybe, but not in the sense of punishment, but
of playfulness and reviving life!  A carnival of the air, a
frolicking of the atoms, where moderation gives place to
fantasies and all the world joins in the fullness of life!  Many,
I know, do not look upon such things with any pleasure, but
for the most part all such are city born, and not used to wide
expanses where the wind is free to work its will, nor cumbered
about with the devices of men that serve to stay its strength
and hinder its progress.  To such, storms are fraught with
direful happenings, in which the wind and lightning are
dreaded agents; but not so do those who are country bred
look upon the tempest.  Nor did I, but lay with upturned face,
harkening to each sound as if it conveyed some form of
speech, which I have no doubt it did.

In a little while, and as couriers might carry the news,
flashes of lightning shone through the trees and spun out
across the open sky until presently the wide expanse of
heaven was ablaze with the reflected light.  Counting from
these to the thunder that followed, I kept track in idle
curiosity of the storm as it approached.  Nor was it long delayed,
but came on, preceded by flurries of rain, which the wind,
catching up, whipped into shreds of mist and spray.  At last,
as if satisfied with the preparation made for its coming, the
storm burst, and not lightly, as it sometimes does, but
deluging the earth with water and overspreading the sky with
masses of phosphorescent light and deep reverberating
thunder.  Rising to my feet, I sought shelter behind the great
tree, harkening to the wild roar of the tempest as it swept
past, echoing and reëchoing through the forest like the
beating of the ocean on some rockbound coast.  In the midst of
this, and confusing, a sound as of booming cannon caught
my ear.  Listening, I thought it the cry of a wild beast, but
in a moment, catching the direction more clearly, found it
came from the hollow of the great tree beside which I stood.
Thus the night wore on, the rain after a while dying away,
but the wind, as if in recompense, increasing each moment in
violence, its wild shrieking and the mad rush of the trees as
they bent this way and that rising and falling like no sound
that man can describe or imitate.  For in such things Nature
claims its sole prerogative, and strive as we may, we cannot
in any way mimic its voices or varying moods.

Entertained as one bred in the city might be at a play,
I neither sought nor desired sleep; but as the storm reached
its climax a tremor shook my frame and fear laid hold of me,
as if some great and pressing danger threatened.  Of what
nature, however, or from whence, I could not tell, for in no
way were the sounds that reached me different from those
I had heard before.  What was it, then?  Some instinct of
life that cried out within me, or a voice of the night that bade
me beware!  Listening, I could distinguish nothing, nor
make aught of my fear.  Weak and scarce able to stand,
I reached out my hand to steady myself against the great
tree, and doing so, found it rocking in the storm like a
gigantic pendulum turned bottom side up.  This it was, then, that
had caused my tremblings.  Its silent movements, unnoticed
in the darkness of the night, had yet in some mysterious way
conveyed a note of warning, and I, as if it were some kindred
spirit, had felt its vibrations, and so was filled with fear.
Conscious the tree was about to fall, I drew back, but unable
to make out the direction it would take, I stood still, not
knowing which way to turn.  At last, guided by the storm,
I sprang to one side, and then, as if only awaiting my
movements, the great tree, leaning more and more, fell with
a mighty crash on the spot where I had stood.  Outstretched
before me, it lay like some huge animal, its glistening trunk
towering far above my head.  Seeing it, a cry of terror burst
from my lips, and throwing myself on my face, I gave thanks
to God for my escape from death.

Rising to my feet after a while, I looked about to find the
storm, as if only awaiting the overthrow of the great tree, had
died away, and the moon coming out full and clear, cast its
peaceful light over the silent glade.  Seeking some spot
not drenched with rain where I might pass the night, the
hollow of the fallen tree, like some great cavern partly lighted,
loomed before me.  Here I determined to find a bed, and
entering its secure depths, stretched my weary body on its
smooth surface, and in a moment was lost in dreams of
Constance and Little Sandy.





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.. _`IN THE TIGER'S MOUTH`:

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   CHAPTER XXVII


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   IN THE TIGER'S MOUTH

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When I awoke the sun was high in the heavens and the air
filled with the songs of birds and the sweet fragrance of the
woods.  Lying still and resting, in no mood to move, I looked
out on the world from a great fissure in the side of the tree
where I had made my bed.  Far off in the ambient air, and
immovable, an eagle pinioned, as if pondering on the great
tree's overthrow.  Near by and alert, a bluejay uttered its
discordant cries, and on a projecting limb, almost within my
hand, a squirrel sat upright, rubbing his nose and looking down
in wonder on the fallen monarch.  Thus outstretched, and
with no thought of stirring, a noise reached me from the
opening of the tree, and sitting up, I saw my bundle tossed
this way and that by a cub no bigger than a three-months'
puppy.  This at first in play, but by and by coming on the
odor of the food, the youngster's mood changed, and it tore
at the package as if ravenous with hunger.  Seeing this,
I sprang out, and grasping the brute by the neck, threw it to
one side.  In no way hurt, it yet uttered a doleful cry, as
these animals will.  Not regarding its complainings in any
way, I busied myself putting my bundle to rights, until
presently, the cries continuing, they were answered by a fierce
growl from the opening of the glade.  Looking in the direction
from whence it came, I saw a huge bear coming toward
me, half uprisen, her teeth showing white and cruel against
the deep color of her blood-red mouth.  Transfixed, I fell to
trembling, for of escape I could see no way, save that from
which the brute came on, dense undergrowth barring the road
and making flight impossible, even if I could have hoped to
outstrip the fierce creature.  While thus bewildered, not
knowing what to do, the hollow of the tree where I had
passed the night caught my eye, and with the sight hope
revived in my heart.  For there at least the brute might not
dare to follow.  Thinking thus, I sprang into the opening,
but the enraged animal, after smelling about as if fearing
a trap, being assured, followed resolutely on.  Seeing this,
I hurried forward, at first upright, and then stooping, and
finally on my hands and knees.  As the tree contracted and
my progress was lessened, I could feel the breath of the savage
animal stir my hair, while her angry growls filled my ears as
if she were already upon me.  Glancing back, I saw her some
way off, but coming on slowly and as if in fear of being caught
in the tree.  At this I sought to crowd myself forward where
she could not come, but presently the opening becoming
contracted, so that I could make no further headway, I knew
not what to do.  Now, indeed, hope died within me, and no
longer able to look back or scarce move my body, I lay still,
listening to the deep breathing of the animal as it came
steadily toward me.  At last in an agony of fear I put forth
all my strength anew, and to my great joy the walls of the
tree, which had before been hard and unyielding, now crumbled
and fell apart under the pressure of my outstretched
hands.  While thus striving to make some headway, light
broke in on my prison, and looking forward, I was gladdened
by the sight of an opening a few feet away, caused by the
breaking of the tree in its fall.

Cheered by what I saw, I struggled forward with new courage,
making a way, sometimes with my hands, but more often
with my head and face.  In this manner I at last reached the
opening; but now, when safety seemed assured, my strength
left me, and I lay as one dead, unable to move or cry aloud.
Regaining some mastery over myself after a time, I dragged
my body through the opening, my garments torn and my face
and hands dripping with blood.  This I did not much regard,
and revived by the cool air and the thought that I was free,
my strength came back, and from lying unable to stir I had
now no fear at all.  Stooping down, I looked into the opening,
and fortunate it was, for the fierce brute, discovering
my escape, was already backing from the tree.  Frightened
anew at this, I stuck my face into the opening, and cried out
in rage, as if daring the creature to come on.  At this she
stopped, and after a moment, answering my challenge with
an angry growl, started anew in my direction.  Coming a little
way, she stopped again, and despite my cries, turned back.
At this, observing her cub, and scarce knowing what I did,
I ran and caught it in my arms, and returning, thrust it into
the narrow opening, wrenching its limbs to make it cry with
pain.  No sooner had I done this than the mother turned
back, growling in fierce anger and tearing at the sides of the
tree with her teeth and claws in vain effort to reach her
offspring.  Seeing this, I fell to beating the poor thing with all
my strength, so as to make it cry the louder.  When,
however, some time had passed and the bear could make no
further headway, and made as if she would turn back, I thrust
the cub far into the opening, and giving it a cruel stroke, left
it there.

Hastening to the spot where my bundle lay, I snatched
it up, and turning, fled through the opening of the glade into
the forest beyond.  Overcome with fear, and not regarding
the direction I took, I ran on, looking back with each step to
see if I were followed.  At last, worn out with fatigue and
hunger, I could go no farther, and throwing myself on the
ground, burst into a paroxysm of tears.  Now indeed was
I forlorn.  Lost in the forest and beset by wild beasts, what
danger might I not fear!  Thus I lay, until at last, rested and
reassured, I rose to my feet.  Above my head as I looked up
the spreading trees, serene and calm, bent over me with
steadfast gaze, and as if in pity and tender sympathy.  Listening,
I heard in their soft murmurings, melodies I knew, sweet
sounds that might be the voices of angels watching over the
lost of earth or guarding their departing souls to the portals
of Heaven above.  Comforted, I went forward, and in a little
while, coming to a meandering stream, took off my torn
clothes, and casting them aside, cleansed myself in its limpid
waters.  Putting on new garments, I looked about for some
place to eat my morning meal, and this I saw a little way off,
beside a trickling spring, rimmed about with flowers and
verdant mosses.  On its edge, as I approached, a thrush
refreshed himself in its cool depths, and waiting till he was
gone, I took out my store of food, and sitting down beside
the sparkling water, ate my fill.  Then burying my face in its
depths, I arose, and put the little food I had remaining in my
pocket, and refreshed and hopeful, started on my way.

Now the trees took on a brighter look, and swaying and
curtesying this way and that as I went forward, seemed as
if pointing the direction I should go.  Striving to follow some
given course, noon passed, and so the afternoon, without sign
of man or any clew to guide me.  At last, as night approached,
my strength failed me; and now the birds, as if in sympathy
with my mood, no longer fluttered their gay plumage, but flew
back and forth in the gathering twilight, swiftly and silently
hastening to their hiding-place for the night.  In the open
before me, however, and as if to cheer my solitude, a thrasher
flew forward, and at intervals, running on, looked back,
saying as in words: "Come on; this is your road."  At last, its
mission done or tiring with the effort, it flew away, and I saw
it no more.  Watching its flight, the treetops still reflected
back the hue of the departing sun, and midway in their height
some trace of yellow was yet to be seen, but near the ground
were already black as night with the fast-gathering shadows.
At this moment, when hope was dead within me, I came, and
without thought, upon a beaten road, but whether that which
I had left the night before or not I did not know nor care.
Elated, my strength returned, and sitting down I took what
food I had and ate it, thankful for so much, and without
thought of the morrow.  Strengthened, I started afresh, but
in what direction I could not tell.  Thus I went on till the
moon arose, but without sight of man or house.  Nor was
there sound of any kind, save the sighing of the forest, all
Nature sleeping as if in recompense for the debauch of the
previous night.  Going forward, cheerful of heart, I was not
much surprised when a light flashed out before me, and then
another and another.  Pushing on, I came after a while upon
a little village of huts scattered along the highway, some near
the road and others farther off.  Peering through the window
of the first I came to, in hopeful expectancy of food and
lodging, a comely woman, large, and fine of face, sat on a bench,
her children gathered about her kneeling at their evening
prayers.  Of room, however, there was scarce enough to
swing a cat, and this so crowded as not to afford place for
another; and so, with a longing look at the little group, I went
on to the house beyond.  Here there were only three children,
as I could plainly see, but as if the saving had been
known in advance, the place was made to fit, and so there
was no room for more.  The next house, dark and forbidding,
gave back no response to my knocking, and so I went
on to the fourth, a little hut standing close beside the road.
Here there was sickness, and though they bade me stay,
I could not find it in my heart to thus obtrude myself upon
their gentle hospitality.  At the hut beyond they would have
welcomed me, but a guest already filled the space, and so
they could offer me no place where I could lie.

In this way I went on, now somewhat depressed, till
I reached the extremity of the little village, and here I came
upon a building, larger than the others, and standing back
from the road, as if courting greater privacy.  A dull light
showed in its single window, but high up, so that I could not
scan the interior as I had the others.  Hearing voices,
I knocked, confident of a welcome, so imposing was the
structure.  For a moment silence followed my summons, and then
a voice bade me enter.  Lifting the latch, I opened the door
and went in; but entering, no one spoke nor said aught of
welcome as I stood looking about me.  Of the room, it was
the size of the building, and without furniture of any kind,
save a bench that ran beside the wall.  On this I presently
made out two men, for of light there was none save from
a lantern that stood on the floor, clouded with dirt and smoke.
This I thought strange; but more surprising still, a man,
half-sitting, half-reclining, in the farther corner of the room, his
legs securely fastened to a huge ring fixed in the floor.
Startled, I turned about and would have fled, but one of the
men, who had been seated, springing between me and the
door, cried out:

"Gilbert Holmes! by all the gods of Greece and Rome!"

Hearing him, I needed nothing more to tell me it was
Moth; and alas! he barred the way—and of exit there was no
other.  Seeing this, I stood still, looking into his face, my own
aflame with anger and shame.

"Thank you, my lad, for saving me further trouble," he
went on, with sarcastic glee.  "I have had many setbacks
lately, but things at last seem to be coming my way.  A
robber and a runaway in twenty-four hours will do pretty well for
an amateur.  One I capture, and the other comes to me of
his own accord.  Yes, I am certainly in luck"; and Moth
chuckled, as if fortune was at last favoring him beyond all
other men.  "Come, my lad," he continued, after a moment's
pause, seeing I did not speak; "do not stand there dumb,
but tell me what good fortune brings you into my hands."

"It's not that I want to see you," I answered, at a loss
whether to answer him or no.

"Of course not, my dear.  You have not shown any liking
for my company, I am sorry to say, though I mean you no
harm.  But I hope it will be different hereafter," he answered,
leering at me.

"It will not, sir!  You have no right to pursue me, and
I will never go with you; I'll die first."

"Oh, yes, you will!  And I will not let you get away again,
either," he answered, confidently.

"You can't fasten me so I'll not escape.  I'd kill you if
I couldn't get away without," I answered, my anger passing
all bounds.

"You would, would you, you little devil!  But what
I want is for the best, and go back with me you shall," he
answered, determinedly, and as if that ended the matter.

"I say I'll not—never!  You think me a child, and I was,
but you have made me something more.  Don't come near
me!  I'll never let you take me alive!" I screamed, as he took
a step in my direction, my anger growing to white heat.

"Tut, tut, child!  Do not fly into such a passion.  Listen
to reason.  I am not going to harm you," he replied,
soothingly.

"What is all this about, anyway?" the man who had been
seated beside Moth here interposed, coming forward and
holding the lantern aloft so as to see me the better.  "Good
God! lad, what is the matter with your face?" he went on.
"You look as if you had been run over by a harrow."

"It was scratched in the woods," I replied, quieting
down.

"Why, it is seamed and slashed like a piece of raw meat.
No, no, the brush never did that, lad!" he went on,
examining it more carefully.

"It's nothing, sir, and will be all right in the morning,"
I answered.

"Maybe, but for fear I'll rub some salve on it to help it
along," he answered; and going to a small cupboard, brought
back a cup of grease, which he smeared over my face.
"There, that will do for to-night, and in the morning I will
dress it again."

"You are foolish to waste grease or sympathy on him,
jailer," Moth interposed.  "That is the lad we have been
looking for all day, and a precious sly one he is, too."

"Well, he does not look it," the jailer answered, "but
frank about the eyes as my own boy, though his face is not
much to speak of in its present shape."

"I'm as honest, sir, as I can be, and this man has no
business to say I'm not, nor claim any rights over me," I answered,
appealingly.

"Do not let him fool you, jailer.  Those brown eyes of his
have more deviltry in them than there is in that highwayman's
whole body," Moth answered, looking across at the man in
the corner, who had straightened up and now sat silently
regarding us.

"I'm not bad," I cried, laying hold of the jailer's hand,
"and I haven't harmed any one, nor taken what didn't belong
to me."

"I am sure of it," he answered, kindly.

"I told you he would fool you, for in cunning and evasion
he is Satan's own imp," Moth answered, anger showing in
his voice.

"Don't believe him," I answered.  "He has no right to
pursue me as he does.  He's not my guardian."

"Who is your guardian, and where is he?" the jailer asked,
as if that would settle it.

"Uncle Job Throckmorton, and he lives in Appletop.  He
left me at Rock Island till he could come back, and yesterday
this man planned to kidnap me, and that's why I ran away,"
I answered, determined to tell my story.

"I know Mr. Throckmorton, and he is an upright, honest
gentleman, if there is one in the state," the jailer replied.

"Then don't let this man pursue me longer," I answered,
"for he has no right."

"I have you already," Moth answered, "and so there is
no need to pursue you farther.  You are under age and an
estray, for Throckmorton's not your guardian, and can be
reclaimed by the owner wherever found.  Is not that so,
jailer?"

"Maybe; but I think you ought to have a warrant to take
him," he added, brightening up at the thought.

"Nonsense!  It is not necessary.  You are a justice, and
it is your business to hold him pending investigation."

"Why should I, if you have nothing to prove your right
to him?"

"I have, and you know it," Moth answered, confidently.

"I do not," the jailer replied, doggedly.

"Well, I tell you so now, and that I shall hold you responsible
as an officer of the law for his safety," Moth answered,
with savage determination.

"Well, I say I'll not turn a hand to help you.  The statutes
of Illinois are very liberal about boys being at large, and I am
not going to interfere with this one," the jailer answered.

"You will not dare to refuse to perform the duties of your
office," Moth answered, desperately.

"It is not my duty to detain him," the jailer answered.

"I'll never go with him," I spoke up, encouraged by the
jailer's manner and speech.  "He has no more claim on me
than that robber."

"Yes, I have; and you will go with me, just as the robber
did," Moth replied.  "I will make you go."

"You can't; and if you were not an old man I'd wallop
the life out of you right here and now," I cried, my anger
getting the better of me again.

To this Moth made no response, but stood still, eying
me for a while in silence; then turning to the jailer, he said:

"To-morrow I will bring an officer to take this lad, my
client's ward according to the judge's ruling, and you dare
not let him go meanwhile.  He is a runaway, and I call on
you to hold him."

"If you want to leave him here, perhaps you can, provided
you pay his board and lodging, but I will not assume any
responsibility—not for a minute," the jailer answered, cowed
by Moth's manner and confident air.

"Yes, you will, and you will secure him in the same way
you have the highwayman," Moth answered, pointing to the
robber.

"I'll see you damned first.  He is not a criminal, but
a child, and I will not tie him up, nor will you," the jailer
answered.

"You are not fit to fill the office you do; but I must be
satisfied, I suppose.  Anyway, he can't escape," Moth
answered, gazing about him as if to judge of the strength of
the room.

"No," the jailer replied, in a voice that plainly said he
wished I could; "and now, sir, if you have no one else to
lock up and no more orders to give, I will shut up shop and
go home."

Moth returning no answer to this, the jailer crossed to
where the robber sat and pinioned his arms, after which he
attached the rope to a ring in the wall, but not so closely that
the prisoner could not lie down.  Then taking his lantern,
he motioned Moth to go ahead, following him to the door.
There turning around, he pointed to a bunk in the corner,
saying:

"You will not find it hard, my lad"; but as if this was not
enough, he turned back, and taking my hand, bade me not
to fear, adding that he would see that my uncle got word of
what had happened on the succeeding day.





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.. _`GILBERT AND THE HIGHWAYMAN JOIN FORCES`:

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   CHAPTER XXVIII


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   GILBERT AND THE HIGHWAYMAN JOIN FORCES

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When they were gone the moon served in some measure to
light the room, and taking advantage of it, I examined the
window and door, to see if there was not some way of escape.
In vain, however; and discouraged I sat down on the empty
bench, thinking how much better off I had been the night
before, for then at least I was free.  While thus overcome by my
sad thoughts, the robber spoke up, and with such cheerfulness
and strength of voice that I turned to him in astonishment.

"So the little spook of a lawyer has trapped you, too, has
he?  But why so sad about it?"

At this I only stared, but after a while, remembering poor
Fox and Mr. Lincoln's grand way, I answered:

"Yes, I'm trapped, and without reason."

"That is always the way.  Reason plays hide and seek
with us, but might is always on hand and wide awake.  Moth
puts me in jail because I sought to harm him.  He too ought
to be here, though, for seeking to harm you; but he is free
and you are in jail, and that is the way it goes.  There is
always some bit of injustice, I have noticed, in everything
that is done," the robber went on, but more as if talking to
himself than to me.

"What have you done that he's after you?" I asked,
interested in him because of his cheerful way and kind speech.

"Me!  I tried to rob him."

"To rob him!" I exclaimed, wondering that any one
should try to rob Moth.

"Yes, in the woods, as he was pursuing you.  For you are
the lad, I expect, that went by as I lay in wait."

"Yes," I answered, not knowing whether I was or no.

"After you had passed he came along, his horse all afoam,
and I followed on.  When he stopped at the place where you
left the road, I called to him to throw up his hands, but instead
he drew a pistol and fired at me point-blank."

"The rascal!" I interrupted; for everything that Moth did
appeared hateful to me.

"Yes, and I, not to be outdone, fired back, but over his
head, thinking to frighten him; and truly enough, for he turned
and fled.  My horse was the better of the two, but he the
lighter, so for a long time there was no advantage.  At last,
my animal having the best wind, I overhauled him, and releasing
a pistol I raised it and fired, intending, as before, to
frighten him into giving up his purse, for I do not think
I could kill a man if I were starving."

"Well?"

"Well, just as I fired, my horse, left to himself, stumbled,
and falling on his face, threw me over his head into the road."

"Then what happened?" I asked, sympathizing with him
in his misfortune.

"The fall stunned me, and before I could so much as stir
the little scamp had disarmed me, and when I looked up,
bruised and hurt, he held a pistol within an inch of my nose."

"That was too bad," I answered, sorry that Moth should
have been the victor.

"When I had recovered a little, he told me to get up, and
keeping me under the muzzle of a pistol, marched me forward.
After a while, coming across a farmer, they bound me with
ropes and straps, and in that shape brought me here."

"What will he do with you now?" I asked, forgetting my
own sorrows in his.

"Take me to the county jail.  They would have done it
to-day, only the jailer and he were off in search of you.  Oh,
if I had my hands and legs free, I would show him a trick
worth two of his!" the robber exclaimed, surveying his limbs
with a sigh.

"What would you do?" I asked.

"Leave here," he replied, "within an hour; and we would
go together, and so double his rage."

"To do this all you want is your hands and feet?" I asked,
doubtingly.

"That is all, and I wouldn't go through the door if it were
open."

I could set him free, and why not, I asked myself, the
sweat starting out all over me at the thought.  What wrong
would there be in it, for it was as the robber said—Moth had
a right to put him there, but no right to treat me the same
way, and in breaking the law he was no better than the
highwayman.  Reasoning thus, I determined to do what the
robber said, and so answered:

"I'll cut the ropes, if that's all you want."

"I shall be much obliged if you will, but I'll not ask you
to do it," he answered.

"Why not?"

"Oh, perhaps because I am foolish."

"How will you get out if you are free, as you say?"
I asked, not seeing any way.

"Oh, easy enough," he answered.  "I have been planning
it all day as I lay here on my back.  I would use the bench
as a ram to displace the logs overhead, for they are short and
not half fastened.  Once in the loft, it would be easy to
remove the shingles, and being on the roof, the ground is not
ten feet away."

"That seems easy," I answered.

"It is; for the jail is a poor affair, and only intended for
small offenders; and if prisoners have not escaped, it is because
they were bound, as I am, or did not think it worth while
to try."

What he said was true; and now resolved in my mind, and
elated at the prospect of getting even with Moth, I went to
the cupboard, and finding a knife, as I had thought, took
it and cut the cords that bound the robber's arms and legs.

"There, you are free!" I cried, pleased at what I had done.

"Thank you, my lad; and now we will not lose any time,
for we ought to be far away by sunrise," he answered.  But
when he got to his feet he could scarce stand.  "It is
nothing," he went on, noticing my surprise, "only I have to get
the blood into my legs and arms again before I can do
anything, for they are as stiff as ramrods."  This did not take
long, and in a few seconds he was busy with his preparations
for our escape.  "See!" he exclaimed, straightening up,
"I can touch the ceiling with my hands.  Now help me with
the bench, for two are better than one.  There, that will do.
Now send the end of it into that log overhead, as if it were
Moth's backbone.  Good! we moved it a little.  Now again.
See! it is giving way."  This was true, and at the third stroke
it flew out of place, leaving an opening a foot wide.  "That
is fine, and one more will be enough.  Now! right into the
small of his back again," and with the words we gave the
next log a stroke, lifting it clear from its place, as we had the
first.

"That hole is big enough to drive a sleigh through," he
exclaimed; and placing the bench on the floor, stood on it,
and taking hold of the edge of the opening, swung himself
into the loft.  "Now, my lad, give me your hand," and doing
as he said, I found myself in a moment seated beside him.
"We are getting on finely, and the rest will be easy.  There! stay
where you are, my son, and in a minute I will give you
a glimpse of the shining stars."  Saying which, he took one of
the logs we had displaced, and with it drove a hole through
the roof as big as a barrel.  At this, and greatly to our
surprise, the watchdog in the adjoining yard, aroused by the
noise, set up a furious barking, running up to the jail door,
where it kept up its angry outcry.

"Quick, my lad!  We must go back.  It is the jailer's
dog, and the old man will be sure to come to see what is the
matter"; and without wasting time, the robber lowered
himself through the opening to the floor below.  "Now let
yourself down, and I'll catch you," he called.  Doing as he said,
I took hold of the cross-beam and let my body swing through
the opening, and he taking me in his arms, sat me down safely
on the floor.

"Quick! into your bunk, and I'll do the same as soon as
I put this bench back."  And not a moment too soon, for
scarce had he thrown himself on his pallet when the jailer
opened the door, and pushing his lantern into the room,
peered about.

"Hello there! how do you find yourselves?  Comfortable-like?"
he asked, when he had succeeded in making us out by
the dim light.

"Yes, we are all right.  Why, what is the matter? is it
time to get up, or has Moth sent you to inquire after our
health?" my companion answered, yawning, but with some
sarcasm in his voice.

"Never mind about Moth.  I heard the dog barking, and
thought you might be wanting something, but if not, I'll go
back to bed," he answered, as if excusing himself.

"No, we are not in need of anything, thank you.  Good
night, and pleasant dreams," my companion called out.

"Good night," the jailer answered; and closing and
fastening the door, went away.

When he was gone we lay for some time without speaking,
until at last the robber, springing up, called out:

"Hello! young man, are you asleep?"

"No; how could I be?" I answered, starting to my feet.

"I thought you looked a little tired when you came in
to-night, that is all.  Well, now for another try," and with
that he placed the bench beneath the opening, and standing
on it as before, climbed into the loft, lifting me after him.

"Now for the roof; and as the hole is big enough to push
a washtub through, there is no occasion for making any more
noise.  Let me help you," and with the words he lifted me
through the opening, climbing up himself a moment later.

Descending to the eaves without loss of time, he took my
hands and lowered me the length of his arm, when, letting go
his hold, I dropped to the ground.  Inquiring if I was all
right, he did not wait, but following, alighted without harm.
At this moment, when we thought ourselves free, the dog
again set up a dreadful barking, running out into the moonlight
within a few feet of where we lay prostrate in the weeds.

"We're lost," I whispered, seeing no way of returning to
the room we had left; but placing his hand over my mouth the
robber bade me keep my peace.  A moment later the jailer
came to the door of his hut, but after looking about for
a while and yawning, called to the dog, and turning about,
reëntered his house.  For a long time we lay motionless, afraid
to move, until everything being quiet again, we made our way
on our hands and knees to the forest, some way off.  Here,
regaining our feet, we hurried on for a mile or more without
speaking, until at last coming to an opening in the trees, we
stopped in the bright moonlight and looked into each other's
faces.

"Fox," I exclaimed, seeing him now clearly for the first time.

"Fox! how do you know that?" he asked, surprised, starting
back.

"I know, for I was with Mr. Lincoln when you sought to
rob the stage."

"Good Lord! what are you saying?" he exclaimed, with
a scared look.

"Yes, and I heard you promise him you'd change your
ways," I answered, angrily, thinking of Mr. Lincoln and the
sorrow he would feel at Fox's want of good faith a second
time.

"Oh, I remember you well enough now; and, my God,
I meant what I said, too!"

"Then why didn't you carry out your promise?" I asked.

"It was my damned luck not to, that is all.  For when you
were gone from the tavern where I stayed, the old man
I robbed of the watch had me arrested; but while on my way
to jail I escaped, and as good fortune would have it this time,
I ran across the very thief who got me into trouble at first.
Recognizing him, and being ready, when he sought to rob me
I overcame him, and so made him dismount, and taking his
pistols and horse, rode off.  That is how it happened that
I did not await Mr. Lincoln's return and that I am on the
road again."

"What have you been doing?" I asked, pleased at what he said.

"Not much in my line," he answered, sadly, waving his
hand; "mostly begging a night's lodging or a meal here and
there, till I ran across Moth."

"You will never reform, I'm afraid," I answered, sorrowing,
he was so pleasant of face and voice.

"Perhaps not; but I will make no more promises, anyway.
And now, just as I once owed my freedom to Mr. Lincoln, so
I owe it to you.  It is more than life to me, too, for if a man
is once condemned, that settles him for all time."

"I only helped myself in helping you, and so you owe me
nothing," I answered, true enough.

"Yes, I do.  One never asks a neighbor why he does
a good act.  I could not have escaped except for you, and
I owe you a debt I can never pay."

"No, for I couldn't have got off without you, and so we're
quits.  It's good to be free again, though," I exclaimed,
drawing in a long breath of the sweet air.

"Yes," he answered, brightening up; "and on such a night,
too!  How beautiful everything is—the moon, the sleeping
trees, the restful shadows, the soft stir of the leaves!" and he
sighed as a better man might have done in his place.

"I hope we'll neither of us ever be in such a fix again,"
I answered, my happiness at our escape dampened by
compassion for my companion and his dangerous way of life.

"No need in your case, surely; but for me," he went on,
as if reading my thoughts, "who can tell?  My sins will follow
me on horseback, let me do what I may.  There will be no
dodging them, either.  It is the first misstep that guides your
footsteps ever afterward, my son; but the roads seem so much
alike at the start that you can hardly tell one from the other.
Both are bordered with flowers, and the sun shines as warm
on one as the other; and yet the difference and the quick
change if we go wrong!  Then the trees lose their green and
the flowers fade, and the sun goes out as if it were night.
Look to your footsteps, my friend, for once you stray off the
beaten path, the lash of justice will scourge you ever afterward.
Such is the criminal, and such am I, and there is never
but one ending.  Who that starts wrong, though, ever gives
the ending or its quick coming a thought?  This is my sermon
to you, my son, and it is real preaching, for that was the
calling I meant to follow for man's good and my own salvation
when I started out in life.  What a mess I have made of it,
though, as others have done and will to the end.  Not to
repent, either, nor strive to, for on this road there is no
turning back.  The silliness of it all, and the futility!  But do
not regard what I say, lad.  The lost ever thus grieve and go
on preaching and reforming and falling anew.  So there you
are, and here am I; and which way do you go now?" he added,
changing in a whimsical way, but as if pleased with his sermon.

"I'm going to Appletop," I answered, sorrowing over
what he said, knowing he was making himself out bad when
he was only unfortunate and foolish; "but I don't know where
I am nor which way to go."

"I will put you on the road, and it is but a step," he
answered; and taking my hand we plunged into the forest
again.  Walking on without speaking for half an hour, we
came at last to a road that stretched away, white and
glistening, in the bright moonlight.

"Here is your way, my son, and a plain one, too.  Go to
the right for a mile or thereabouts, where a road leads to the
left.  Follow it and it will take you zigzagging through the
country to Appletop.  You can't miss the way, and nothing
will harm you; or if you should run across robbers, and maybe
you will, say nothing, but go on, for they will not harm a lad
like you."

"Where are you going?" I asked, reluctant to leave him.

"Why, what does that matter?" he answered, putting me
off; but thinking better of it, added: "I am going to find my
horse, the one I took from my friend the robber.  He does
not know any one but me now, nor I any one but him, and
I am not going to leave him here."

"Where is he?" I asked.

"In the village we have just left; but the night is like day,
and I shall have no trouble in finding him, and perhaps Moth's,
too, who knows!" he added, his eyes lighting up as a boy's
might when about to play a trick on a playmate.

"Oh, don't touch Moth's horse," I answered, filled with
fear, so clever were his ways.  "I wish you'd go with me, and
not try to get your horse, and maybe get caught again.

"Never fear!" he answered, lightly.  "Good by, and don't
forget me, for I shall always be your friend, though not one
you will care to own."

"I'm sure I shall; but don't take Moth's horse."

"Well, we will see.  Good by."

Clasping his outstretched hand, I was loath to let it go, for
he did not seem to me to be bad at all.  Surely, I thought,
there ought to be some way to save such a man, it not being
his nature to do wrong, but a habit likely to grow upon him.
Thus do the sympathies of the young ever go out to the
wrong-doer before the world has taught them to classify men and
treat all alike who go astray, without regard to their nature
or surroundings; and thus mine went out to Fox that night
as we parted in the white road, with the solemn moon looking
down on our leave-taking.





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.. _`THE TRAGEDY OF MURDERER'S HOLLOW`:

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   CHAPTER XXIX


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   THE TRAGEDY OF MURDERER'S HOLLOW

.. vspace:: 2

Going the way Fox pointed out, I found the road as he had
said; but so overwrought were my nerves by the events of the
night that if by chance a shadow outlined the fanciful figure
of a man across my path, I stood still, trembling and in doubt,
until its harmless nature was disclosed.  While thus peering
ahead and striving to make out the objects in my path, a
rabbit ran into the road and stopped, as if disputing my right to
pass.  This, strangely enough, disturbed me not a little, as if
somehow I were discovered.  While I stood still, hesitating
whether to go on or turn back, so little control had I over
myself, the plaintive notes of a whip-poor-will came to me from
out the deep forest, as if in comfort of my loneliness.  Clear
and sweet, it warmed and cheered my heart like the greeting
of a friend.  For who that has been brought up in the country
ever heard the notes of this songster of the night without
such feeling or remembrance of it ever afterward?  To all
such who traverse the woods, or who are in trouble, it is as if
some good spirit were awakening the echoes of the place to
soothe their thoughts and calm their fears.  Coming to me
now, out of the slumbering trees, I was enlivened and cheered
so that I went on as if in the company of friends.  Thus
quickly do those who are in trouble accept the semblance of
what they wish for for the thing itself.

Going on as directed, I came at last to the summit of
a bluff, from which I looked down into a valley filled with
moonlight and sylvan shadows.  The road descending the
elevation, as I could see, there turned and followed the edge
of the hill to the opposite side of the valley, where it reascended
the height and was lost to view.  Looking to know the reason
of this strange detour, I saw it was caused by a shallow river,
which following along the edge of the valley, crowded the
road from its direct course.

Reaching the foot of the descent, the stream had scarce
more water in its bed than the Little Sandy at its best; and
wearied by my walk, I determined to cross the valley and so
shorten the distance I would otherwise have to go.  Looking
to determine the course I should take, the plain lay spread
before me, and midway in its breadth a grove of walnut trees
lifted their graceful foliage to the sky, standing out black and
clear against the pale grasses of the sleeping valley.  Cheered
by the sight, for there is no tree more attractive to the eye, its
rich fruit bringing it nearer to us in sympathy of life, I went
forward in high spirits, stopping as I crossed the little river
to drink my fill and bathe my face in its refreshing waters.

Coming presently to the grove of trees, I plunged beneath
their depths, to emerge a moment after in a cleared space, on
the edge of which a log hut, charred by fire, stood in lonely
seclusion.  About it, and as if in mockery, rank weeds grew
where once a garden had been planted.  Wondering why such
a spot should have been selected for a home, I went forward,
and turning the angle of the ruin, came without thought upon
a towering gibbet, from which ropes, frayed with the wind,
dangled in the midnight air.  Beneath these, and as if to make
the story plainer, rude graves lifted their rounded forms in
the bright moonlight.  Recoiling at the sight, I had nearly
fallen; but with my discovery, and as if the spirits of the dead
were returned to earth, voices reached me, and seemingly
from the shadow of the gallows and its dangling ropes.
Questioning if I heard aright and hesitating whether to go forward
or turn and fly, the voices came a second time, and now more
plainly than before.  In doubt of their friendliness, I threw
myself down where I stood, and in that way was hidden by
the weeds and the shadow of the crumbling ruin.  Thus concealed,
I was safe, unless, indeed, the course of the speakers
crossed the spot where I lay hidden; but coming presently
full on the gibbet, they stopped, one of them crying out in
a voice of terror:

"In the name of all the spirits of hell, what's them?"

"What's what?" the other answered, softly, as if seeing
nothing out of the way.

"Them graves an' danglin' ropes?"

"Why, what about them?"

"Are they real, or is't the phantoms comin' on agin?"

At this I recognized Blott's voice, now no longer whimsical,
but constrained and full of fear.  Greatly relieved, I rose to
call his name, but doing so, discovered his companion to be
the gambler Burke, who had robbed Mr. Singleton and afterward
sought to murder Mr. Davis.  Seeing him, I dropped
down again, trembling and full of fear, for what could Blott
be doing here, and in such company!  Surely nothing good!
And with the thought I hid myself more securely in the shadow
of the abandoned hut.

"What is the matter, Blott?" the other replied, as if
surprised.  "Has liquor got the better of you again, or what is it
that frightens you?"

"Frightens me!  I'm not frightened; but why the devil
have you brought me to this spot, of all others?"

"Was there ever spot more beautiful?  Why, it is a bower
fit for lovers," Burke replied, softly.

"Fit for the devil an' his bride, mebbe, but not for honest
men.  Why, the place's damned, Burke."

"Damned, Blott!  Why damned?  There is not a spot on
earth more peaceful.  Doves coo in the trees yonder, and
birds nest there; but I see your old trouble is coming on
again," Burke replied, more softly than at first, if that were
possible.

"Curse you, Burke, an' your soft speech!  My trouble ain't
comin' on, but this place's enough to give a man the jimjams.
It's haunted an' I'd rather visit the devil in his den than come
here."

"You talk wildly, Blott.  It is safe, and what more does
one want?  There is the gallows rotting away, and under it
five good men as ever risked their lives for money; but
harmless, Blott, harmless.  They will never cast a shadow more,
and the traveler may go his way for all the harm they can do
him.  Then why cry out, Blott?" Burke queried, in his
purring voice.

"What these men come to you an' I'll come to, an' I don't
care to be reminded of it.  So let's leave the spot."

"What silly talk, Blott! what silly talk!  Here no one
comes, and here we are free from prying eyes.  Fools
think the hut is haunted, and that is why I have chosen it for
a hiding-place.  There is no spot on earth so safe, Blott."

"There's other places secure enough for me, an' I'd rather
stand in the open than hide here and be safe," Blott answered,
in anger.

"Will you never stop, Blott, will you never stop?  I shall
lose my temper, I am afraid, and it is always bad for those
about me when I do," Burke answered, his voice, if possible,
more subdued than before.  "You can't put off the day you
will hang by shutting your eyes, and what is there to fear from
the graves of dead men or a rotting gibbet?  You put me
out, Blott."

"I don't care whether I put you out or not.  I'm no boy,"
Blott answered, impatiently.

"Surely not! surely not!  But we must have a hiding-place,
and what one so safe as this, which every man shuns?"

"I'm not afeerd, but I don't like the company," Blott
answered gloomily.

"These men will never betray us.  Do they cry out that
it was I who fired the shot for which they were hung?  Not
a bit of it.  Give me dead men when there is anything to hide."

"You're the devil's own, Burke."

"Perhaps, Blott, perhaps; but what has the devil done to
you or me that we should be afraid of him?"

"Why've we come here, anyway, I'd like to know?" Blott
asked.  "Our man'll not cross this cursed valley, an' while
we're foolin' away our time he'll pass, an' so we'll lose him."

"There you go again, Blott!  I told you he was not to start
till one o'clock?  So we have time and to spare," Burke
answered, in his low, purring way.

"How do you know he'll not start till one?  Or how do
you know he's comin' at all, for that matter?" Blott replied.

"How did I know Hogge was coming this way that rainy
night, or how do I know other things that are going on in the
world that interest me?" Burke answered.

"Well, how do you?"

"Because I have a man on the outside whose interest it is
to tell me.  You don't suppose I trust everything to chance,
do you?" Burke answered.

"You devil!  Who's the man?"

"Well, I like that, Blott, I like that; and you an old
constable, too!  Why don't you ask me to give myself up; to put
a halter around my neck?"

"If we're to be pards, Burke, you must trust me, for I'll
know who's pullin' the strings or I won't go on."

"We are not going to be partners, Blott; or only in this.
Why should we?"

"Then why have you brought me here to help you?"

"Because the man is said to be ugly to handle, and I might
fail alone."

"Well, what'm I to git out of it if we're not pards?" Blott
asked.

"We are partners in this, and you are to get one-third if
you do as I tell you," Burke answered.

"What'm I to do?"

"Nothing of any account.  You are to stand beside the
road and fire when I do, and if one shot doesn't kill him, you
are to keep on firing till he is dead.  Is that hard, Blott?  It
is just play."

"You won't kill him, though, if he throws up his hands
an' we git what we want?"

"Yes; he is to die whether he throws up his hands or not.
That is the understanding," Burke answered.

"Whose understandin'?"

"My understanding with my partner, and in this he is to
have his way; and why not?" Burke answered, in his soft voice.

"Great God! what does he want him killed for?"

"I don't know; but what does it matter?  That is always
the best way, for it leaves one enemy the less."

"Yes, and I hang for't, like these dead men, while you go
free, you devil!  No, I'll have nothin' to do with the murder.
I didn't come here to kill a man 'cause somebody I don't know
wants it," Blott answered, in a determined way.

"Don't talk foolishly, Blott; don't!" Burke replied,
quietly, but with such dreadful menace in his voice that
I shuddered, hearing it.

"No, not a finger'll I raise agin the man, whoever he is,"
Blott answered, doggedly.  "Not a finger!"

"You will think better of it, Blott; but come into the
cabin, though it is a poor thing since the boys held it against
the Regulators," Burke answered, as if to turn the subject to
pleasanter things.

"Were you one of 'em?" Blott asked, as if loath to go on.

"No; or how should I be here?  I was late, you see, and
when I stuck my head out of the bushes there the cabin was
afire, and our men holding up their hands and crying for
mercy."

"What happened then?" Blott asked.

"What would be likely to happen?  The posse tied them
hand and foot and stood them in a row, and before you could
count a hundred, had picked a judge and jury.  Others went
and cut uprights and a crossbeam for the gallows, and when
the trial was over the thing was ready as you see it now.
After they had convicted the prisoners, every one had his say,
but not one peached.  Then they strung them up; and when
all were dead, they dug holes, one under each man, and so
dropped the five into their graves and covered them up, and
there they rot.  But come, this is idle talk, and we ought to
be at work"; and partly following and partly pushing Blott,
the two disappeared within the cabin.

When they were gone I remained where I was, not knowing
whether to fly or lie still; but while thus deliberating, a ray
of light fell across my face, and hearing voices, I partly arose
and peered through a crevice into the building.  A lantern
stood on the rude bench that ran across the room, and beside
it Burke was busy with something he held in his hand, while
Blott sat a little way off, seemingly taking no interest in what
the other was doing.  After a while, Burke bringing the object
he held near the lantern, I saw it was a pistol, its black barrel
glistening in the uncertain light like the body of a serpent.

"There, that will do, that will do.  A beauty, too! and
now for the others," he exclaimed, as he fell to work on
a second weapon, cleaning and polishing it as he had the first.
Afterward taking from his belt a third and a fourth, he cleaned
and loaded them as he had the others.  "There!  I think I am
ready for the Appletop gentleman; but how are your pistols,
Blott?  In good shape, I hope?" he purred, looking up as if
for the first time.

"I don't know, an' I don't care, for I'll have nothin' to do
with the murder."

"Don't speak so roughly, Blott; don't, you shock me.
But what are you going to do, then?" Burke continued, keeping
his eyes on his companion, though the latter did not look
in his direction any more than as if he had not been present.

"What'm I goin' to do?  I'm goin' to leave this cursed
place," Blott answered, standing up.

"Is that fair, Blott?  Is it fair, after learning my plans?
You would be a witness against me, without being guilty, you
know," Burke answered, softly, taking a pistol in each hand.
At this I thought to cry out, so dreadful did Burke's
movement appear and so unconscious was Blott of any danger; but
my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth and my throat was
like the dust of the road.  Paying no attention to the movements
or voice of the other, Blott answered, angrily, and as if
secure in his own house:

"You can go to the devil, Burke, if you like; I'll not betray
you, but you'll never lack for witnesses to hang you."

"You don't mean that, Blott!  You don't, surely!  Think
again.  There will be no danger, and a lot of money to share.
A lot, I say."

"You can't tempt me.  I don't care about the risk, but
I sha'n't be a party to no cold-blooded murder.  I didn't come
here to engage in any such fool business"; and he turned on
Burke as if defying him.

"If you are not going to do as I wish, I will not help you
longer, nor give you liquor.  I can't afford to keep a dead one
in food and whisky," Burke went on in a whining voice, as if
loath to act.

"Shut off the whisky, and be damned to you, if you wish!
I may want a drink bad enough to-morrer to kill a man, an'
I shouldn't wonder if I did; but I'm not feelin' that way
to-night," Blott answered, sullenly.

"Then take that, you booby, you driveling idiot!" and
Burke leveled a pistol full at Blott's breast and fired.  Too
late the latter sought to spring upon his enemy, but with the
movement he threw up his hands, and without cry or sound of
any kind sank down upon the floor.

Burke, who had sprung to his feet, stopped short when he
saw Blott waver and fall.  And thus he stood watching him,
with his face half-revealed.  When some time had passed and
Blott did not stir, Burke went to him, and lifting his hand,
let it fall to the floor.

"Dead, and so quick, too, the ass!  But he would have it,
and I could do nothing less.  Did he suppose I would let him
go knowing what he did!  Well, well, you need not fear
spooks longer, Blott, and I hope they will find you better
company than I have"; saying which, he stood contemplating
the fallen man as if reflecting on his fate.  At last, gathering
himself together, he went on: "Lie there, you donkey! till
I come back, when a hole will put you out of sight.  Better
work alone than with such a baby.  Yes, yes, much better!"  And
his voice, which a moment before had been like the cry
of a wild beast, was now soft and purring, as if with the
occasion all feeling of anger had vanished from his heart
forever.


NOTE.—At the time of which Gilbert
Holmes speaks, the inhabitants
of the Mississippi Valley were greatly
harassed by outlaws; but these,
differing from the thugs of the East,
were often men of education and
considerable culture, like Burke.
Many of them were the sons of
merchants and clergymen and people
of character, who thought to
commence in the West a better life,
or continue their downward course with
greater license.  These social outcasts were,
in the end, driven from the
country, or exterminated by bands
of Regulators organized by the
communities for that purpose.
For many years, however, men were not
safe abroad, unless in companies
or heavily armed, if thought to have
money.  Horse-stealing was a common crime,
and more surely punished
with death than murder, as is the case in all new countries.
Notwithstanding this, and contrary to what
is generally thought, the community
was, as a whole, made up of the highest
type of men and women; men
and women who spoke pure English and
in the main were refined and
well educated.  Coming to the new country,
they gave up every comfort
to better their fortunes,
enduring hardship with cheerfulness, in the
prospect held out of wealth and independence
for their children, if not
for themselves.—THE AUTHOR.





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.. _`THE RIDE FOR LIFE`:

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   CHAPTER XXX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE RIDE FOR LIFE

.. vspace:: 2

When Burke had assured himself a second time that Blott
was dead, he reloaded his pistol and hurriedly left the cabin.
Waiting till he was gone, I crept to the corner of the building
and watched him as he crossed the open space and disappeared
in the shadows of the trees.  Overcome, I had now but one
desire, and that to leave this place of death; and turning,
I fled across the moonlit space, past the graves and dangling
ropes, to the woods beyond.  Directing my course in the
direction I had been following, I made a wide detour that
I might strike the highway at the top of the hill instead of the
bottom, as I had thought.  Reaching the road at last, worn
out with fatigue, I threw myself down, the better to regain
my lost strength.  As I lay outstretched, I listened to catch,
if I might, the report of Burke's pistol.  In vain, however; but
perhaps the distance was too great; or what if the traveler
had not yet reached the valley!  At the thought I sprang to
my feet and ran on, hoping I might yet be in time to warn him
of his danger.  Stopping at intervals to listen, no sound
reached my ears save the moan of the wind and the far-off cry
of some night-bird in quest of its prey.  At last, discouraged
and worn out, I threw myself down beside the road, careless
of all else if I might only rest and sleep.

As my face touched the ground, and ere I could close my
eyes, there struck upon my ear the far-off rhythmical beat of
a horse's hoofs at full gallop.  Angry at being disturbed,
I arose, but standing upright I could hear it no more.
Relieved, I lay down again; but no sooner had my head touched
the cool earth than the sound came to me once more, and now
nearer and deeper than before.  There could be no mistake
this time, and rising to my feet, the steady pulse-beat of the
galloping horse rose full and clear on the still air, saying as in
words, "Coming, coming, coming!"  Or some obstruction
intervening, it would die away, calling back, as in sad adieu,
"Going, going, going!"  Then the obstruction cleared, or the
ground hardening, it came again, clear and welcome as before,
"Coming, coming, coming!"  Thus I stood trembling and
impatient, counting the hoof-beats as the horse came swiftly
on.  Surely this must be the man I sought; and so believing,
I braced myself and waited.  As the horse neared the spot
where I stood half-hidden by the overhanging trees, it shied
at sight of me, but the rider, keeping control with one hand,
drew a pistol with the other, and would have fired had I not
cried out:

"Stop! stop! stop!"

Bewildered, he hesitated, but distrustfully, calling in fierce
anger:

"Throw up your hands, and come into the light, or I will
kill you!"

Hastening to do as he said, and the moon striking my face
as I stepped into the road, he lowered his pistol, crying out:

"My God, Gilbert!"

Recognizing Uncle Job's voice, I answered, but hardly
above a whisper, so overcome was I at seeing him.

"Great heavens! what are you doing here?" he went on,
springing from his horse; but I knew no more till I found
myself lying in the road and he bending over me.

"There, you are coming round; but, my God! how pale
and wan you look, and how torn your face!  Have you been
ill, or what is the matter?" he asked, his voice choked and
trembling.

"No, I'm all right," I answered; and indeed the sight of
him filled me with such happiness that my weariness left me
ere I had finished speaking.

"There! do not get up.  Lie where you are, and when you
are strong enough you can tell me how it happens that you
are here and alone, and at this time of night," he replied, his
face clouded with anxiety.

"I ran away to escape Moth; but I've something else to
tell you," I answered, remembering the tragedy at the cabin
and Burke waiting beside the road, "and it's about you,"
I went on, overcome by the recollection.

"There is no hurry to tell it," he answered, tenderly.
"We can stay here till morning for all the difference it will
make; so calm yourself."

"There is need, though, for Burke is waiting by the road
to kill you," I answered, getting to my feet and striving to
overcome my weakness.

"What is that you say?  Some one waiting to kill me?" he
asked, peering into my face, as if he thought I had lost my
senses.

"Yes; I heard them planning it in the cabin in Murderer's
Hollow," I answered, simply.

"Good heavens! what could have taken you there, Gilbert?"
he asked, as if still doubting what I said.

"I was crossing the valley, and reached the cabin as the
robbers came up," I answered, striving to make myself clear,
"and seeing them first, hid in the shadow of the hut."

"You said one before, and now you say two," he answered,
as if the discrepancy confirmed his thought that I was mad.

"There were two—Burke and Blott."

"Burke and Blott?"

"Yes; our Blott, and Burke, who robbed Mr. Singleton;
but when Blott refused to aid, Burke killed him."

"What is all this you are telling me, my poor boy?" he
replied, his voice shaking.  "Surely you are dreaming."

"No, I'm not; and afterward Burke hurried away to wait
your coming."

"Burke!  What on earth can he be doing here, unless,
indeed, he has been driven from his home, and so turned
outlaw.  Did he know it was me?"

"I think not, for I never thought of you at all."

"How did he know I was coming this way to-night?"

"Some one in Appletop sent him word, he said."

"He only wanted to rob me.  He could not have wished
to kill me, unless in revenge!" Uncle Job answered,
inquiringly.

"Yes, both rob and kill you, and as it had been agreed
between him and the person in Appletop, he said."

Upon this I told Uncle Job all that I had heard and seen at
the cabin.  When I had finished, he stood for a long time
silent, asking himself over and over again who it was that
could have informed Burke of his coming, or that desired his
death, and wherefore, if, indeed, it was not a ruse of Burke's
to deceive Blott.

"I can't make it out," he said at last.  "The river is too
low for boats to pass the rapids, so I had to come this way,
and started late on purpose to avoid highwaymen, for I have
a lot of money with me."

"Burke knew all about it," I answered; "even the hour
you were to start."

"Then it is lucky I was delayed; but I have still time to
pay my respects to him, the villain!" he answered, throwing
the rein over his horse's neck.

"Time to do what?" I asked.

"To go on to the cabin and take or kill Burke, the
cold-blooded assassin!" he answered, grimly.

"No, no!  You'll not do that, Uncle Job, surely!" I cried.

"Yes, I must have Burke, or know who it is that sent him
word.  My life may depend upon it hereafter."

"He'll kill you!  He's a devil, but soft and purring like
a cat," I answered, remembering Burke's way.

"I will not give him a chance.  Besides, Blott may not be
dead."

"I know he is, for his hand dropped like lead," I answered.

"Very likely, and deserves it for the company he was in;
but pistols don't always kill.  You stay here," he went on,
preparing to mount; "there is no danger, and I will be back
in an hour."

"No.  If you're going, I'm going, too," I answered, determined
not to be alone again in this forest, so full of horrors.

"Well, do as you like.  There will be no danger if we can
reach the place without being seen."

"That'll be easy enough, for the trees will hide us; but
I wish you'd go back to Appletop," I answered, full of
forebodings.

"To be shot from a bush to-morrow?  No!  I must find
out who it is that seeks my life, if, indeed, there is any one save
Burke himself."

"Burke'll never tell, I know he'll not," I answered, still
hoping to dissuade him.

"Well, I will get him, anyway, and that will make one
enemy the less to guard against," he replied, springing into
the saddle.

Lifting me up behind him, he put spurs to his horse, and
in a few minutes we reached the top of the bluff.  Turning
into the forest, we made our way to the grove back of the
cabin, and here, fastening the horse, we crept forward on our
hands and knees to the rear of the hut.  Peering within, and
everything being as I had left it, we made our way into the
dark inclosure.  Closing the door, Uncle Job went to Blott,
bidding me keep a lookout for Burke; and this I could do
through the opening in the wall without in any way betraying
our presence.  Trying first his pulse and then his heart, Uncle
Job exclaimed at last:

"There is life in him, but whether he can be brought
around or not is another thing."  Saying which, he got down
on his knees and began to beat the man's arms and chest,
prying his mouth open at last, and breathing into it, as if
he would force life into the body whether or no.

While thus engaged, Burke emerged from the shadows of
the trees, and upon my crying out, Uncle Job got up, and taking
a pistol in each hand, stationed himself in the middle of
the room.  Reaching the door, Burke pushed it open, and
doing so, stood outlined in the bright moonlight.  At this,
and before he could enter or suspect our presence, Uncle Job
cried out in a terrible voice:

"Throw up your hands, Burke, or you are a dead man!"

Surprised, the robber stepped back, wavering, as if
uncertain whether to fly or grasp his weapons; but Uncle Job
advancing, thrust his pistols forward, calling out again:

"Quick! before I kill you!"  And upon this, Burke, with
a dreadful oath, did as he was ordered.

"Thanks, Colonel, thanks!" Uncle Job went on, more
quietly.  "I had not expected to meet you so soon again; but
back up a little, will you?  There, that will do.  Now,
Gilbert, come and relieve him of his pistols.  There is no
danger, lad, for I will kill him if he stirs so much as a hair,"
he added, pressing the weapons close against Burke's breast.
Doing as I was told, I went to the robber, and taking his
pistols, hid them in the cabin.  "We are getting on finely,
Gilbert.  Now see if he has a knife.  Don't be
afraid."  Obeying, I took from Burke a murderous weapon, which
I threw, with all my might into the surrounding weeds.  All
this while the robber stood still, his eyes darting this way and
that, as a wild beast's might when suddenly brought to bay.

"Now, Colonel, I must trouble you to remove your coat.
There, thank you!  Gilbert, take off his belt and strap his
arms to his body," Uncle Job went on, pleasantly, keeping
his pistols all the while leveled upon Burke.  "Tighter, lad,
tighter!  Don't leave any slack.  We are getting on, Colonel,
we are getting on; so don't be impatient.  Now take my
belt, Gilbert, and bind his legs together in the same way.
Harder, boy! you don't half pull!  There, that is better.
I am sorry to do this, Colonel, but assassins and those who
murder without knowing why must be carefully looked to,"
Uncle Job ran on in a chatty way, as if costuming a friend
and being desirous of doing it well, even at some personal
inconvenience.  "Now, Colonel, I must ask you to lie down.
There, so, so!  That will do; and let me advise you to keep
still if you value your life, for I am in a mood to kill you,"
Uncle Job added, soberly enough, examining Burke's fastenings
as he spoke, tightening them and turning the belts about
so that the buckles could not be reached.

To all that was said and done, Burke made no response,
seeming to feel that it was useless to make remonstrance.
Indeed, his discovery and the dead man lying in full view told
him that to beg for mercy was a waste of breath.  When at
last Uncle Job had things fixed to his liking, he stopped, and
looking at Burke, said:

"Now that we have some leisure, Burke, I should like to
know how it happens you are here, and an outlaw, for when
I saw you last you were about to return to Mississippi."

"Yes, and I should, except for your robbing me of my winnings,
curse you!" he answered, but mildly, and as if speaking
to a friend.

"What difference did that make?" Uncle Job asked.

"All the difference in the world, for I could then have
recouped myself, but being under a ban I dared not go back
empty-handed."

"Then it was for both gain and revenge that you were
going to kill me to-night?"

"Were you the man I was waiting for?" Burke asked, in
surprise.

"Yes, and you knew it."

"No; for if I had I would have gone to Appletop to make
sure of killing you," Burke answered.

"I should have thought Blott's murder enough for one
night," Uncle Job answered, impatiently.

"That was nothing.  He brought it on himself, the fool!
And I should have slept soundly for a week could I have killed
you, too.  That is the way such things affect me," Burke
replied, looking Uncle Job coldly in the face.

"Have you no conscience?" the latter asked, out of all
patience.

"Don't talk cant!  Conscience is a matter of digestion.
If that is good, I sleep soundly; if not, a cricket will make me
start with fear."

"Have you no mercy, either, Burke?" Uncle Job asked.

"No, not if it would rob me of a crumb or a drop of water
I craved.  It is every one for himself as I look at it."

"You devil!  You don't deserve to live."

"Yes, as much as you.  We are both animals, only differently
built.  You can live on vegetables, but I must have meat
and plenty of it, and not cooked too well, either."

"Well, all this leads to nothing; but I should like to ask
you a question, Burke, and if you are wise, you will answer
it frankly," Uncle Job responded.

"You can ask as many as you like, and I will do as I think
best about answering them, Mr. Throckmorton," the other replied,
with a soft purr in his voice, as if speaking to a comrade.

"What I want to know is, who told you I was to pass this
way to-night, if, indeed, any one told you?"

"Well, really, I should like to oblige you, but you will have
to excuse me," Burke answered, looking at Uncle Job as if
it pained him beyond expression to refuse his request.

"Then you refuse to tell?" Uncle Job replied, disappointment
clearly showing in his voice.

"Thank you, yes; I can't, really.  And now may I ask you
a question in return?" Burke answered.

"Yes, but I will not promise to answer you," Uncle Job
replied, shortly.

"Of course not, Mr. Throckmorton, of course not.  It is
nothing of importance, anyway."

"Well, what is it, Burke?"

"It is this, if you don't mind.  Who told you I was
waiting by the roadside for you?"

"I don't know that there is any harm in telling you, but
I guess I had better not," Uncle Job replied, glancing at me.
"Perhaps it was the same person who told you I was coming
this way.  Who knows?  I will make a bargain with you,
though, Burke, if you have a mind.  Answer my question and
I will answer yours."

To this Burke made no reply, shutting his mouth as if it
concealed a secret of the greatest value to him.

"Very well; we will say no more about it," Uncle Job
continued.  "Now, Gilbert, if you will look after him, I will
see if I can do anything for Blott."  And going into the
cabin, he got down on his knees and commenced to work over
the fallen man as before.  "His heart flutters and there is life
in him, if I only knew how to get at it, but that is just where
I fail," he exclaimed at last, rising to his feet.  "We must
have a doctor, Gilbert, and quickly, if he is to be saved."

"A doctor!" I answered.

"Yes; and to get him we must go to Appletop."

"Blott will surely die before he could reach here,"
I answered.

"Perhaps not, if you were to go without loss of time,"
Uncle Job replied, looking at me inquiringly.

"I'll not go," I answered, shortly, determined not to leave
him alone with Burke.

"Why not?  No harm can come to you, and I am as safe
here as in bed.  Besides, it may save Blott's life.  You are
not strong enough, though, to stand the ride, I am afraid,"
he added, scanning my face.

"I'm all right, but I wouldn't know where to go,"
I answered.

"Oh, that will be easy enough.  The road we came leads
there, and you can't miss it.  In the middle of the town as
you go forward there is a park where all the roads meet, and
at the end of the one you are following there is a tavern, with
a wide porch and green blinds.  Stop there and tell them what
is wanted, and they will do the rest."

"I can't leave you here alone," I answered, nowise inclined
to do as he said.

"There is no danger; and how will I dispose of Burke if
you don't go for help?" he replied.

"All right, I'll go," I answered, seeing there was no other
way.

"That is a brave lad!  Tell them to send a surgeon and
a man to aid.  There! not another word.  The dapple-gray
mare is as gentle as a lamb, and will carry you like the wind";
and without saying more he went and brought her to where
I stood, and lifting me into the saddle, shortened the stirrups
and tightened the girth.  "Don't spare her, my lad.  She is
good for fifty miles, and a better horse you never had at Wild
Plum, if you have the strength to stand the ride."

"I'm as strong as an ox," I answered; "and you know I'm
used to horses."

"Yes; but look well to the saddlebags, my boy, for the
money is not mine.  Now be off, and God bless you!" he cried,
stepping back and waving me away.

Glancing over my shoulder as I shot under the trees, he
stood where I left him, watching and waving me a fond adieu.
For a while the cool air and the novelty of my errand buoyed
me up, but after a time, being greatly worn in body, I lost
somewhat the security of my seat.  This I thought due to the
swaying of the overwrought animal, and not to any lack of
steadiness on my part; but alarmed, I grasped the saddle,
urging the horse with whip and rein to still greater speed.
Going on, strive as I would, every trifling thing jarred my
nerves and agitated my mind, and soon strange fantasies
such as I had never seen before began to dance before my
eyes.  Riding with my back to the moon, my very shadow came
to perplex me, as if it were some unnatural thing.  Now it
would run on ahead, as if afraid, only to halt directly for me
to overtake it.  Then, as if tired of the road, it would wander
off into the bushes, climbing the sides of the hills and trees in
the strangest possible way.  Why did it not go on before me,
as a shadow should?  Then I would be conscious that its
vagaries were caused by the windings and inequalities of the road,
and nothing else; but straightway I had convinced myself that
this was so, I would fall to speculating about it again, as if it
somehow boded me evil.  How strangely, too, the trees and
road blended at times or were lost to sight in utter blackness!
Surely there was some mist or storm coming on with the
dawn!  Then again I would seem to topple and fall from my
horse, only to find myself a moment after holding hard and
going faster than before.  What strange forms the objects by
the roadside took on, and how dim and tired my eyes with
looking!  Or was it the wind?  Yes, that was it, for I was
always affected that way at Wild Plum when riding at full
speed.  With all this, I was consumed with a burning desire
to get on, and faster, as if the world were about to stop and
the sky fall.  This mare of Uncle Job's that he thought so fine,
why, my pony could beat her; and with the thought I fell to
pounding her sides with my heels to make her go the faster.
What mattered the smoke that steamed from her sides and the
foam that flecked her head and shoulders if she could do no
better than this!  Then changing, I would praise her, patting
her shoulder and calling her the bravest horse in the world.
How dreary and long the road, though!  And its many devious
windings!  Why were these not straightened?  The hills, too!
Surely they might be made easier!

Going on in this mood, the moon died out and the gray of
the morning came on as I reached the open country, and looking
away saw the great river, black and glimmering as if with
a sickness of some kind.  By this I knew I was far on my way,
and urging my horse to still greater speed, rocking this way
and that, I came at last, without expectation, full upon the
town.  Now indeed I was sure, but without halting or looking
to right or left I flew onward, until in the uncertain light
I came straight upon the park, as Uncle Job had said.  Pulling
my horse on her haunches, the little tavern, with its sign
dangling in the still air, was at my very elbow.  With the
sight I slipped from my saddle and ran to the door, beating it
with my hands and forehead, crying all the time,
"Open! open! open!"  No response, however, came to my summons
until my voice grew hoarse with the effort.  Then, as my
strength was leaving me and my sight grew dim, the door flew
open, and I fell forward into the arms of the man who held it.
Of sense I had none left, nor of voice scarce enough to be
heard, but clutching him as a drowning man might, I cried:

"I'm from Uncle Job—he's at the cabin in Murderer's
Hollow!  Go—quick, and—take a surgeon—and
help—and—and—look to the saddlebags, and—"  But
that was all, and
sinking down, I thought I was dying, and was glad, as one
might be who throws off a burden too heavy to bear.





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.. _`CONSTANCE`:

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   CHAPTER XXXI


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   CONSTANCE

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When I opened my eyes, I lay without moving, staring and
unconscious of life as if I had never been.  Presently, tiring
with the effort, I sank back into the blackness and stillness of
night.  Awakening anew, and yet not knowing that I lived,
something touched my lips, and I opened them as a young bird
will, and swallowed what was given me.  Drifting again into
somber nothingness, I revived, but after what length of
time or wherefore I did not know.  Then a face bent over
mine, and looking down into my glazed and staring eyes,
started back with a sob or stifled cry.  Now I began to watch
the shadows of the room, as a child might, without knowing
they were shadows or what they signified.  Relapsing once
more into unconsciousness, I awakened, and after a while fell
to tracing the objects about me, and with some thought that I
had seen them before, but distrustfully, so weak was my
understanding.  Thus days passed, wherein a shadowy face bent
over mine, with sorrowful eyes that were always anxious and
often filled with tears.  Gaining strength, I made out, little
by little, the things about me, and doing so, smiled as children
will in their sleep or when a toy is flashed before their eyes.
By and by the objects more distinct began to fix themselves,
and in the guise of friends, but drifting, and purposely, as if to
elude me.

Thus the past came back, until at last I need no longer
study the great canopied bed with its dangling laces, nor the
faces of the king and his minister staring at me from off the
wall.  They were friends, and craning my neck, I looked
about for the curious table, and in the sweep of my eye caught
sight of my old enemy, the timber-wolf, above the door.
I was not at Wild Plum, then!  That was gone; but next to it,
and now as dear, at the Dragon—Constance's home.  Beyond
the window were the big trees and Little Sandy, and about me
the treasures that Constance and her father loved.  Here it
was I had dined and gone to sleep, and strange that it should
seem so long when only a night had passed!  It was time to
rise, and with the thought I sought to lift my head, but all in
vain.  Falling back and resting, other thoughts came, and not
like shadows: the flight from Wild Plum, Moth, the jail,
Murderer's Hollow!  At this last I shuddered, so real did it
appear.  Was it a dream after all, or was I dreaming now?
Surely the one or the other!  Worn out, I raised my hand; but
how white and thin it looked!  I had been ill, then, and so
had never left the Dragon and Little Sandy.  That was it; the
things I remembered were visions and nothing else.  Reasoning
thus, I sighed as one will whose heart is weak or breaking;
and scarce had it passed my lips ere a face dearer to me than
all else in life bent over mine with a look of pity and tenderest
love.

"Constance!"

"Gilbert!"

"Come nearer, dearest, so I can see you better," I whispered,
after awhile, afraid to speak aloud lest the vision vanish.

"My face touches yours, Gilbert."

"Then kiss me and put your arms about my neck,"
I answered, partly reassured.

"Yes, you dear child!  I'll do anything you say."

"Oh, I am so weary and tired, Constance," I answered,
striving to return her caress.

"Yes, but you will be stronger soon if you lie still"; and
the sweet angel laid her fingers on my lips, keeping her face
close to mine as I had asked.  Kissing her hand, I had no
wish to disobey if only I might look into her eyes and feel her
breath upon my face; and lest it should be only a dream, I lay
still, and looking into her eyes, sank into a gentle sleep.

Awakening, I found her bending over me with anxious eyes
and troubled face.

"Constance! you are still there?"

"Yes, always."

"Tell me I'm awake."

"Yes, and better, you dear boy!"

"I'm at the Dragon, and you are surely Constance?"
I asked, ready to cry out.

"Yes, you know I'm Constance"; and she bent over and
kissed me as if the better to reassure me.

"I've had such dreams, Constance! such terrible dreams!"

"It's nothing, Gilbert.  People with fevers always have
dreams," she answered, caressing my face.

"I thought I left Little Sandy with Uncle Job, and then
a lot of things happened."

"Yes; but don't think of it any more.  Dreams never
come true, you know," she answered, placing her face beside
mine.

"I won't; only I'm glad I'm in Little Sandy," I answered,
lying still.  When I next awoke Uncle Job and Setti were
beside me, my hands clasped in theirs.

"You are better, Gilbert," Uncle Job spoke up, stopping
short, as if something choked him.

"I'm all right," I answered, feeling stronger.

"You are a Little Prince, and my True Knight forever,"
Setti exclaimed, bending over me and taking my face in both
her hands.

"I'll be anything you wish, Setti, you know," I answered,
striving to answer with some spirit.

"Then I must be careful," she answered, smiling through
her tears and kissing me.

"No, you mustn't," I cried, in great spirits.  Then turning
to Uncle Job I went on: "I'm sorry to have kept you here,
uncle, but I couldn't help it.  I've never been very strong,
you know," I added, thinking how little a thing it took to
upset me.

"I said I wanted to stay longer in Little Sandy, you
remember," he replied, with a show of being cheerful.

"Your business needed you, though."

"Men always say that, Gilbert," he answered, as if it were
nothing.

"What about Aunt Jane?" I asked, fearing to speak her
name.

"Oh, she will never bother you any more."

"I'm glad of that, for I dreamed she had a man who
followed me everywhere, giving me no peace."

"Poor boy! but you must lie still, the doctor says, if you
want to get well," he answered, turning away.

"I've a lot I want to say, Uncle Job," I cried, following
him with my eyes.

"Yes, but not now, Gilbert," Constance interposed, coming
to my side and laying her hand on my lips.  "Your fever
will surely come back if you don't keep quiet."

"I must talk, or you'll all vanish and it will turn out to be a
dream, I know it will," I answered, holding tight to her hand.

"No, for it's all real.  Please lie still now, Gilbert; for my
sake," she whispered, bending over me.

"I will if you'll stay and sit where I can see you"; and
reaching out I sought to lay hold of her, but eluding me, as if
she were a shadow, her form faded from my sight and I knew
no more.  Coming to again, my first thought was of her, and
she, sweet angel, as if knowing it would be so, was there to
meet my anxious look.  When, however, I would have spoken,
she placed her hand on my lips, saying:

"You must not talk"; and kissing her hand, I was fain to
do as she said.

In this way many days passed, Constance giving me
nourishment, and sitting beside me, her hand clasped in mine.
When sometimes I would have talked in spite of her, she
would leave her seat as if to go away; at which I would do as
she wished, only looking always into her sweet face and
gathering there some new hope of life and happiness.

"You are my little mother, Constance, only different from
her, and not different either," I said one day.

"Yes, always your little mother," she answered, taking my
hand.

"You will not go away as she did, though?" I answered,
the fear of losing her being always uppermost in my mind, so
sore was my heart.

"You dear boy, you know I will never leave you," she
answered, smiling and patting my hand.

Lying thus, my thoughts would sometimes wander, in spite
of me, to the visions of my sickness, but if I sought to speak
of them and so free my mind and have an end of it, Constance
would not listen, saying dreams always came to those who had
a fever.  So, after a while, not being able to speak of them,
they faded away, as such things will when treated irreverently.
Thus, at last, I got the peace of mind I needed.  Save a visit
each day from Uncle Job and Setti, no one came near me
except Constance and the doctor.  When I slept, Constance
rested beside me in a great chair, never seeming to eat nor
sleep, nor desire to do either.  The doctor I had never seen
before, but that was not strange, not having much need of
medicine up to this time.  He had little to say save to tell me
I would soon be on my feet if I but did as Constance told me.
One day, however, more talkative than usual, he said, smiling
on her, and softly tapping his medicine-case:

"You have been ill to death, my lad, and but for this little
woman, and the calomel and jalap, would have surely died."

"I know it; and except for her I'd not care to live,"
I answered, my throat filling.  Nothing, indeed, could exceed
my love for the sweet girl, and it added to my happiness now
to think I should always owe my life to her and her tender care.

As I grew stronger, Setti came and sat beside me, and
I have ever been grateful for this chance that made the gentle
being known to me.  For with her shy ways I else had never
known her as the tender and good in woman should be by
those who hold them in respect.  As I gained strength Uncle
Job's visits were more frequent, but further than caressing my
hand or face he scarce said a word, so soft was his heart.  The
great care with which they watched over me I must believe to
have been needed; for one day, when I disregarded some order
of Constance's, I fell into such a dreadful faint that all their
efforts to bring me to were vain, until Uncle Job and the
doctor had been sent for; and thus I found them grouped
about my bed when I revived.  When at last I had gained
strength and was pronounced out of danger, I one day asked
Constance if Aunt Jane had been to see me, thinking it strange
if she had not, even in one so cold.  For a time Constance did
not reply, and when she did it was not like her, but as if she
were acting a part.

"No, your aunt has not been here, Gilbert.  Do you care much?"

"I don't know.  Only I thought she might have come while
I was sick."

"It's so far, Gilbert, you know."

"So far! her farm is scarce half an hour's ride, Constance.
She can't care for me.  Or haven't you told her?"

"No, she doesn't know, Gilbert."

"Oh," I answered, not wondering much, but still feeling as
if she ought to have been told.  "Didn't you want her to
know?"

"We thought to write her, but put it off from day to day,
hoping you would be better."

"To write her?" I answered, only the more puzzled.

"You don't understand, Gilbert," Constance answered,
moving about the room, as she had a way of doing when
anyway disturbed.  After a while, recovering herself, she went
on, "Suppose your aunt is farther away than you think,
Gilbert?"

"I don't understand, Constance, unless she is dead or has
moved away," I answered, greatly disturbed.

"Suppose this is not Little Sandy, but Appletop.  What
would you say to that, Gilbert?" she asked, kissing me.

At this I was more bewildered than ever, not being able
in any way to make out the sense of what she was saying.

"How can that be and you here?" I answered at last.

"Well, would it be so very strange?  I might be in Appletop,
you know," she answered, as if leading me on.

"This room, too!  It couldn't be in both places!" I cried,
thinking that for some reason she was seeking to mislead me.

"Might we not have moved to Appletop and brought these
things with us?  That would make it clear," she answered,
bending over me.

"Yes—I don't know—only tell me quick!" I answered.

"That is how it is, Gilbert.  This is not Little Sandy, but
Appletop," she replied, pressing her face down close beside
mine.  After a while, raising her head and smiling on me in
tenderest love, she added: "Are you glad, Gilbert!"

"Yes, you being here," I answered, not so much surprised
after all, if the truth were told, for I could never quite make
myself believe that some part of my dream was not true.  "I
so longed to see you after we left Little Sandy," I went on,
"that I always wished myself back, though a hundred Moths
and Aunt Janes were in the way."

"Then you are not worried?" she asked, kissing me again.

"No; why should I be? but have I been sick long?"

"Yes, many weeks."

"How did it happen?  I can't remember that I was ailing,"
I answered.

"You broke down that morning when you came to our door,
and for weeks knew nobody, but raved continually about Moth
and Burke and the wild animals that had you imprisoned in a
tree of some kind."

"Did I talk about such things?" I asked

"Yes."

"I'm a poor stick, always breaking down and making a
show of myself," I answered, ashamed of my weakness.

"No, you are not.  The doctor said your sickness was
brought on by fatigue and lack of food and sleep.  It was your
coming to, though, he most dreaded, fearing you would lose
your mind."

"Now I see why I am in this room, and why you have made
it like the old one," I answered, tears coming to my eyes at
the thought of their kindness.

"Yes, we fixed it up like the other so you would think you
were in Little Sandy.  See," she added, going to the window
and throwing back the curtain, "this is not the old square,
but another, larger and finer, with a house hidden away in the
trees."

"Where all the roads meet, as Uncle Job said," I answered,
putting my arm about her and kissing her in such delight of
living as I had never known before.

"There; you will bring on your fever again if you act in
that way, you wild boy!" she answered, drawing back.

"I don't care if I do," I answered, reaching out and taking
her hand and pressing it to my lips.

"Then you don't mind my not telling you all this before?"
she asked, as if she had been in doubt how I would take the
part she had played in misleading me.

"No, for now I'll not have to leave you again.  Tell me,
Constance," I asked, after a while, "why has your father not
been to see me?  I've looked for him every day."

"He had to go back to Little Sandy, but will be here in a
few days.  It was he who caught you that morning."

"Was it?  I couldn't see."

"We never expected to hear you speak again, for you lay
for hours as if dead.  Then sleeping and waking you uttered
frightful cries, and for weeks we stood about your bed,
watching and praying," Constance answered, tears dimming her soft
eyes at the remembrance.

The next day, being stronger than ever, Constance said I
might talk, and with that I fell to questioning her about
everything that had happened, and particularly about Uncle Job,
who, next to her, was ever uppermost in my thoughts.

"Did some one go to Uncle Job that night?" I asked.

"Yes; papa and the doctor."

"What did they find?" I asked, lifting myself up.

"They found your Uncle Job guarding Burke and trying to
bring the other man to life," she replied.

"Did he succeed?" I asked, remembering poor Blott, and
with what courage he had stood up at the last.

"No; but the doctor soon brought him to."

"How is he now?"

"He is well and at work about the stables.  Papa doesn't
think he is bad, only weak, and that Burke misled him."

"Burke!" I exclaimed, a tremor creeping over me at the
thought of that cruel villain and his soft, purring way.  "What
did they do with him?"

"They put him in prison, but when Blott refused to appear
against him he was released."

"Why wouldn't Blott appear?" I asked, surprised.

"Every one urged him to, but he said he was as bad as
Burke."

"They ought not to have let Burke go!" I cried, thinking
of Uncle Job.

"That is what papa said, but the jail was full and they
would have had to board him, and the town being poor, they
didn't want to do that, no one appearing against him."

"It's too bad," I answered, all Burke's cunning and
wickedness rising before me.  "Didn't Uncle Job try to detain
him?"

"No; and he seemed much relieved when Burke was
released and left the town, at which we all wondered."

"It was like him not to think of himself," I answered,
remembering the Singletons, and why Uncle Job should wish
Burke anywhere but in Appletop.

"Has he anything to fear from Burke any more than
others?" Constance asked, as if my alarm had in some way
communicated itself to her.

"Oh, hasn't he told you?" I asked, stopping short; for if
uncle had said nothing about the conspiracy to kill him, ought
I to tell?

"No."

At this I wondered, not being able to see any reason why
he should not have told Mr. Seymour.  Anyway, I determined
to tell Constance, and this I did, but without referring to the
Singletons or what happened on the boat.  Constance thought
it strange, and straightway began to wonder who there could
be in Appletop that wished Uncle Job harm, but fruitlessly.
Indeed, after a while we concluded it was but a ruse of Burke's
to give him an excuse for keeping more than his share of the
money.  This, we made up our minds, was what Uncle Job
thought, and so when he came to visit me I ventured to say as
much, but without his vouchsafing any reply.

"Did Uncle Job get hurt that night?" I asked, continuing
my talk with Constance, the better to keep her by my side.

"No; but when he saw you on his return he was nearly
crazed, blaming himself for all you suffered.  Nor did he leave
the house until the doctor pronounced you out of danger.  He
was like one out of his mind, and would not go to his room,
but slept on a cot before your door.  Had you died it would
have killed him, the doctor said, so much was he wrought up
over your misfortunes."

"Poor uncle! he was in no way to blame," I answered.
"Tell me, Constance, how it was that you came to leave Little
Sandy?" I asked, flying from one thing to another, as people
will whose minds are weak.  "You had no thought of it when
I came away."

"No; but papa had grown to dislike the place.  After my
mother died he wanted to leave, and when your father and
mother were gone, he was still more inclined that way.  So
when your Uncle Job wrote to him to come to Appletop, he did
not wait to write, but taking everything, we drove across
the country, following the route you took.  When we got here
we were disappointed not to find you, papa not less than I, for
you know he has loved you as if you were his son since that
day you saved my life."

At this, too full for speech, I drew her to my side and
kissed her.  For the doctor would have it that I should lie in
bed part of the day, to ease my heart, he said—though why
my heart should need easing I could not understand; but
doctors—once they get you at a disadvantage—exact all kinds
of things of you, as every one knows, though for good reasons,
it is probable, in most cases.

"How long have you been in Appletop?" I went on, that I
might still hear her voice.

"We had only been here a little while when you came."

"How did you find time to fix this room?" I asked,
wondering, it was so like the other.

"It gave us a lot of trouble, for carpenters are hard to get
here; but papa is pleased, for it is dearer to him than
everything else."

"I know; and have you named this place the Dragon?" I
asked, smoothing out her hair, which was ever inclined to fly
apart as if impatient of restraint.

"Yes; for any other would seem odd."

"The sign, too, is it like the old one?"

"Worse, because better painted, papa says.  He does better
in water-colors though."

"Did he paint it?"

"Yes."

"Can he paint real pictures, too?" I asked, thinking how
beautiful she was with the sun shining in her hair.

"Yes, but no one is to know it," she replied; "though
why, I don't know."

"No?" I answered, gazing on her dear form and thinking
how much more fortunate I was than other youths, and all
because of her love and tender ways.





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.. _`CONVALESCENCE`:

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   CHAPTER XXXII


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   CONVALESCENCE

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One day when I was well on my way toward recovery, I was
made happy by a visit from Mrs. Singleton.  I could plainly
hear her inquiries as she mounted the stairs, and so was in a
measure prepared to receive the dear lady and respond to
her loving embrace and multiplied questions when she finally
entered the room.

"You are feeling better, I know, for your looks show it!"
she exclaimed, holding my hand and putting an arm about
Constance.

"Yes, thank you; I'm a good deal better," I answered,
grateful for what she said.  For there are no more disagreeable
people than those who tell you just how you look when
you are ailing.  Because of this I have always maintained that
if you have nothing agreeable to say about one's looks, you
should be silent.  Or if you must babble about such matters,
should say something that will not depress those you address
too much.

"I have been kept away from you, my child, by the vexations
of housekeeping," Mrs. Singleton went on, "but have
known every day how you were getting on."

"I expect you find it very hard to get started in your new
home," I answered.

"Yes; the worry is enough to drive one mad, and it is made
worse by the trouble of getting or keeping a servant."

"Do you like Appletop as well as you expected?" I asked
at a venture.

"Oh, yes, and so does Mr. Singleton, who has a fine
business; but my girls! they drive me wild."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I answered, not sympathizing
with her very much, for she was the very picture of health and
comfort of life.

"Yes; they say we left slavery in Mississippi to make slaves
of them here, and indeed it is like it in many ways.  For they
have to be taught to wash and iron and cook, just as they
were taught music when little things; and not knowing how,
their hands are skinned by the washboard and burned by hot
irons until they are a sight to see."

"That's too bad."

"Yes; but they are getting on better now, though they
manage in one way and another to put most of the work on
poor Betty."

"How does Miss Betty like that?" I asked, glad of the
reference because of my fondness for her.

"She says she doesn't care, and that in time she will be the
best cook in the state."

"There's always one worker in every family, they say," I
answered.

"Oh, the others like to work, though not to cook; but it
is said, you know, that the acorn that doesn't sprout the pigs
eat, and so what one of the dear things lacks, the others make
up for," she answered, with a good deal of pride.

"That's true, I'm sure; but haven't you any wish to go
back to Mississippi?" I asked, to encourage her to talk.

"No, not if we could.  The girls like it here too, I am sure,
if their thoughts were known, the air and the freedom are so
fine.  They all send their love, and will come and see you when
the doctor and Constance will permit," she answered, kissing
the sweet girl by her side.

"I'm sure I shall be glad to see them," I answered,
remembering their pleasant ways and many kindnesses to me.

"Here is something Betty sends you, and it is her own
make," Mrs. Singleton replied, removing the cover from a
dish of jelly that looked like amber in the morning sunlight.

"Tell Miss Betty I'm much obliged to her," I answered,
asking for a spoon that I might try it at once.  For I was now
hungry all the time, and my thoughts dwelt more on delicacies
like this than anything else.

"That will please her, the dear child, for she is never so
happy as when doing things of this kind."

"It's good of her to remember me and she may send me
more another day, if she has a mind," I answered, as if in
banter and yet meaning it, for such things were hard to get in
Appletop.

"That she will, my dear, and bring it herself, if she may,"
Mrs. Singleton answered, turning to Constance.

"I hope she will, for it will do Gilbert good to see his
friends now," Constance spoke up, pleased with the kindness
shown me; for Mrs. Singleton and her daughters were loved by
every one in Appletop, because of their kind hearts and
unaffected ways.

When the dear lady had taken her departure, I said to
Constance, remembering why the Singletons left Mississippi:

"Have the girls any beaus?"

"Yes, and Miss Betty more especially."

"She is the worker, too."

"It's not on that account, though perhaps it is a
recommendation; but her being a worker doesn't prevent your Uncle
Job going there very often."

"Uncle Job, is he paying her attention?" I asked, not much
surprised, remembering what I had seen at the steamboat
landing.

"Yes, he is desperately in love with her; and she is worthy
of it, too," Constance answered.

"I'm sure she is; and does she care for him?" I asked.

"I think so, but she is so full of her pretty ways and love
of everybody that I can't tell.  Sometimes I think she favors
him very much, and then I don't know."

"Is there any one else who pays her attention?" I asked,
interested at once in Uncle Job's suit.

"Yes, his partner, Mr. Rathe, is madly in love with her,
they say, though she doesn't give him any encouragement,"
she answered.

"I didn't know Uncle Job had a partner," I responded,
surprised, I know not why, but more that there should be
rivalry between them in such a matter; "what has he got a
partner for, anyway?"

"Papa asked him that, and he said because his business
called him away so much."

"Who is Rathe?" I inquired, feeling somehow a growing
enmity toward him.

"I don't know—no one does, I think; but that is nothing
here where most people are strangers to each other, except
as they are thrown together and so get acquainted," she
answered, simply.

"What do you think of him?" I asked, feeling that if she
liked him he must be all right.  For every true woman has
that strange knowledge of men that cannot go wrong, and so
makes them a safe guide in such matters.  Constance not
answering, I added: "Or maybe you don't know him very well?"

"I have hardly seen him, and so ought not to judge," she
answered, as if evading my inquiry.

Thinking of what she said, I braced myself to ask a
question that had been on my lips since she told me I was in
Appletop, but somehow, when I would have spoken, the words
stuck in my throat, as medicine sometimes will.  Now, because
of Uncle Job's troubles, I determined to speak out, and so
asked:

"Has Moth been here?"

"Yes; they had scarcely led your horse to the stable when
he rode up to make inquiries; but papa, pretending to fly into
a rage, cried out that if he ever spoke to him again or crossed
his door he would have him ducked in the river for harassing
you so"; and her face lighted at the recollection as if the
remembrance pleased her greatly.

"What did Moth do then?"

"Oh, he took it in good part, saying he did not expect
help, and that what he wanted was for your good, however
others might view it.  After lingering about the town for a
few days he went away, believing, we think, that you had not
come to Appletop; for no one except those we trust know
you are here."

"That's good, and I hope it is the end of him," I answered,
feeling much relieved.

"We think it is, for unless he has left some one to spy
about, how will he ever find out you are here?" she added, as
if to clinch the matter.

This mention filled me with new apprehension, for I
thought it just like Moth's cunning to leave a spy behind.  I
said nothing to Constance, however, for it would do no good,
and rather than disturb her I would have faced a hundred
Moths, such was the tenderness I felt for her.  One day not
long afterward, when we sat looking across into the park, she
suddenly turned to me, saying:

"You have never asked about your friend Fox, Gilbert?"

"Fox!" I answered, startled out of myself; for how could
she know anything about that strange man, half robber, half
priest.  "Who told you about him?"

"He came here to ask about you."

"About me?'

"Yes; late one night a man rode up to the door and called
for your Uncle Job, and when he went out, Fox was there.
He told how you and he escaped from the jail, adding that he
had greatly blamed himself for letting you go off alone that
night."

"That was kind of him," I answered, glad to have been
remembered, though Fox was an outlaw and cast-off, and
thought to be altogether bad.

"Yes; and when your uncle told him of your illness, he
was greatly distressed, and afterward kept coming to make
inquiries till the doctor said you were out of danger.  At last,
when he went away, he asked your uncle to tell you that
though he had taken Moth's horse, he had returned it to the
owner, adding, as if to make light of what he had done, that
the horse was a poor thing, anyway, and not worth keeping."

"That was fine of him, and to send word, too.  He is no
more a robber, though, than I am, only he has got into a loose
way of living and there is no chance for him to quit, I am
afraid.  I only wish he lived in Appletop," I added.

"Why?"

"Oh, he'd be a good friend, and one who would help find
out who is plotting against Uncle Job, if what Burke said was
true," I answered.  At this, and strangely enough, I thought
of Rathe, but why I do not know, unless because of his efforts
to gain the favor of Miss Betty, and so was an enemy of Uncle
Job's.  "I don't suppose Uncle Job and Rathe are very good
friends, since they have become rivals?" I asked, determined
to learn all I could.

"I have never heard your uncle say anything unkind of
him.  He would be too proud, though, to do that; but Setti says
Rathe's face is anything but friendly when your uncle's name
is mentioned."

"Does Rathe live at the Dragon?"

"He did until the last few days; but he is away most of the
time; indeed, your uncle and he are hardly ever in town
together."

"Does he know I am here?"

"I don't know; we have never told him."

"I hope he doesn't," I answered, feeling somehow as if it
would be better if he did not, and with that the subject was
dropped.

In this way, and little by little, I regained my strength, and
not at the last with any pleasure.  For with it I should be
parted from Constance, whom I grew every day more to love,
not feeling then any more than in after years that such a
thing was beyond me and not likely to lead to anything I could
wish.  For those who are mature in thought and pure of heart
ever thus love, years being as naught to them.  She was mine
and I was hers, and alone in our lives we loved and were in
everything as one.





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.. _`THE RED ROSE OF CUVIER RIVER`:

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   CHAPTER XXXIII


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   THE RED ROSE OF CUVIER RIVER

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When I was able to be abroad some part of the day,
Constance and I loitered at first about the garden beside the
house, the plants of which were beginning to turn with the
early frost.  In the park across the way, where all the roads
meet, the hickory and ash were already bare and staring, the
limbs of the elm showing black and cold through the scant
foliage that yet clung to their extended branches.  The oak
and willow still held their leaves, but discolored and of bilious
hue, as if sick unto death.  In pleasing contrast to these, and
in rebuke, it seemed, the maples welcomed the frost with pink
and red and paling yellow, as if they thought the coming
winter a thing to look forward to with delight and not with
dread.

The first day we ventured into the street we ran across
Blott, grooming a horse near the stable door.

"Howdy do," he exclaimed, taking off his cap on seeing
Constance; "I'm glad to see you out an' not lookin' so pale.
It's a fine day for inv'lids, miss, an' purty for washin' an' dryin'
things," he added, looking across the road at the sheets and
pillow-cases flapping in the warm air.

"How are you, Blott, and the dapple-gray?" I cried,
going to her.  For it was Uncle Job's mare, and the one I had
ridden to Appletop that morning.

"Hello, Gilbert! is that you?  Well, I'd never know'd
you," he exclaimed.  "I'm glad to see you out agin, though,
for 'ceptin' for you I'd not be curryin' horses now."

"Not this mare, anyway," I answered, stroking her fine
face and looking into her mild responsive eyes.

"No; an' she's a good one if I'm a judge, an' fit to ride
for one's life."

"So is every horse, Blott," I answered, rubbing my face
against hers.  "They'll all do the best they can."

"All horses is good, Gilbert, if not broken by fools or the
like," Blott answered, striking his currycomb against a post,
and making the dust fly; "an' I never hired an old, broken-down
livery plug in my life that I didn't want to buy it afterward,
if 'twas gentle an' tried to please, which they mostly does."

"That's so; but how are you getting on?  As good as new
and better, if your looks show," I answered, remarking his
fine color and clear eyes.

"Yes; the bullet went through me as clean as a whistle, an'
if the ashes of the old cabin was scraped away you'd find it
there sure.  Then I'm livin' a decent kind of life, too.  The
malary's a thing you don't want, though, Gilbert.  It's like
the bots, an' if you ever git it be careful of the medicine, for
it's worse'n the disease.  It makes one careless-like; kindy
as if you was coastin' on a big bob.  I used to see lots of signs
as I shot down the hill, that said as plain as words, 'Hell's at
the bottom, Blott'; but I kept on, not carin'.  When I'd
reached the bottom, Burke's shot tipped me over, an' though
I rolled within a foot of the openin' I didn't go in, an' ever
since I've bin tryin' to crawl back agin to the top.  It's slow
work, though, both my tendons bein' bowed an' my wind not
much to speak of.  I'm not such a fool after all, though, as I
look," he went on in his droll way.  "For it's a wise chicken
that knows enough to stay near the barn, but after the hawks
git most of their feathers they learn better'n to wander too
far."

"Well, the hawks haven't picked your bones," I answered,
scanning his great frame.

"No; an' I can't think how it all happened, for I wasn't
wild when a boy.  I was tied up too tight, I guess.  You've
got to leave some slack in a boy's galluses, Gilbert, if you
want to keep the buttons on his pants.  Don't forget that when
you're grown, if you don't want to raise a lot of wrecks."

"Yes; but good by.  Take good care of the mare," I
answered, stroking her nose as we walked away.

"You bet your last plunk, an' for what she's done for me,
if nothin' else."

As I grew stronger, Constance and I extended our walks
into the town, standing by to watch the coming and going of
the traders and farmers.  The little village as yet made no
open pretense of grandeur, nor hinted at the hope of many that
it would one day become a city.  Such things were talked
about, however, quietly, by the more aspiring, and if the
authorities still permitted the edge of the sidewalk to be used
as a rack for horses, and the cows to wander at will, it was in
the interest of trade and neighborly accommodation, and for
the present only.  For, like a young maiden who dreams of
taking her hair out of braid, some there were in the town who
were beginning to discuss the need of improvements and
things that cities require and older places have, led on by wily
politicians and expectant contractors; though nothing came of
it, or ever would.

After a while, like young birds gaining strength, we wandered
as far as the ferry, a mile or more away.  Here we spent
our time watching the river and gathering the crimson leaves
and flowers that still blossomed along its borders.  These
visits were made much of by Mrs. Hayward, the young wife of
the ferryman, who both of us came to know and love.  If it
happened that she could get away from her household duties,
she would often go with us, and at other times, if it was
convenient, would entertain us at the little cabin where she and
Mr. Hayward lived.  In this manner Constance and she soon
became great friends, and because of it the lady in time took
me into her liking as well.  Later, when the nuts were right for
gathering, we sometimes extended our visits a great way into
the country.  Thus it came about one day, when we were far
from Appletop, that a storm coming on, we sought shelter in
a house some distance from the road, as if in a place by itself,
so secluded were its surroundings.  The mistress made us
welcome, and her husband coming in while we sat, Constance
cried out at seeing him that it was Blake, the carpenter who
had fixed up the treasure-room at the Dragon.  Like most
people who came into the new country, the Blakes had pre-empted
a piece of land and, building a house thereon, made it
their home; but he, being a carpenter and builder, sought
employment where he could find it, and oftentimes a great
way off, as in our case.

The good people did all they could to make us prolong our
stay, and this we were only too glad to do, because of their
kindness and desire to be hospitable.  Mr. Blake was a stout
little man, slow of speech, with eyes of a reddish color, and
having sharp eyebrows that stuck out like bayonets.  Mr. and
Mrs. Blake had a way when they talked, which pleased us
very much, of resting their hands on each other's shoulders
and prefixing what they said to each other by some endearing
phrase, as people sometimes will who are much alone or greatly
attached to each other.  As soon as she learned who we were,
Mrs. Blake, without further waiting or any pretense of
formality, at once assumed toward us, and naturally, the air of a
mother, so that we were in a little while talking and laughing
as if we had known her always.  When it came time to leave,
Mr. Blake took hold of my hand and held it as if meditating
some form of speech.  Then, calling to his wife and looking
to her as if for help, he said:

"I have heard all about your life, my son, and if you would
care to leave Appletop and come and live with us, you having
no regular home, we should be glad to have you, and would
make it pleasant if we could, and treat you like our own";
saying which, and unable to go on, he put my hand in that of
his wife's, folding his arms in a homely way, as if he found
them a great bother when not in use.

"Indeed, we should be glad to have you come and make
your home with us, for you would take the place of our boy,"
Mrs. Blake responded, tears starting in her eyes at the
reference.  "Please come, as Mr. Blake says, and we will try
and make your life happier than it has been since you, too,
have been alone."

This offer, so full of love and gentle kindness, moved me
more than I could find words to tell, and promising that if
I went to any one I would come to them, we drove off,
Mr. and Mrs. Blake standing with their hands on each other's
shoulders, watching until the forest hid us from view.

Some days after this we set apart an afternoon for a visit
to the Singletons.  As if to do us honor they gave us tea,
and besides did and said many pleasant things to show their
kindness; but most of all, I sat watching Miss Betty, as if I
might thus in some way come to know how she regarded
Uncle Job.  On our way home, too, this formed the subject
of conversation, but without our being the wiser for anything
we had seen or heard.  On reaching the Dragon, however, all
such thoughts were driven from our minds by seeing Moth
making his way across the street in the direction of the
Dragon.  Hurrying into the house, he followed us to the door,
demanding to see Mr. Seymour, but the latter would by no
means go out nor let the other come in.  While Moth stood
thus expostulating with the servant, Uncle Job came up, and
seeing him, stopped and bowed politely, but without saying
a word.

"I am sorry, Mr. Throckmorton," Moth began, without
preface of any kind, "to thwart you in regard to your nephew,
your intention being worthy, no doubt.  This I am compelled
to do, however, and I come now with the decree of the court,
due and legal summons having been given, to claim his person,
and I demand that you give him up peaceably and without show
of resistance."  Saying which, he took a document from his
pocket and held it out for Uncle Job to examine, adding,
"Here is my authority, sir!"

Uncle Job, neither taking the paper nor making any
motion to do so, answered directly:

"I have also the decree of our court, due summons having
in like manner been given, awarding the lad to my care, Mr. Moth,
and so I shall not be able to comply with your request."

At this Moth started back, but presently regaining himself,
answered:

"My decree, Mr. Throckmorton, will be found to antedate
yours, and therefore holds priority."

"I think not," Uncle Job replied, shortly.

"I know it does," Moth answered, in a heat.  "I went
before the court the day of its opening after the summer
vacation, and my decree is as of that date, and nothing you
have, therefore, can antedate it."

"I did the like here, Mr. Moth, and so the order I hold
must bear the same date as yours," and Uncle Job took the
paper from his pocket and held it for the other to examine.
At this I thought Moth would have toppled over, so great was
his surprise and rage.  "So you see you are forestalled,
Mr. Moth, and Gilbert being here our judge will, of course,
exercise his prerogative; and now, as there is nothing more to be
said about the matter, I will bid you good day"; and Uncle
Job, bowing politely, turned on his heel and walked away.

"The judge at his home will take precedence of all others,"
Moth yelled after him; "and if necessary I will appeal to the
higher courts.  I'll not take denial and will have the child
whether or no."  To this Uncle Job made no response, and
Moth, after a while, finding no attention paid to his threats,
turned and went the way he came.

When he was gone I looked at Constance, and with such
dismay in my face that she cried out:

"He can't do anything, Gilbert, I am sure he can't.
Your Uncle Job said so, and I would believe him before I
would that mean little lawyer."

To this I made no response, for to tell the truth, since
Moth had overcome Fox and shown such courage and cunning,
my fear of him had increased beyond all bounds.
Indeed, I thought him capable of any desperate thing that
might come into his head; and so, going back into the room I
sat down, at a loss what to do or say.

"You haven't anything to fear, Gilbert, indeed you
haven't," Constance kept on repeating, hovering about me
like a gentle dove, and as if dreading some foolish resolve I
might make.

"You don't know what he is capable of, and the only thing
left for me is to go away.  I have made Uncle Job enough
trouble already, and it's no use, for Moth will never give me
any peace."

"You're not going away, Gilbert; you can't, and there is
no need.  Besides, where would you go?" she persisted,
resting her face against mine.

"I don't know, but I am going, and to-night.  I'm tired
of being chased about the country by that little devil.  I would
like to kill him!" I answered, feeling very sore.

"Oh, don't say that, Gilbert, please don't!" she answered,
putting her arms about me as if she would in this way shield
and restrain me.

"I didn't mean it, Constance, you know; but Moth'll not
stop at anything nor wait for the courts, and once he gets me,
there will be no help for it.  It would be just like him to put
me in jail—but where I am to go I don't know."

"Don't go at all, Gilbert, please don't, there's no need,"
she pleaded.

To this I made no response, and for a time we sat without
speaking, clasping each other's hands.  At last, seeing I was
determined, she looked up timidly and as if she had found
a way out of our trouble.

"If you will leave, Gilbert, why not go to the Blakes?
They are such gentle people, too, and Moth would never be
able to find you there."

"It's the very thing," I cried, jumping up, "and not like
going away, either, for I shall be near you all the time; you
are always my good angel, Constance," I added, kissing the
sweet creature.

"Then you will go there?"

"Yes; but no one must be told, so that if Uncle Job is
asked, he can say he doesn't know."

"No one but Blott, for he must go with you.  He will not
betray us, I'm sure," she answered.

On Blott's being sent for, she went to him, and taking his
great hand said, in a hesitating, timid way, "We want you
to do something for us, and we know you will never speak of
it to any one."

"A tenpenny nail in an oak plank, miss, can't hold it
better'n I can a secret if it concerns you or Gilbert there,"
he answered, with more resolution than was usual with him.

"It isn't much, but we think it a good deal," she answered,
still hesitating.

"If you think that, it's mount'ins to me," he answered.

"Thank you; and it is good of you to say so.  Gilbert has
to go away to-night, Blott," she hurried on, "and without any
one knowing it, or where he is, and I want you to go with him."

"All right, miss, I'll do anything you say; but what's the
matter, if there ain't no harm in askin'?"

"Moth's here," I answered, "and he is determined to
make trouble, and so I am going away."

"Is that woodtick after you agin?  Well, if that's all
you're goin' for, I can fix him quicker'n a butterfly can flap his
wings," Blott responded, straightening up.  "See that fist?
If it was to hit him, he wouldn't light this side of Rock River's
foamin' waters.  I hain't had a scrap since the cold winter of
'32, an' I'm just dyin' for one."

"No, Blott; it wouldn't help me, and only get you into
trouble," I answered.

"Well, just as you say; but if you'd let me give the little
burr a thrashin'—nothin' to hurt, you know—he'd never
bother you agin."

"No, that wouldn't do.  The more he is opposed, the
worse he is.  The only thing for me to do is to go away until
things can be fixed up by Uncle Job."

"All right, if you'll have it that way; but what am I
to do?"

"Saddle two horses, and wait for Gilbert outside the town,
where he will join you after dark," Constance interposed, and
as if ordering a squadron of cavalry.

"How far are we goin'?"

"Not far, and you can be back by midnight."

"All right, miss; I'll wait for him behind the grove of
mulberry-trees, if he knows where they is."

"Yes," I answered; "and take the mare, if she is in the
stable"; and with that he hurried off to get things in readiness
for our departure.

When it was time to go, Constance and I grieved as if we
were to be separated forever, and thus we were again parted.
Going to the place appointed, I found Blott as we had
arranged, and mounting my horse we rode away in the shadows
of the night, glad to get off so easily.  On our way we stayed
for supper at the Eagle's Nest, a rude tavern on the edge of
the prairie, where Constance and I had often stopped in our
wanderings about the country.  Blott was in great humor at
the table, and as there were no other guests we had the
place to ourselves.

"I suppose you know how this tavern got its name?" he
at last spoke up, transferring the skeleton of a prairie chicken
to a second plate, and helping himself to a quail wrapped
about with thin slices of pork.

"No; how did it?" I answered, without looking up.

"Well, on the hill back of the house an eagle has her nest,
or did six years ago when we camped here for a week durin'
the Black Hawk war; an' that's how it was."

"Tell me about it—the war, I mean," I answered, my
curiosity at once excited, as it always was concerning
everything that had to do with Black Hawk.

"I've always thought the beginnin' of that trouble different
from most wars," he answered, helping himself to a couple
of slices of toast.

"Tell me about it; you have time while we're finishing our
supper."

"Well, once upon a time, a great while ago," he began,
"there was a beautiful Injun maiden called the Red Rose.
She was the belle of the Sac Nation, an' lived in the Injun
village overlookin' the Rock an' the Mississippi, where her
people had been nigh on a hundred years.  Her eyes were like
a limpid spring in the dark woods, an' all the young warriors
were her lovers, for there was none like her for modesty an'
attractive ways.  She was as purty as a wild-flower, an'
a great dancer, an' fleet of foot as the coyote, an' gentle as the
cooin' dove.  Her father's name was Standin' Bear, an'
a fierce old warrior an' hunter he was, but sometimes given
to strong drink when greatly tempted.  Well, at that time,
along about 1800, the early French settlers livin' on Cuvier
River (which is French for Copper), bein' friv'lous an' fond
of dancin', as people are now, gave a great ball, an' white
women bein' scarce, the Injuns were told to bring their
squaws.  So to please her, Standin' Bear took Red Rose to
the party.  Whisky was plenty, as it always is at such places,
an' while Red Rose danced an' was happy, thinkin' no harm,
Standin' Bear drunk more'n he should, an' while in that state
a white man insulted his daughter in a way no one could
overlook; but when Standin' Bear sought to punish the brute, he
was knocked down an' dragged out by the scalp-lock, an' given
a kick besides.  This no white man nor Injun could endure;
but Standin' Bear, not havin' any redress, waited till the man
come out after the ball was over, when he fell on him with
a fierce cry an' killed him.  You'll say it was murder, but it
was the Injuns' way, an' without fuss or scarin' of women.
A white man would have gone swaggerin' an' cussin' into the
room an' shot the feller, an' everybody'd said it served him
right.  That's the difference between the two, an' one's as bad
as the other.  After he'd killed the man, Standin' Bear fled
with Red Rose to their village, travelin' day an' night till they
were safe."

"Then what happened?"

"What always happens when an Injun kills a white man,"
Blott went on, pouring himself a cup of coffee.  "Word was
sent to the gov'nor at St. Louis, an' soldiers were hurried off
to demand Standin' Bear's surrender.  This bein' done, they
took him to St. Louis, where he was to be hung, but on the
advice of Black Hawk, Quashquamme, the great chief of the
Sacs, went down to see if he couldn't save Standin' Bear, who
was some kin to him.  When he got to St. Louis he found
white men didn't settle differences of that kind by acceptin'
money or property outright, as the Injuns do.  While waitin'
he fell in with a man named Shoto, an old fur trader, who,
knowin' the Sacs to be reliable Injuns, volunteered to supply
the chief an' his companions with what they wanted.  In this
way he got the Injun in debt about two thousand dollars, for
a lot of truck hardly worthy carryin' off.  Then Shoto, to get
his money, proposed that the Sacs an' Foxes sell their land
to the government, an' this is what come about in the end.
It was agreed that Standin' Bear should be freed, an' the
Injuns git a sum of money every year, which, of course, they
didn't git, that bein' the government's way of treatin' Injuns.
Well, at the appointed time the prison door was thrown open
an' Standin' Bear walked out, Red Rose bein' a little way
apart waitin' for him.  As he hurried toward her, an' she
stood with her arms outstretched, there was the crack of
a rifle, an' Standin' Bear dropped dead at her feet.  At this
she uttered a piercin' cry, an' fell beside him.  Her companions,
runnin' up, carried her off, thinkin' she was dead; an'
while she come to, she was never the same as before, but sick
of mind like, an' believin' her father was come, she'd hold
out her arms, sayin': 'You didn't believe the pale faces, but
I knew they'd keep their word,' an' this the poor thing would
repeat over an' over a thousand times a day, smilin' an'
holdin' out her hands plaintive-like.  When she got some
strength, Standin' Bear's companions took his body an' Red
Rose in their canoes an' carried them to the Injun village,
where, as I said, the two rivers, the tumblin' Rock an' the
Mississippi join their waters; an' here they buried the old
chief with the dead of his tribe.  So you see the whites kept
their word about freein' Standin' Bear, an' broke it, too."

"I should say so, and with a vengeance!" I cried, ashamed
that my race should do so treacherous a thing.  "Then what
happened?"

"Nothin', for he was only an Injun."

"Did that bring on the war?"

"Yes, through the debt of old Shoto's and the treaty
follerin' it."

"Why did Black Hawk allow the treaty to be made?"
I asked.

"He was away huntin' when it was signed, an' didn't know
about it.  That was always the way, though.  When the
Injuns was to be tricked it was done when he was off on
a hunt, for he never was fuddled with liquor, an' stood up for
the rights of his people."

"He ought not to have gone off hunting," I answered,
with some impatience.

"That was their way, an' carried on systematic-like, an'
not as we do, for play," Blott answered, helping himself to
another quail.

"How was that?" I asked.

"After the Injuns had buried their corn and punkins an'
other truck, they went off to the west on their fall and winter
hunt, takin' five or six hundred horses an' two or three
hundred canoes."

"That was an army."

"Yes; an' they often had to fight, too, with their enemies,
the Sioux, an' other Injuns.  They was gone all winter,
returnin' in time to plant their corn, bringin' with them dried
meat, sellin' their furs to the traders.  After the plantin' was
done they went off agin in July on a great buffalo-hunt on the
Iowa plains.  So you see huntin' with them wasn't like it is
with us, but a regular business.  Try some of this ham,
Gilbert; it's sweeter'n honey.  No!  Why, you haven't any more
appetite than a housefly!" Blott exclaimed, helping himself to
a delicate morsel.  "Well, where was I?  Oh, yes.  Much
ill-feelin' resulted from the trick sale of the Injun lands, as
you may imagin', an' the whites made more fuss than the
others, as people always do when they've done anything
they're ashamed of.  There wasn't nothin' like war, though,
till one day in 1830, twenty-six years after the ball, an' when
Red Rose had long been dead an' buried beside her father on
the banks of the purlin' Rock.  Then Black Hawk bein' off
huntin' agin, the whites took possession of the Injun village
an' burned it.  They didn't need the ground more'n they did
the moon, for there was enough for all, and more, but they
was crazy to git rid of the Injuns, an' wouldn't wait nor live
up to the agreement they'd made.  Finally Black Hawk, for
the sake of peace, consented to move his tribe over into Iowa;
but there wasn't enough game there, it bein' the Sioux country,
an' the ground bein' unplowed they couldn't raise corn,
so before plantin' time he come over into Illinois, bringin' his
women an' children, to raise a crop to keep his people from
starvin'.  An' it was this comin' that brought on the war."[\*]

Our supper being over, Blott brought his story of the Black
Hawk war to an end, and the horses being ready, we mounted
without loss of time, and hurried forward on our journey.

Mr. and Mrs. Blake were greatly surprised at my coming,
as you may imagine, but their pleasure was only the more on
that account, they said.  This I could not help but believe,
for both of them did all they could to make me feel I was
welcome and at home.  Blott did not stop, but hurried away;
and as it was late, Mrs. Blake shortly after showed me to the
room her son had occupied, saying it was mine now and
always would be.  Bidding her good night, I threw myself on
the bed, and when at last I fell asleep, it was to dream of
Standing Bear and Red Rose, which latter appeared
sometimes as an Indian maiden, but more often as my own true
love, Constance.

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[\*] It has been calculated by those curious in such
matters that the consideration the
Indians received under the treaty referred to by
Blott—if the amount agreed upon had
really been paid, which it was not—amounted to
less than one cent for each two hundred
and twenty-five acres of land relinquished.
In this connection it is a curious
thing and pathetic even in Indian annals,
that in the case of the great chief Black
Hawk persecution should not have ended even with his life.
For shortly after his
death in 1838—at the age of seventy-one years—his
grave was opened by a vandal white
and the body stolen, and with it his medals,
sword, jewelry, and other decorations.
Black Hawk's sons, discovering the crime,
recovered the body and had it reinterred,
but only to have the grave again opened,
and the body stolen a second time.  Thus the
great man, harassed throughout life,
failed to find a resting-place even in death, his
body being moved hither and thither,
his bones at last finding a place of lodgment—to
be stared at by the gaping crowd—in the Burlington
(Iowa) Geographical and Historical
Society; and only, in the end, to find
rest in oblivion through the fortunate happening
of a great fire in 1855—-THE AUTHOR.





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.. _`GLIMPSE OF A SUMMER SEA`:

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   CHAPTER XXXIV


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   GLIMPSE OF A SUMMER SEA

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When I awoke the next morning the yellow sunlight
streamed into my window, as if to be first to make known the
presence of a friend.  Looking out, the blue sky, contemplative
and mild, smiled upon me, and as if some other presence
dwelt there of like serenity, but which no vicissitude of season
or tempest could overcast.  This welcome that the heavens
hold out to country people is not imaginary, but real and
sensible to the eye and heart, and its comfort and companionship
make solitude sweet to them, oftentimes to the exclusion
of other and more practical company.  To all such it does
not lessen the fellowship of the clouds that they are but
storehouses of wind and rain.  Their movement and change of
shape make them attractive and companionable, though their
forms take flight while we look.  So at night, the moon and
stars tell a story of their own, each having its office of
friendship.  However far off, their brightness and steadfast ways
are not mere reflections of some distant object, but present
companions, looking down in serenity, brightening when we
smile and steadfast when we grieve, awaiting us always in
their places, like friends to be found when needed.  To city
people, who see such things but imperfectly from the angles
of buildings and deep-set streets, they lack these romantic
attributes, but to him who dwells in the solitude of the
country they are as I say.

From the first hour, Mr. and Mrs. Blake made me feel
that I shared everything in common with them, and this in so
simple a manner that it was but a little while before I was at
home and as if I had known them always.  In this way the
deathly sinking of the heart we all have in early life when first
separated from those we love, I found less hard to bear.  For
however much the young may stray, or however desolate their
lives, there will never come a time when they will not feel this
sickness of the heart, this pang of parting from those dear
to them, as if the breath of life were forever leaving their
bodies.

After breakfast the morning following my arrival it was
determined to put aside all other things and give over the day
to the pleasurable emotions of sight-seeing.  All the belongings
of the Blakes they were to show me, not grudgingly and
little by little, as if of no account, but at once and in order
as become the properties of those who grow old in contentment
and honest industry.  The house came first of all, and
this was different, and in most things better than others round
about—if others there could be when the nearest dwelling was
miles away.  Mr. Blake being a carpenter and having some
skill as an architect, and being, moreover, of a domestic
nature, had been at pains to bring from a distance the lumber
and other needed things to make his home attractive.  As if
to make up for this extravagance, however, the structure was
correspondingly small, so that its rooms afforded hardly space
in which to move about.  Among other things, he had been
to some trouble to make the house secure, and this because
of Mrs. Blake's being much alone, so that in some respects it
was a veritable fortress.  Like the pioneer women of her day,
however, she had no thought of fear any more than men have,
and lived in her home, more often alone than otherwise,
contented and happy, as Dido might have done before the new
lover broke in upon the quiet of her life.

When we had viewed the house with great particularity,
and more especially its treasures in the way of ornamentation
and bits of furniture, we passed on to the garden.  Here there
were many fruit-trees, all healthful of growth and beginning
to show signs of maturity.  About these, but irregularly and
where the sun could reach them, currant and gooseberry
bushes added to the beauty of the place, as well as contributed
something to the comforts of the table.  These things coming
more particularly within the scope of Mrs. Blake's life, she
cultivated them with this double purpose, and so skillfully
that they stood out in the autumn air as if in pride at the dual
office they thus happily filled.  In respect of such things
I have always thought, as others perhaps have, that shrubs are
to trees what children are to men.  Pliant and beautiful, we
can do with them as we will.  If cared for, they respond with
bursting foliage and brilliant hue, but if neglected or
improperly placed, their gaunt stems and shriveled leaves cry out
against the treatment we accord them.

Going to the stable, we found it a small affair, like the
house, but built wholly of logs and brush.  Scattered about
were other diminutive edifices and places of retreat and
refreshment for animals, and of so great a number that they
looked at a distance like a Hottentot village, such as we see
in early books of travel.  About these structures, and in the
remote and secluded corners and places of vantage, chickens
congregated, singly and in numbers, and amid such a carnival
of cackling and desultory talk as I had never heard before.
Running in from the yards and edges of the forest, they
crowded about Mrs. Blake with such noisy exuberance of
spirit that it was impossible to hear one's voice, much less to
think.  In her, you could see, they recognized a benefactress
and friend who knew and treasured them for all and more
than they were worth.  In return, it was as if they were every
one filled with expectancy of labor, and the prospect it held
out to their mistress of pin money such as no one had ever
dreamed of before.  Overjoyed, I lost no time in making up
to these old friends, and in this sought out such offerings of
food as I could find that came within the scope of their
appetites.  For they were dainty things, and accustomed to much
refinement of fare, not regarding the coarser kinds of food
with any relish whatsoever, so long as the grasses and forest
yielded a profusion of delicate morsels in the way of succulent
bugs and relishable insects that only needed a little running
and craning of the neck to secure.

Mr. Blake's likings tended altogether to horses and cattle,
and of the former he owned a great number, though only the
two he used were broken.  The others, all fine animals,
I volunteered to take hold of and fit for the saddle and
harness; and this offer he hailed with pleasure when I told him
I had been accustomed to such things at Wild Plum.  In this
way he would be able, he said, to market the animals, whereas
now he could hardly give them away, men being too busy to
properly break them.  The appetites of these idle creatures,
I soon discovered, were keen beyond all measure of reason,
as if, like idle men, they needed more than those who worked
or otherwise contributed to the common good.  Of cows, the
Blakes had many and of fine form, but save the two set apart
for use, all ran wild with their calves, only the more sturdy
surviving the neglect.  For it was apparent they got no
attention whatever, save grudgingly from the hired man,
except as Mrs. Blake or her husband saw their needs, and this
only occasionally.  My small ideas of thrift were yet enough
for me to see how little was being done to make the farm
productive.  For Mr. Blake's earnings as a carpenter, it was
apparent, were used to make up his losses as a farmer, and so
he was making little or no headway, except in the rise of his
land, which at best could not be much.

However, not regarding this at all, he sought every occasion
to add to his unproductive plant.  Thus, the third day
after my arrival we drove across the country to make inquiries
in regard to an ass of gentle disposition, so it was advertised,
that the owner desired to sell.  Delighted with the animal,
Mr. Blake bought him at sight, and everything being arranged,
we tied our purchase to the tailboard of the wagon, and
mounting to our seats, set out for home.  Looking back after
we had gone some distance, great was our astonishment to
see the little animal braced on his legs and plowing the soft
road with his sharp hoofs, refusing to lift even so much as
a foot.  Seeing how things were, Mr. Blake got down, and
going to the animal, sought to encourage him in every way;
and being satisfied at last, mounted to his seat, when we
started forward as before.  Without any better result,
however; whereupon Mr. Blake got down again and fondled the
animal as if he were a petted child.  Then motioning me to
go on, he followed, endeavoring, upon further show of
stubbornness, to push the brute forward, but without any kind of
success.  Upon this we rested, striving meanwhile to coax
the animal with such choice bits of food as our lunch-basket
and the feed-box afforded.  These bribes the ass devoured,
and acceptably we thought; but when we sought to start,
Mr. Blake walking alongside, clucking and making other
demonstrations of encouragement such as should have mollified any
reasonable creature, the animal refused to budge a foot.  This
I thought highly exasperating, for the day was cloudy and raw
and such as quickly chills one perched high up, as I was, and
not too warmly clad.  At last, every device being without
avail, Mr. Blake motioned me to go ahead, he following on
behind, much disheartened, it was apparent, at the brute's
behavior.  We had, however, gone but a little way when the
donkey, striking an obstruction and refusing to bend his legs,
toppled over and fell on his side; and as he made no effort to
rise, I brought the wagon to a standstill, though reluctantly,
I must confess.  After some effort we succeeded in getting
him to his feet, but going on a few yards, he fell over as
before.  Upon this, Mr. Blake motioned me to go ahead,
which I did somewhat briskly, out of all patience with the
brute.  Soon the donkey's skin showing evidence of wear,
Mr. Blake tipped him over on the other side, I meantime
driving on without appearing to notice what he was doing.
In this way both sides of the brute were after a while worn
free of hair, the hide, too, in many places showing signs of
giving way.  At sight of this, Mr. Blake called to me to halt,
and together we lifted the brute to his feet, wrapping them
about with straw and pieces of cloth.  In this way, and going
ahead with care, so as to avoid obstructions as much as
possible, alternately pulling and dragging the animal, we finally
reached home, much worn in body and spirit; to the very
last, however, be it said, without any outbreak of temper on
Mr. Blake's part, so calm and unruffled was his nature.  The
ass, not a bit the worse for his hard usage, albeit his sides were
wholly divested of skin, raised his voice in protestation once
he was in the paddock, as if Beelzebub were come again.
Nor did he cease his complaining with the going down of the
sun, so that we scarce got a wink of sleep all that night.  In
a week's time, however, he slept in the warm sun beside the
barn as if born upon the place; but of value he had none
whatever.  This Mr. Blake did not much regard; he had the
animal, and it presented a fine appearance in the paddock,
and so he was content.  Thus this obstinate animal lived on for
many years, awakening the echoes of the forest with his
mighty voice, dying finally at a ripe old age, much to his
master's regret.

Such things as these may seem apart and not of much
interest, and very likely that is true enough; but to me they
were everything, making up as they did my life when young,
as they do, in fact, the lives of most country-bred youths.
Looking back to it now, from under a fast-fading sun, its
quiet and beauty, peaceful beyond measure, cause a sigh of
regret as at some far-off vision that can never return, nor
anything like unto it.  When I had been in my new home
some weeks, Mr. Blake fell into a habit of gazing upon me in
a fixed, heavy way for hours at a time, and as if grieved at
something beyond expression.  Anxious as to the cause, I lost
no time in speaking to Mrs. Blake about it, and what she said
I thought remarkable; nor could I by any means understand
it, or any part of it, so little do the young know the springs
of human sympathy or liking.  For it seemed that at the time
of Constance's and my first visit great patches of freckles
covered my face, and in these Mr. Blake saw a dear
resemblance to his dead son, who, it appeared, was similarly
marked.  Now, with return of strength, the freckles one by
one fading out of my face, he watched their going with surprise
at first and then with grief, until in the end, all being
gone, it seemed to him as if he had lost his son anew.
Encouraged by his wife, however, he after a while overcame
his despondency, treating me with gentle kindness, as before,
but never, I thought, with the warmth I had noticed in him
at first.  Mrs. Blake, happily, having no such cause of
disappointment, grew in her liking for me, so she would often say,
with each passing day.  The reason of this was, I think, that
matronly women, such as she, when deprived of children, ever
thus regard with increasing interest the thing, whatever it
may be, which they set apart to fill the void in their lives.
Thus she regarded me, and each day redoubled her efforts to
win my love, and in this was so completely successful that
as long as she lived I never ceased to regard her with the
tender affection her great heart merited.

One fair day soon after my coming, Constance rode out
to make us a visit, emerging from the shadows of the trees
like an angel of light, which indeed she was; for straightway
the place seemed as if enchanted.  Giving her scarce a minute
to greet Mrs. Blake, I hurried her away to show her the farm,
but more that I might have her to myself during the short
time she was to stay.  Forgetful of all else except the
happiness of being together, we wandered hand in hand in the edge
of the forest, till at last, tired out, we sat down beneath an
oak to watch the sky and sleeping clouds—except, indeed,
when we were looking into each other's faces, which I know
was the case most of the time.  This until long after the hour
when she should have started for home.  Then, hastening,
I brought her horse, and mounting one myself, rode beside
her to the door of the Dragon, which we reached soon after
dark.  Returning as in a trance, I could not believe it night
or that I was alone, for the sky was ablaze with stars, every
one of which seemed to reflect back her image or to be the
brighter for her having seen it.

The beauty of the Blakes' surroundings was such as one
does not often meet with at this time, though it was common
enough before the forests that lined the great river were
disturbed by the hand of man.  On every side the farm was
bordered about by tangled shrubbery and overhanging trees, and
now, it being autumn, they were tinged with a thousand
shades of color, not one remaining steadfast, but shifting with
the varying light, revealing some new beauty with each changing
reflection of the sun.  On one side, upon a ridge of sand,
oaks with gnarled and rugged sides lifted their giant forms,
and about the other borders boxwood and ash, mingled with
maple and elm, grew in picturesque confusion.  Near by, on
the very edges of the farm, elders and a thousand vagrant
bushes struggled to outdo each other in growth and show of
beauty.  Farther out, in the stubble of the field, fat weeds,
green as in midsummer, uplifted their heads defiantly, as if
shouting to the passer-by, "See! after all, nothing comes of
thrift."  In the meadow, and in homely confusion, wild
sunflowers and rosin-weeds projected their stems high in the air,
and upon these meadowlarks and bobolinks sat and sang the
day through.

To one side of the farm, and along an old and abandoned
highway, grasses and flowers spread quite across the sunken
road, and on both its sides bushes crowded forward in
confusion and such precipitancy of haste that in many places one
could scarce make headway.  Above this scramble of green the
trees spread their limbs, and the sky peering down between
their slender branches looked like a glimpse of some far-off
summer sea.





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.. _`CONSPIRACY IN BLACK HAWK'S CABIN`:

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   CHAPTER XXXV


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   CONSPIRACY IN BLACK HAWK'S CABIN

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Among other things, Mrs. Blake never tired of speaking
of the great chief Black Hawk, and more particularly of his
wife, whom she regarded with tender love.  Black Hawk she
thought a kingly man, and it was vastly to his honor, she
maintained, woman-like and truly, that he had taken to himself
but one wife, remaining faithful throughout to her whom
he had won in his youth.

"Were you greatly harassed by the war?" I asked her one day.

"No, for at the commencement Black Hawk sent an
Indian runner to us to say we would not be molested; nor
were we."

"How did he happen to do that?" I asked, surprised.

"We had been neighbors; but it was quite like him, anyway,
though he was much embittered at the last toward the
whites because of their treachery and the wrongs of his
people.  Of all the Indian chiefs I ever saw," she went on, the
color mounting to her face at the remembrance, "he was the
most commanding, in amiability the greatest, in argument
the most persuasive, and in anger the most terrible.  I
sometimes thought him vain, because on occasions of ceremony,
and indeed at other times, it was his habit to adorn his
person, savage-like, with garments of the most brilliant hue,
encircling his head with feathers of glistening black and
placing above them a plume of crimson red.  Always, too,
I thought, he was inclined to make much of his hereditary
rank of king, but never in an offensive way."

"You must have seen a good deal of him if you were
neighbors?" I asked, interested, as I always was, in reference
to everything that concerned him.

"Yes, but more of his wife and children.  They had
a cabin near here, on the river-bank, hid away in the woods,
which they used to visit, sometimes occupying the place for
weeks at a time.  It was not generally known, though, I think;
and I have heard they came back there after they had been
driven from the country, but we never saw them if they did."

"Maybe they are there now," I answered, my blood stirred
at the thought of being near the great chief.

"No, I hardly think so; but since the old ferry was abandoned,
communication has been cut off, so that they might be
there and we not know it."

When I learned of the close proximity of Black Hawk's
former home, I determined to pay it a visit, not doubting but
what I could find it from Mrs. Blake's account.  This chance
happily occurred the next day when trying a horse; for being
carried near the river before I could bring the animal under
control, I determined to go on, and doing so, soon came to
the edge of a great bluff, from whence I looked down on the
river across a plain that intervened.  Hastening on, strangely
moved, I knew not why, yet conscious that everything
I saw was familiar to me, I cried aloud in surprise and terror
on reaching the shore to find myself on the spot where I had
emerged from the water that fatal day when we were all
thrown into the foaming river together.  This, then, was the
abandoned ferry about which I had so often heard, and how
strange that I should have lived so near the spot and not have
known it.  Yet not strange, for at what point we had crossed
I did not know, only that some one had called it Tip Top,
but whether seriously or in play I did not know.

Looking out on the broad river with throbbing heart and
tear-dimmed eyes, I saw again my father and mother, as on
that other day, struggling in the icy water; but only for
a moment and as in a vision.  Their mishap, alas! like their
chance of life, had passed forever.  For that which the water
gave up, albeit so grudgingly, the earth still more cruel, now
held, and would forevermore.

Grieving, I stood for a long time lost in memories of the
past, and in this mood remembrance of the Indian woman
who had befriended us came back to me with pleasurable sadness.
With it, however, and like a flash of light in the darkness
of a cloudy night, the knowledge, not before dreamed
of, came to me that it was Black Hawk, and none other, who
had rescued my father and mother on that fatal day; and his
wife, too, the gentle doe who had so tenderly nourished us
afterward.  The raven feathers and towering plume of red!
Why had I not known him before in all that had been said?
This it was, then, unknown to me, that had ever made me
tenderly responsive to all that concerned him, whether in war
or peace.  So much so that as I grew in years he had come to
form a part of the romance of my life, not resembling others
of his kind, but apart and peculiar, like some unknown deity.
His gentle wife, the bent and sorrowful figure sitting desolate
in the lonely cabin!  Was she still there?  Spurred by the
thought, I turned, and urging my horse to his utmost speed
rode headlong down the stream, as on that other day now so
far away.  Alas! on reaching the little bay I found only
tangled undergrowth, too dense to penetrate, and of sign of
life none whatever.  Fastening my horse, I made my way as
best I could to the little cabin, now wholly hidden by the rank
vegetation, but only to find it still and tenantless.  Reaching
the door, trembling with the sorrowful recollections that
flooded my heart, I lifted the latch and entered.  It was as
I had thought, abandoned; and yet as I looked about in the
dim light it had the air of being used, but by vagrants it
might be, or outlaws.  To this, however, I did not give a
thought, for my mind was full of the past, and with such excess
of sorrow that scalding tears burned my cheeks as I stood
motionless where I entered.  The desolation of the place and
its stillness, as of death, filled my sorrowing heart to
overflowing.  Before me, as in the days that had passed, I saw my
father and mother, and kneeling in tender care of her, La
Reine; Black Hawk, too, stern and threatening, stood at my
elbow! and then again on the broad river, with face upturned,
in regret of life and scorn of his enemies! and still again
bearing my mother tenderly to his hut!  Alas! it was but a vision,
and where they had been only solitude and desolation now
reigned.

Thus I stood grieving, until my tears being wasted, I set
about to find, if I might, some memento that I could take
away in remembrance of the dear ones who were gone.  Alas! even
the worn bow, relic of other days, that I hoped still to
find, it too was gone.  Searching vainly in the darkened
room, I finally turned in despondency of spirit to retrace my
steps; but while my hand was on the latch, and I stood looking
back in vain regret, the voices of men reached me from
without.  Alarmed, and remembering the cabin in Murderer's
Hollow—for such things one does not easily forget when
young—I stopped and listened.  As I did so, and as if to give the
thought reality, the soft voice of Burke reached me, coming
toward the door behind which I stood.  Frightened, and yet
having some control over myself, I looked about for a place
of concealment, and doing so, caught sight of the darkened
room from which Black Hawk had taken the oaken paddle.
Hastening thither, I had barely reached its welcome shade
when Burke entered.  Finding no exit, nor indeed having
time to search for one, I crouched down in an angle of the
little room, scarce breathing for the fear that laid hold of me.
Lying quiet, my heart beat aloud and with such strokes that
Burke must surely have heard had he listened; but unsuspecting,
he did not cease speaking to the man who followed.
At first I did not much regard what was said, expecting each
moment to be discovered and dragged to the light; but of
search they seemed not to think, believing the cabin tenantless
as before.  Thus left alone, I quickly recovered myself,
so that, whether I would or no, I could not but hear what
they said.

"You have better quarters here than in the old place,"
Burke's companion at last exclaimed, "though they are as
gloomy as the portals of the infernal regions!"

"Yes, yes; and such places are the best for my trade.
I don't spend much time here, though.  I've learned that it's
less dangerous in the forest," Burke replied.

"Yes, curse the country!  There is no safety or profit in
our business any longer, though the venture we have in hand
ought to afford us something and to spare."

"Yes; and I hope you have come ready to close up the
business," Burke answered.  "I am tired of delay—always
delay; and you will admit it is your fault, not mine."

"Neither yours nor mine.  You are not more impatient
to see the end of it than I, and on more accounts than one
in my case," the other answered; "but nothing can be done
till the time is ripe."

"When will that be?  When will that be?" Burke asked,
impatiently, but in his soft, purring way; "and what is the
nature of the business, anyway?"

"I can't tell you; nor is it necessary you should know till
the time comes.  It is all arranged, though, as far as can be,
and I am only waiting the opportunity.  That depends on
others, or it would come to-night; but it can't be far off, so
don't lose heart or complain."

"What will it amount to—the money, I mean?" Burke
purred.  "It ought to be great after all this waiting and
riding back and forth across the country."

"It will, and all cash, too—something that can't be traced
or cause its possessor harm."

"That is good; but how are we to get hold of it, and
when?  That is what I want to know," Burke answered, and
so softly I could hardly hear his voice.

"That I can't explain now, as I have told you; only there
will be no great risk, and it will be clean money, as I say, and
in packages."

"In packages?"

"Yes; one of paper and the other of coin.  They will be
sealed, too, and that being so there will be no need of your
opening them till I come."

"Why not, why not?" Burke seemed to whisper, so soft
was his voice.

"Oh, for no particular reason, only it will prevent any
dispute between us, as in the Hogge case.  I know you would
divide fairly, but keep it in the shape it is in and you will not
be tempted to spend any part of it for drink, and so get both
of us into trouble."

"Well, it will only be a few hours, anyway."

"More than that, for I can't come to you for several
days—a week or more," the other replied.

"Why not?  What is to prevent?" Burke asked, his voice
plainly showing surprise and irritation.

"It might excite suspicion, for I may be watched.  Who
can tell what will happen?  You can hide the money meanwhile
without risk, or keep it by you, as you think best."

"Yes, yes; but just when will you come?" Burke answered.
"I may not see you again, and I am not going to hang around
a day on any uncertainty after the thing is done; the danger
is too great."

"There will be no risk to you whatever.  I might come in
a week, but ten days would be better," the other answered,
slowly, as if reflecting on the matter.

"Well, I can see no point to what you say; but if it must
be so, let us be precise about it.  Name the hour."

"Well, then, meet me here at nine o'clock on the tenth
night after the robbery.  At nine o'clock at night, mind you!"
the other answered, decisively, after some moments' hesitation.

"All right, if you can't come sooner," Burke answered, as
if fixing the date and hour in his mind; "but how am I to
know the time and place to do the thing?"

"I will let you know as soon as it is determined.  It may
be necessary to kill a man, you understand, and I think it
would be to your liking if it turned out that way."

"Where will I get word when the time comes to act?
Here?" Burke asked, paying no attention to what the other
said.

"No, at the Craig.  You must be there every night at
eight o'clock until you hear from me; I will meet you if I can,
or if that is impossible, leave a line in the hiding-place telling
you just what you are to do."

"All right, but hurry, for I am getting tired of the whole
thing," Burke purred.

"I will not delay a moment, you may be sure," the other
answered.  "And now, if there is nothing more to say, I must
be off, for I have a long way to ride."

"All right; but before you go have something from Black
Hawk's cupboard," and with the words Burke came toward
the closet where I lay concealed, but passing the opening,
returned presently with what he sought.  "Here is something
that will shorten your ride.  I always keep a drop where I
am likely to be.  It cheers one and makes fine company,"
Burke went on, as if liquor was the one solace of his forlorn
life.

"Yes, but too much of it makes men tattle, Burke; don't
forget that," the other answered.

"Yes, yes; but did any one ever know me to tattle?" he
responded.

"Well, here's luck to you," the other answered

"Here's to your health, and hoping you will fix the thing
up without more delay," Burke responded, drinking in his
turn.

"Thank you; I'll not put it off a minute longer than
necessary.  Now will you come with me, or do you stay here?"

"No; I will go with you.  I have no great fancy for this
place.  It might turn out to be a trap like the other," Burke
responded.

"Well, let us be off, then."

"Yes," Burke answered, coming toward me, but, as
before, without entering the closet where I lay.  Returning
presently, the two left the room without saying more, closing
the door after them.

For a time I lay still, lest they should return, but nothing
of the kind happening, I crept into the main room and so to
the door, which I opened, and without looking to the right or
left, plunged into the dark forest.  Running some distance,
I stopped and listened, but could hear nothing save the wash
of the waves on the river-bank and the soft murmuring of the
wind in the tops of the trees.  Circling the cabin, I found
my horse as I had left him, and mounting made my way
through the forest to an abandoned piece of ground back of
the hut.  This I discovered to be the cornfield Black Hawk
had once tilled, as the mounds plainly showed.  Stopping,
I surveyed it, thinking how simple of occupation had been
the life of this, the greatest among the savage men of the
earth; and to this day, not less than then, I cannot think of
the place and its neglect and solitude except with a sigh of
wonder and regret.  Crossing the field, I made my way home,
arriving there ere night had set in and without notice having
been taken of my absence.  For this I was glad, being
determined to say nothing of what I had heard or seen.  I knew
not who was to be robbed nor when, and nothing therefore
would come of speaking, save the discovery of my hiding-place.
When I went to the house some time afterward, Mrs. Blake
on seeing me cried out in affright:

"Are you ill, Gilbert, or what has happened?  You are
pale as death!"

"It's nothing, only the horse was new, and I have had
a hard ride," I answered, putting her off; "but I'm tired
and will go to bed without waiting for supper, if you don't
care."

"Very well; I will bring you something later when you
have rested a little," she answered, with motherly love.

"No, don't bother; I'll be all right in the morning.  Sleep
always makes me well."

"As it does all young people, bless your heart," she
answered, embracing me as I passed her on the way to my
room.

Bidding her good night, I sought my bed, and lying there
strove to find some clew to the robbery that was being planned,
but in vain; and when the night was far spent, and in sheer
weariness of body and mind, I fell asleep, not to wake till
noon of the following day.





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.. _`PHANTOMS OF THE WOODS`:

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   CHAPTER XXXVI


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   PHANTOMS OF THE WOODS

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After my visit to Black Hawk's cabin, things went on as
before, except that I no longer wandered far from the house,
lest in some way I should run across the outlaw Burke.
Mr. Blake being away, I was now more than ever taken up with
the care of things, and so, being occupied, the events I have
related little by little faded from my mind.  In this way the
autumn closed, and winter came on with high winds that
moaned and shrieked in the trees and about the windows of
the house, as if seeking in vain for some place of warmth and
comfort.  This till one day, when we had heard nothing from
the outer world for a long time, Mr. Blake returned from
Appletop, where he had work of some kind.  Going about
his business, he had scarce a word to say, being more
reticent than ever before, I thought, if that could be.  When,
however, I would have asked him about Uncle Job, he
put me off with some abruptness of manner, and doing so,
appeared greatly disturbed.  At this, and upon his persisting,
I cried out in alarm and as a peevish child might have
done:

"Uncle Job is dead!"

"No, no! not that, my son," he answered, his eyes wavering,
as men's will who are weak or seek to mislead you.

"He is ailing, then?"

"No, he is well; as well as you are," he answered,
glancing toward his wife, as if asking her aid.

"Then what is the matter?  I know you are keeping
something from me?" I persisted.

"There is nothing the matter; or nothing you could help
one way or the other," he answered, his embarrassment
growing greater.

"Tell me what it is, then?" I cried, feeling sure he was
hiding something from me.

"There, don't get excited, my son.  It's nothing, I'm
sure, if the truth were known," he answered, floundering
about in his speech.

"Nothing!" I answered, forgetting myself and laying hold
of his arm.  "What is it, then?"

"It's nothing bad, anyway," he replied, sweat starting
from his forehead; "only a bit queer, maybe, but that's all."

"What is it that's queer?" I exclaimed, ready to fly at his
throat, so great was my rage at his continued attempt to
evade my inquiry.

"Strange, I had better have said," he answered, closing
his mouth as if nothing would induce him to say more.

"What's strange?" I persisted.  "Whatever it is, I am
sure Uncle Job would want me to know."

"Don't keep him in suspense longer, dear," Mrs. Blake
here interposed.  "It can't do any good."

"Is it best?" he asked, as if not agreeing with her.

"Yes; for it can't be kept from him forever," she
answered.

"Well, then, my son," he spoke up at last, with sorrowful
voice, "your Uncle has been arrested, but none of us
believes he has done anything wrong, and know that it will
all be cleared up at last."

"Arrested!" I exclaimed, scarce able to speak; "Uncle
Job arrested, and for what?"

"Oh, the charge is of no account.  It is not true, of
course.  It can't be; every one says that!" Mr. Blake went
on, the effort to talk and to lighten the force of what he was
saying being altogether beyond him.

"Tell him, my dear; it will do no good now to keep
anything back," Mrs. Blake spoke up again, putting her arm
about me as a mother might a stricken child.

"All right; you know best, my dear, I suppose.  Well,
then, my son, your uncle is accused of taking—taking money,
but no one believes he stole it."

"Uncle Job steal money!" I cried, too much overcome to
say more.

"Well, the money was left with him, and in the morning it
was gone."

"What money?" I exclaimed, "and why do they say he took it?"

"Because he slept in the office that night."

"Oh, but some one else might have taken it.  Uncle Job
wouldn't!"

"That is what we all think, but who did take it?  That is
the question that puzzles every one, for nothing in the room
was disturbed, and no one could have entered."

"Who had him arrested—Moth?" I asked, my thoughts
reverting to him as the source of all our troubles.

"No; the man the money belonged to.  He came up from
Rock Island, but brought Moth along and a constable, and
after they had been in Appletop a few hours they accused
your Uncle Job, and he was arrested."

"I knew it was Moth; but where is Uncle Job now?"

"In jail."

"In jail!" I cried, breaking down.

"His friends offered to bail him out, but he refused, saying
he was innocent, and would never leave the place till it
was made clear."

"In jail!  Poor uncle!  And what are they doing to clear
him?" I asked, scarce able to speak.

"I don't know.  He even refused to have a lawyer, saying
there was no need of one; but Mr. Seymour got one on
his own account, and Rathe says he will hire another."

"Rathe?"

"Yes; he is dreadfully worked up over the scandal."

"When did it all happen?" I asked, striving in vain to
control myself.

"A week ago!"

"A week ago, and nobody has told me!  Oh, Uncle Job,
you haven't a friend in the world, and will surely be lost!"
I cried.  "Why did I come here, anyway, and leave you!  I was
a coward to fear Moth, when you were in greater danger
than I."

"There! don't take on so, my dear.  I'm sure it will all
come out right in the end," Mrs. Blake interposed, hopefully.

"No; and I'm going to him, and to-day—and now,"
I cried, taking up my hat.

This Mr. and Mrs. Blake, however, would not permit, saying
it was foolish, and that Moth was in Appletop and would
give me trouble, while I could do nothing.  This only made
me the more determined, for I thought there was something
back that had not been disclosed, but of what nature I could
form no idea.  Nor did it matter, for nothing could be worse
than Uncle Job's plight and the crime he was accused of.
That he had done any wrong I did not for a moment believe.
He who was incapable of even a bad thought!  Thus the day
wore itself out amid my entreaties, the night closing in
somber and gray, with a light fall of snow.  My determination
in nowise changed, I excused myself when supper was
over, and going to my room, slipped on a heavy jacket, and
opening the window jumped to the ground.  Hastening,
I reached the old abandoned road, sure my absence would
not be discovered until morning; but in any event, I would
not return, for they had no claim on me, and as for Moth,
I no longer cared for him, so great was my distress over
Uncle Job's unhappy plight.

The storm in which I now found myself was mild to
a degree, and such as country people like to face.  Coming
on lightly from the south, with scarce any wind, the snow did
not fly here and there as we sometimes see it, but came in
great wavering flakes, each lying where it fell, and softly, as
if the particles followed some order of things laid down from
the beginning, so deft were they and free from bustle or any
show of activity.  Walking and partly running, the soft flakes
falling on my face cooled my blood and stimulated my
strength, so that I looked forward to my journey with something
akin to pleasure.  A moon half full lessened the somber
gray of the sky, bringing out in glad relief the myriad forms
built up by the snow on either side of the half-hidden path.
The stillness of the night and the seclusion of the forest
soothed and rested my mind, worn with the events of the day,
and in that mood I hurried on, refreshed and comforted by the
contrast.  All my life I had been thus abroad, and the
breaking of a twig or creaking of a limb under the piled-up snow
did not startle me as it would some, but came like the
welcome of a friend.  In this way I ran on, elated, sometimes
singing lightly, but observing all that came within my view,
and more particularly the curious forms built up by the
fast-falling shower.  Of these, some appeared to welcome the
storm, while others stood aloof in gloomy reproof.  Thus the
staring, upright limbs of the maple would have none of it, but
spurned the gentle drops as a woman might a soft caress,
neither seeking nor accepting grace of any kind.  The hickory
and wild crab, too, looked black and sour in the twilight, as
if viewing what was going on with no kindly spirit.  Drooping
and in loving embrace, in reproof of the others, the elms
caught up great armfuls of the falling flakes and held them
tenderly, as a mother might an ailing child.  The oaks, too,
like sturdy, brown-headed men—for so their clinging leaves
made them appear in the uncertain light—held their burden
as if in some way the foliage of other months would the
sooner return to bless them because of it.  Underneath and
diminutive, like waiting children, the elders stood waist-deep,
canopies of snow forming above them like umbrellas uplifted
against the storm.  Other and lesser shrubs crouched down,
or bending forward had the look of wearing collars turned up
about their ears, so sturdy did they appear.  Still smaller
plants, growing on the margin of the path, no bigger than
your hand, stood up for a while like mice or foxes perched on
end, but only to sink down one by one and disappear, as the
snow piled higher and higher about them.

For a long time my journey, thus diverted, was such as we
think of afterward with pleasurable emotion; but by and by,
the wind veering suddenly to the north and rising, the
particles of snow, before so soft and comforting, came cold and
cutting like crystals of ice.  This change, with the depth of
the snow, hindered my progress, and after a while produced
something like despondency in my mind, so surely is the
traveler affected by what occurs about him that he should foresee
but cannot in any way alter.  Going on resolutely, and thinking
as yet but lightly of the change, the rising wind and hardening
snow soon made each step a burden.  The flakes, too,
before so mute, now whirled and eddied about my path, blinding
my eyes and blocking my way with great uplifted banks,
in which, before I could suspect their presence, I found myself
struggling up to my waist.  Thus impeded and my strength
wasted, I went forward as in a mire, my limbs and body no
longer full of glow and vigor, but benumbed with the cold,
which each moment grew more intense.  Struggling to make
headway, in a little while I began to lie longer when I fell,
comforted by my ease, and lifting myself with reluctance from
the soft embrace.  Wearied and chilled, I yet feared to rest,
lest sleep should overtake me, and sleeping, I should awake
no more.  Startled at the thought, I would get to my feet,
but with wavering steps and slow, like a drunken man or one
enfeebled by age or sickness.  Finally, despite all my efforts
my strength being gone, I could no longer rise.  Looking
forward with a despairing cry, a gray wolf, gaunt with hunger,
stood watching me amid the whirling snow, scarce a yard's
length from where I lay.  Behind him there was another, lean
like the first, and with eyes of fire.  Roused by the sight,
I stood upright.  If these were all it did not matter, but if
a pack, then indeed I was lost.  Waiting, no more appeared;
but stirred into life I uttered a feeble cry, striking in dull
rage at the brute nearest me.  At this it moved aside, but
only a little way, and turning, faced me as before, and this
expectantly, as if awaiting some event that could not now be
long delayed.  Alarmed, and yet attaching little importance
to the presence of the brutes, I dragged my steps forward,
but soon to find my strength spent and my spirits broken.
Resting, the chill and roar of the wind as it plowed through
the naked trees filled me with sadness and indescribable
languor, in which the longing to sleep overcame all other
thoughts.  Despairing, I looked about for a place where
I might lie down and yet in some measure be protected from
the fierce cold and whirling snow.  Some place, indeed, less
bleak, with the appearance of warmth, if nothing more.  So
much indeed does the semblance of life lure us even in death;
for of desire to live I now had none, and like a hunted animal,
sought only a place in which to lie down and die.

In this mood, and looking forward, a cluster of oaks
caught my eye, their brown leaves seeming to offer shelter
and warmth from the fierce storm and biting cold.  Making
my way slowly toward them, the wolves kept pace on either
side, but not obtrusively, as if the end could now be plainly
seen.  Reaching the haven, and looking about despairingly,
as one takes leave of the world, I found myself on the outer
rim of the great forest.  Gazing with hungry eyes toward the
open country, the faint twinkle of a lighted candle after
a while caught my eye across the intervening space, but
dimly, and as one sees a star in the far-off heavens.  Looking
long and earnestly, I at last discerned the outlines of the
Eagle's Nest, standing black and chill in the wide expanse.
At this I gave a cry of joy, and hearing it, the wolves too
gave voice, but dolefully, as if the proximity of men filled
them with dire dismay.  Benumbed with cold and the clinging
snow, but cheered by what I saw, I made my way from beneath
the friendly trees to the open plain.  Here the wind, meeting
no obstruction, rushed on more fiercely than before; but
pressing toward the light, which each moment shone more
clear and warm, I at last reached the door, and lifting the
latch, plunged forward into the room, carrying the snow that
filled the entrance with me.  Going down, I made out the
sorrowful figure of Fox seated before the open hearth, his
chin pitched forward in his hand, as if conjuring a doleful
sermon of some sort.  Calling his name as I fell, the light
faded from my sight, and I knew no more.





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.. _`THE PRODIGAL`:

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   CHAPTER XXXVII


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   THE PRODIGAL

.. vspace:: 2

When I awoke from my stupor, I lay wrapped in blankets
before a blazing fire, and on either side of me Fox and the
landlord knelt, striving to infuse some warmth into my body
and stiffened limbs.  Next the fire their faces glistened as if
aflame, but on the other side the shadows gave them a strange
and sinister look, so that at first I did not know who they
were.  Soon recognizing them, I nevertheless lay still, having
no desire to stir, until Fox, seeing me look about, shouted at
the top of his voice:

"Hurrah, he's coming round!"

At this I sighed and turned away my face in shame that
I should forever show such weakness when others were brave
and strong.  Bringing some kind of liquor, he forced it down
my throat, exclaiming:

"Cheer up, my lad; you will be all right in a minute.  It's
only a chill, and chills are nothing to the young."

"No, but I'm no good."

"Yes, you are a poor one, I know; but keep on trying, and
maybe you will amount to something after a while.  You will
never have any sense, though, any one can see with half an
eye," he added, working over my legs.

"Why do you say that?" I asked, sitting up.

"Because young birds like you don't fly above the trees
after dark—they keep under cover; and if you had any sense
you wouldn't wander about the country the way you do at
night."

"Yes," I answered; "but birds will do anything when the
hawks are about."

"Yes; but there are no hawks after you."

"No; but Uncle Job."

"Uncle Job!  Why, what has happened to him?"

"He's in jail in Appletop."

"Is that where you were going?"

"Yes."

"Why now, and on such a night?"

"I didn't know before."

"Oh, you innocent!  What can you do to help him?"

"I don't know."

"That is what I thought.  But come, you are tired and
sore, and must go to bed.  Sleep will make you as good as
new."

"No, I'm going on to-night; I'm not sleepy nor tired now."

"You will do nothing of the kind, you vagrant!  You
would perish with the cold.  Wait, and in the morning I'll
see that you are in Appletop by sunrise.  But come, if you're
not sleepy, tell me about your Uncle Job's trouble.  It's
early, and I'm in no hurry to go to bed."

This I at once proceeded to do, glad, indeed, to have the
chance.  When I was through, he stared at me, saying he
could by no means understand it, if Uncle Job was innocent,
as I thought.  Thus we talked for a long time, and when
I could no longer find excuse for speaking of Uncle Job's
troubles, Fox spoke of our former meeting, questioning me
about my adventure in Murderer's Hollow, and more particularly
the conspiracy to kill Uncle Job, of which he now heard
for the first time.

"It was just like Burke," he spoke up when I was through.
"A more desperate villain never lived, and he would think
no more of murdering a man than he would of killing a crow."

This reference to Burke recalled the crime I had heard
planned in Black Hawk's cabin, and there being no longer
any reason for keeping it to myself, I told Fox about it, omitting
nothing, so great was my relief at being able to share the
burden with another.  When I had finished, he mused over it
for a long time, making me repeat what I had said several
times.  Above all he was most interested in Burke's companion,
but of him I could tell nothing, not having seen his face.
Afterward, when I again referred to the object of my journey,
he said, cheerfully, and as if to encourage me, that Uncle Job
appeared to have escaped one danger only to get into another,
in which he hoped I might in some way be able to serve him
again.  To this I agreed, but in what manner I could not by
any means see.

When the night was far gone we were shown to our beds,
but before I had fairly closed my eyes Fox had hold of my
shoulder, saying it was time we were off.  This I could by no
means believe, as it was still dark and I dead with sleep.
Dressing myself without remark, we descended to the main
room, where the landlord awaited us with a pot of coffee.
Drinking this, Fox mounted his horse, and lifting me up
behind him, we set out.  The storm had by this time abated,
but our progress was slow because of the snow which lay
heaped across the road in many places.  Fox's horse being
strong and resolute, however, we reached the outskirts of
Appletop just as the day was breaking.  Here Fox stopped,
saying:

"I am sorry I can't go on with you to the Dragon, Gilbert,
but it wouldn't be wise.  Not because of anything I've done
since I saw you, but on account of the Moth matter, which
you know about."

"Then you've quit your old ways?" I asked, slipping to
the ground.

"Yes, if they were my ways; but I have never harmed
anybody greatly, and this I want you to believe."

"I know it, and you needn't have told me; but is there
any danger now?"

"Yes; Moth has posted me far and near and with a reward
to sweeten it, so that to show myself would be to invite arrest."

"What have you been doing all this time?" I asked, curious
as to his mode of life.

"Most anything; but just now I am caring for a drove of
hogs belonging to a buyer near the Eagle's Nest.  I'm
a swineherd, you see.  A prodigal like him of old, only there
is no fatted calf for me, nor ever will be," he concluded, half
sadly, half in play.

"Your work's not so bad," I answered, remembering the
great number of good men my father employed in this way.
"Doesn't the man pay you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then you can buy and eat your own calf; that's better
than looking to any one?" I answered, to put a better face
on it.

"Oh, I live on veal; but it's the overlooking of what's past
that I mean."

"I know, but that will come in time, I'm sure," I answered.

"I hope so.  Anyway, I am going to keep on in the narrow
path here till something turns up elsewhere that will not bring
me under Moth's eye."

"I wish Moth were hanged, the scamp!" I cried; "he has
caused enough trouble."

"Oh, I don't know," Fox answered.  "He sees things as
he sees them.  But now about your Uncle Job's affair, for
abusing Moth is not going to get him out of jail."

"No, but you will," I answered, confidently.

"I don't know.  I will do what I can; but if you want me
to be of help, go on to the Dragon and find out more about
the affair.  Everything, mind, not overlooking a word or look.
For it is always some trifle nobody regards that affords the
clew to every crime, the constables say."

"I will," I cried, starting off.

"Hold on there!  When you have found out all you can
I want you to come and tell me."

"Yes; where—at the Eagle's Nest?"

"No, that is too far for you to go; Hayward's Ferry will
be better."

"When shall I come?" I asked.

"To-night, and as soon after dark as you can."

"Where, Mr. Hayward's house?"

"No; in the grove below the landing.  Now be off.  The
sun's coming up, and people are stirring about like flies on
a piece of ice.  Good by, and don't fail to bring me all the
news."

"No, I'll not," I answered, starting on a run, greatly elated
at having at last enlisted Fox in Uncle Job's behalf.





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.. _`THE DRAGON'S MASTER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE DRAGON'S MASTER

.. vspace:: 2

Nearing the Dragon, I discovered Mr. Seymour standing
on the porch, without hat or coat, smoking a pipe, an
occupation that seemed greatly to his liking, as indeed it is to
most of his sturdy countrymen.  Shivering in the icy air,
I thought his dress far from appropriate; but then Englishmen
are hardier than we, though why this should be I do not
know, unless they are bred in a more rugged climate or spend
more of their time in the open air.  Scanning his ruddy face
and upright figure, all the things I had been taught as
a schoolboy to believe of his countrymen came back as if to
puzzle me by their presence.  But were the stories true?
I asked myself as I walked on more slowly.  Yes, every one
of them, and more; but if that were so, then Mr. Seymour
could not be like the others—those sent hither in the Colonial
days by the Odious King whom the forefathers defied and
treated with scorn and contumely.  No!  He was an exception
to the Sodden Crew, the consorters of Hessians and the
like.  Or, after all, were McGuffy's stories of Oppression and
the Flaming Torch vain and wanton imaginings only!  No!
They were true enough; and it is thou, sweet Constance, that
hast led me to doubt, and who will in the end, if I do not
have a care, uproot all the traditions of my country, making
its patriotic pillars to topple and fall as if they were not.
Come back to me, then, thou sturdy belief in the Cruel
Oppressor in the days when the patriots resolved and fought,
and in the end filled all the places of preferment and profit.
Hated Englishmen!  Monsters of greed!  Oppressors of the
patriots!  Devisers of stamps and nefarious taxes!  Let me
never cease to despise you, though Constance be all the world
to me and more!  Or, and the thought would come, however
much I strove to force it back, were the tales of oppression
shadowy phantoms merely of a gloomy period?  Men in buckram,
so to speak, conjured up and kept alive to stir the patriot's
heart!  Were indeed the servants of the British Tyrant
like other men, sturdy and fair-minded and of good sleep, so
far as men can be, or odious oppressors, as the Teachers point
out and the Schoolbooks show?  Oh, Constance, thou dream
of grace and love, what doubts thy sweet face and entrancing
eyes have caused to rise like a fog across the revolutionary
moor that I have been taught to believe a part of the heritage
of my countrymen!  Surely thou hast undone me, loyal youth
though I be!

With such thoughts, imperfect and fragmentary, but forerunners
of others to come in after years, I hurried forward to
greet Mr. Seymour.  Hearing me, he turned about, surprised
at my appearance, crying out as he came forward and took
my hand:

"Hello, Gilbert!  Welcome home!"

"Thank you, sir; I'm glad to get back," I answered.

"Where do you come from, and on such a morning?" he
asked, looking me over.

"From the Blakes, where I've been since I left here."

"The Blakes—and all this while and we not know it!" he
answered, half incredulously.  "Why, Blake has been here
half the time, and yet has not mentioned your name."

"Yes, sir; but it was agreed that nothing was to be said
until Uncle Job had matters fixed up with Moth," I answered.

"Moth couldn't have harmed you.  However, you went,
and that is the end of it.  Now your uncle himself is in
trouble, and Moth is egging it on," Mr. Seymour answered,
with lowering face.

"That's what brings me back.  I didn't know till yesterday,
or I'd have come before."

"How does it happen that Blake let you come on foot in
such weather?" Mr. Seymour asked, in a voice in which anger
and astonishment blended.

"I didn't tell him I was coming.  But how is Uncle Job?"
I asked, anxious to learn all I could about his affairs.

"Well, but in poor spirits, of course.  It couldn't be otherwise
in the desperate strait he is in," Mr. Seymour answered,
soberly.

"Is it desperate, then?" I asked, my anxiety increased by
his manner.

"Yes; a week or more has gone by without our being able
to find the slightest clew to the theft, and the trial comes off
in three days."

"In three days!" I cried; "surely they might give him
time to prove his innocence."

"There is no haste, they think, and in this case your uncle
expressly asks it, the court being now in session.  He says he
is innocent, and will scarce talk to a lawyer, not believing any
one, least of all an Appletop jury, will think him guilty.  In
this I fear he is mistaken, and I am filled with anxiety in
regard to him, so unfortunate does his case appear."

"You don't think him guilty, sir?"

"No, certainly not."

"Does any one?  He, of all men!"

"At first every one scouted the idea," Mr. Seymour
answered, "but now the feeling has changed.  It is partly
due, I think, to the devilish persistency of Moth, though
appearances are all against your uncle, if the truth must be
told."

"How did Moth come to be mixed up with it?" I asked,
wondering at the fate that always brought this man to the
front in every trouble of my life.

"He happened to be in Rock Island when news of the robbery
reached there, and being the attorney of the party to
whom the money belonged, was brought along to help hunt
down the criminal.  Now he is to act as the prosecuting
attorney."

"The villain!  And he is glad of the chance I'm sure,"
was all I could say.

"Perhaps; but there is some one else, we can't tell who,
that occupies himself creating suspicions and suggesting this
and that.  It doesn't matter, however, the thing for us is to
disprove the charge; but how this is to be done I can't see,"
Mr. Seymour answered, as if the question were one he had
asked himself many times before.

"Is no one thought to be concerned except Uncle Job?"
I asked, feeling the ground sinking beneath my feet.

"No; and the worst of it is he insisted on guarding the
money himself that night.  Rathe volunteered to do it, but
your uncle wouldn't have it that way."

"Couldn't the money have been taken without uncle's
knowing it, while he was asleep?  Surely there would be
nothing strange in that," I asked, believing it to be so.

"Yes, and your Uncle Job claims that is how it was; that
he was drugged, in fact.  I am sure that is the way it
happened; but how could any one have drugged him when he was
locked in his room? they say."

"How did he happen to have the money?" I asked.

"It was a collection he had made for a client."

"Did any one know he had it in his office?" I asked.

"Only Rathe and I, so far as we know, though of course
there might have been others."

"Rathe!  And where was he that night?"

"He stopped here, and never left the house.  He appears
greatly worried, claiming the loss will ruin his business and
discredit him forever."

"The sneak!  I don't believe he cares—or if anything, is
glad of it.  How much money was there?" I asked, feeling
that every inquiry made the case look the worse for Uncle Job.

"Ten thousand dollars," he answered, reflectively; "a
fortune here."

"How could he hide so much money?" I asked, remembering
the great stacks of bills my father used to bring home and
the trouble mother and he had in secreting them about the
house.

"It was mostly in big bills, with some gold and silver."

"Did you see it?"

"Yes, but only casually, as he and Rathe sealed it up."

"Uncle Job took it in charge afterward?"

"Yes; Rathe and I coming away together.  At daybreak
the next morning your uncle woke us up, complaining of his
head and looking wild and disordered.  He couldn't give any
account of the money, however, except that he thought he
had been drugged, and indeed the odor of chloroform filled
the room, as I found on going there, which I did at once."

"That's enough to clear him," I cried.  "Nothing could
be plainer."

"Yes, so it would seem; but they claim he invented the
story."

"The room was filled with the stuff, you say?"

"Yes; but Moth says your uncle spilled it himself, to hide
the crime."

"The liar! he knows better.  Oh, it's wicked to accuse
Uncle Job when he can't prove what he says."

"Yes, that is what his friends think; but what we are saying
don't lead to anything, and while we are talking you are
freezing.  Come, Constance will want to see you and welcome
you back."  Saying which, Mr. Seymour, not a whit the worse
for the cold, took my arm and led me into the house, though
I was all of a tremor, so biting was the air.

Mr. Seymour ordered breakfast served in the Treasury,
looking upon my coming as an event, he said.  Constance
being told of my arrival, came in presently, looking pale and
distressed, and seeing me beside her father, ran forward
without speaking, save to call my name, clasping her arms about
my neck and hiding her face on my shoulder.

"There, Puss, don't give way like that," Mr. Seymour
exclaimed.  "Gilbert is all right, and with the strength and
color of a prince, as you can see."

"Yes, papa; but when I heard he was here the fear that
something dreadful had happened gave me such a fright
I could scarce stand."

This I did not doubt, for the dear girl trembled as with
a chill, and loosing her hands and taking them in mine, I drew
her to me and kissed her, saying:

"I was never in such fine health in my life, Constance; the
country is the place to build one up, you know."

At breakfast, seated beside her, I forgot, and wholly,
Uncle Job and the errand on which I had come.  How beautiful
she was, I thought.  Almost a woman, too, in height, and
with the grace of one.  Surely there never was any one so
fair and good as she.  Pressing her hand, I wondered that
I could have remained so long away, or that another's troubles,
should have been needed to bring me back; but so it was
always.  Loving her, I was content, or thought I was, when
away, knowing her thoughts, like mine, were ever such as we
would have shared had we been together.  Thus it had been
from the first, neither change of place nor period making any
difference to us, but constant in all things, each day only
added to our love.  Nor, as I have told you, was this affection
in anything like that of children; nor of brother or sister,
but of man and woman.  This Mr. Seymour knew, and since
that day at Wild Plum had treated me in all things as if I were
his son and a man grown.  Of the reason for this, remembering
my youth, I do not know, unless indeed something in his
own life led him to view the matter differently from what
other men would have done in his place.  Thus all things
contributed to make the bond between us as strong as the
affections of two loving and trusting hearts could make it;
and thus it continued, each day only adding to its strength.

"Gilbert's come back to see if he can aid his Uncle Job,"
Mr. Seymour remarked, as he arose from the table.  "Maybe
you can help him, Puss.  Two such wise young heads ought
to be equal to most anything.  He has lost no time in finding
out everything I know"; and with that he kissed her and went
out, turning at the door to smile upon her, half in banter,
half in earnest.

"Yes, Constance," I said, turning to her, "I've come back
to help Uncle Job, but how, I can't see."

"I am sure you will be able to help him if any one can,
Gilbert," she answered, with simple trust; "I have thought
of him so much because of you, and knowing how distressed
you would be when you came to hear of his misfortune."

"That's like you, Constance, but what can we do?  Who
could have stolen the money and yet have covered it up so
well?"

"There were but two who knew he had the money—papa
and Mr. Rathe.  Papa didn't take it, we know.  Then if he
did not, Rathe must, and that I believe."

"He never left the house, your father says, and so how
could he have taken it?" I answered.

"Papa thinks so, but how do we know.  He could have
left the house easily enough during the night without any one
knowing it, I'm sure."

"Oh, you sweet child!" I cried, my heart filling.  For
from the moment Mr. Seymour had mentioned Rathe's name
I believed him to be the thief, and no other.  "How can we
prove it, though, for no one suspects him, not even your
father," I added, looking at her to see how she took it.

"I don't know about that.  Papa's a man, and doesn't
always say what he thinks; but I know he doesn't like Rathe
any more than we do."

"Well, we must wait and see what Fox says," I answered.
"I'm going to meet him to-night and let him know everything
I can find out.  He's promised to help, though afraid
to come to Appletop because of Moth."

"You thought he could aid you before, I know, but how
can he do anything if he dare not show himself?" she asked,
as if not placing much hope in anything he could do.

"Men like him know more than others about things of this
kind, I've heard say.  They are more alert, I suppose, and
Fox seems so clear in his way of looking at things."

"I hope he can help.  I'm sure he thinks a great deal of
you or he would not have come to make inquiries when you
were sick.  I wouldn't build too much on him, though, if
I were you, Gilbert, for Moth is weaving a dreadful web
about your uncle, I fear," the sweet girl answered, as if
looking forward to some great sorrow in store for me; and with
the words, she put her arms about my neck and pressed her
face against mine in comfort of companionship and tender
sympathy.





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.. _`THE DEPTHS`:

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   CHAPTER XXXIX


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   THE DEPTHS

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After breakfast I asked Constance to go with me to see
Uncle Job, and her father assenting, we soon reached the jail
where he was confined.  It was a forlorn-looking place, built
of rough logs, strips of wood and plaster filling the intervening
spaces.  Gaining admission, we found Uncle Job in a cell
apart, and so cold and cheerless of aspect that we could scarce
restrain our tears at the sight of it.  He, not expecting us,
was quite upset, but recovering himself, asked us to sit down
on the rude bench that half-filled the place and answered for
both seat and bed.

"Your faces are like a glimpse of heaven," he exclaimed,
putting his arms about us with tender affection.

To this we could make no reply, and for a long time sat
bolt upright, holding his hands and gazing at the blank wall
before us.  At last, mustering some courage, I said:

"I would have been here before, uncle, but have been
living at the Blakes', and it was only yesterday that he came
home and told us of your trouble."

"Then that is where you have been?" he asked, surprised
at what I said.

"Yes," I replied.

"They are kind people, and had I known you were there,
I should not have worried about you."

"It was foolish in me to run away, and I'm ashamed of
myself; and now more than ever," I answered, unable to say
more.

"You need not have feared Moth; and now he is under
bonds not to molest you, so there will be no further trouble."

"I am glad of that, though I don't care for him any more.
He is a scoundrel and sneak, and I'm going to give him
a thrashing when I see him," I answered, and meaning to do
as I said.

"That is foolish talk, Gilbert.  You must not get into any
trouble with him.  He is a man to fear and avoid.  Wait;
time will bring everything out right."

"Yes, we hope so; but Moth deserves a beating just the
same for mixing up so much in our affairs," I answered.

"Nothing he attempts against us will succeed," Uncle Job
answered, and believing what he said.  For he was in all
things a very religious man, and did not think it possible that
the innocent could suffer wrong.

"What chance have you, Uncle Job, anyway, for we are
all worried to death?" I exclaimed at last, my emotion
overcoming me.

"The chance an innocent man always has"; saying which
he looked into my eyes, as if to read there my inmost thoughts
concerning him.

"We know you're innocent, we're sure you are,"
I answered; "but if they don't believe it and find you
guilty?"

"How can I help that, save by telling the truth?  There
is no other way, for I can't make head or tail of it, and
haven't a single witness.  Nothing save my word and what
men know of me."

"They know nothing but good of you, but who did take
the money?  You know, I'm sure."

"If I knew, I would say so; but I don't, and so can't
accuse any one."

"Then who do you think took it?" I asked, standing up
and facing him.

"What I think isn't of any account unless I know and can
prove it, and that I can't do."

"Yes, and keeping still, they will convict you!" I cried,
stirred out of all patience by his calm assurance.

"I hope not; but there is no other way that I know of, or
that others can devise for me, so far as I can see."

"Mr. Seymour says you were drugged."

"I was, but by whom I can't tell; and as regards the
money, I know no more about it than Constance here," he
exclaimed, laying his hand on her head.  At this she burst
into tears, and for that matter Uncle Job himself could no
longer maintain any semblance of calmness, so great was his
distress.

Long we talked, but without any result, for not a thing
could I learn likely to afford Fox a clew to work upon.  When
at last we returned home, much discouraged, we were greatly
surprised to find Mr. and Mrs. Blake awaiting us.  Mrs. Blake
greeted me in the most affectionate way, throwing her
arms about my body and holding me against her bosom for
a long time without speaking.  At last overcoming her
agitation, she exclaimed between her sobs:

"How could you leave us in the way you did, Gilbert;
and the horror of it, too!  You can never know, you foolish
boy, how my heart sank when I found you were out in that
dreadful storm.  How could you have been so cruel?" and
stopping, she held me from her, as if to assure herself that it
was I and no one else she clasped in her arms.

"I had no thought of the storm or that I ran any risk.
Indeed, it was not so bad, after all, for when I reached the
Eagle's Nest I found supper and a warm bed.  I'm not a bit
the worse, you see, for the journey; but I'm sorry to have
caused you so much anxiety and trouble, and hope you'll
forgive me," I answered, much cast down at her distress.

"I never saw a storm so fierce and wild.  We scarce slept
for the cold and rocking of the house in the wind; and when,
late in the night, I went to your room to see how you were
getting on, I thought I should have died when I found you
gone and your bed untouched.  Sitting about until there was
a bit of light, we started after you, stopping, with our hearts
in our mouths, to stir every mound of snow by the wayside,
expecting to find your body beneath it.  Oh, it was dreadful!"

"Oh, Gilbert, you never told us a word of this," Constance
cried, coming to my side.  "How could you have kept
it back?"

"It was not nearly so bad as Mrs. Blake thinks, Constance.
I reached the tavern all right, and in a little while was as
good as new.  If the night hadn't turned out as it did, I would
have been here by twelve o'clock, and none the worse for the
tramp, either."

"Yes, but think, Miss Constance, of his being in the forest
alone, and on such a night and clad as he was!  We will
always blame ourselves for not bringing him here yesterday,
as he implored us to do."

"Please don't talk of it any more, I love you so much!"
I cried out at last.  "I couldn't help doing what I did."

"I know you couldn't; and we are happy in finding you
alive and well.  You will go back with us, or if not now, when
your uncle's trouble is fixed up, as we hope and pray it will
be soon.  You know we love you as if you were our own son."

"That we do, Gilbert, and wish you to live with us always,"
Mr. Blake now broke in for the first time.

"Sweet lady," Mr. Seymour here interposed, coming forward
and taking Mrs. Blake's hand and kissing it reverently
as a son might, "I want to thank you and Mr. Blake for your
kindness to Gilbert and love for him; and I am made happy,
madam, by having an insight into a heart so affectionate and
true and every way worthy of regard.  Gilbert is as my own
son, and I kiss your hand again, madam, to show my respect
and love for you," and Mr. Seymour bent over and lifted her
hand to his lips with as much deference as he would have
shown his queen.  Constance, who had stood by with tears
dimming her eyes, now put her soft arms about Mrs. Blake
and embraced and kissed her, as if she could not show plainly
enough how much she loved her for her tender heart.

As the Blakes had left home without their breakfast, and
it was now midday, Constance ordered luncheon spread for
them in the Treasury, and while they were satisfying their
hunger we sat about or waited upon them with loving attention.
Afterward, as they could not be prevailed upon to stop
longer, Constance and I went with them to the edge of the
town, where we watched till they were out of sight.  When it
was dark, I went to meet Fox, as we had agreed, but without
hope, so little had I been able to learn that would be of use
to him.  He was there before me, and upon hearing my voice,
which I could by no means render cheerful, cried out in great
spirits:

"Don't be downhearted, you little vagrant, but tell me
all you have found out, not forgetting the smallest thing, as
I told you.  It is in some trifle that the rogues always give
themselves away, the thief-catchers say.  I ought to have
been a constable, and not a preacher, my boy," he went on;
with cheerful unconcern; "but many a good man has made
a like mistake.  It shows, you see, how little we know what
we are good for when young.  Come now, commence at the
beginning and tell me what you have discovered, and take
your time about it, for there is no hurry."

Thus encouraged, I told him all I had found out, not
omitting anything I could remember, however trifling.

"So Miss Constance thinks Rathe is the thief, does she?
A bright girl, I'll wager; but why does she think that?" he
asked, when I had concluded.

"Because neither of us like him, and because he and
Mr. Seymour were the only ones there when the money was sealed
up the evening before the robbery."

"So they sealed it up, did they?  What was that for,
I wonder?"

"I don't know, unless to make sure."

"Well, it was business-like, anyway; but Miss Constance
must have some other reason for disliking Rathe?"

"Yes, because he and Uncle Job are rivals."

"Rivals! rivals!  For what, I'd like to know?"

"For Miss Betty's favor."

"What is that you are saying?  Pray, who is Miss Betty?"

"Miss Betty Singleton, a young lady in Appletop."

"How long have they been rivals?"

"I don't know, but before I came here."

"Well, this is what I call gossip, Gilbert, and makes me
feel as if I were in Boston again.  We ought to have a cup of
tea and a bit of toast and a cozy fire to enjoy it fully, though.
Which of the suitors, pray, does Miss Betty favor—your uncle
or the other man?"

"Uncle Job, Constance thinks."

"I'll bet she is right, too, if Miss Betty is a girl of sense,
and she is or your uncle wouldn't care for her.  So the rivalry
has been on for a long time—before you had that scare in
Murderer's Hollow, probably?"

"Yes, long before that."

"Well, you have a fine ear for gossip, Gilbert, if you are
not much of a detective.  Let me see now," he went on, "if
I have everything straight"; and with that he began to
question me afresh about the robbery, and the money, and the
shape it was in, and how and where Uncle Job lived, and
about his business and love affair, and a thousand other things
of which I could see no point whatever.

"You have not told me when the trial is to come off," he
exclaimed, finally, "or isn't that decided yet?"

"In three days from now."

"Whew! but they are speedy!  Let me see, the robbery
happened eight days ago.  That is hardly giving him time to
turn around."

"That's what I think, but Mr. Seymour says it's the way,
and that Uncle Job wishes it hurried," I answered.

"Yes; and it's as good a way as any.  The sooner men
are tried and afforded a chance to prove their innocence, or
stand convicted, the more likely justice is to be done.  Only
time enough should be given to get together the evidence.
More than that is a trick."

"Enough time hasn't been allowed Uncle Job,"
I answered, "for there's only three days more, and nothing
has been done."

"I don't know.  A good many things might happen in
three days, Gilbert; so don't be too downhearted.  Go back
to town and see what more you can learn, and don't forget to
spy out what Moth and the constable are doing.  Then come
here the second night from this, crammed with news, and
I will be here to meet you.  You are sure, though, that you
have told me everything you have heard?" he added.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Well, then, if that is all, give me your hand and I will
help you to a ride to town."

On our way back he sought to cheer me up, but not with
much success, for I could see no loophole by which Uncle Job
could escape, so closely was the web drawn about him—unless,
indeed, his good name should serve him with the jury,
as he thought; but of this I had not much hope, so greatly did
I fear Moth's misrepresentations and sarcasm of speech.

The next day, when on my way to visit Uncle Job, I met
Blott as he was leaving the jail.  Jerking his thumb over his
shoulder in the direction of Uncle Job's cell, he remarked,
in his slow way:

"He's in the spider's web, sure; Pickle's got him, the little
ant!"

"Yes," I cried; "and he is the man who saved your life.
Now he's in trouble why don't you save him, and pay your
debt?" I asked, in a heat.

"There's nothin' in the world I wouldn't do to help him.
He saved my life an' saved me from other things worse'n
dyin'," Blott answered, mournfully.  "I could git him out of
jail easy enough, if that was all, an' offered to, but he won't
budge."

"I spoke without thinking, Blott," I answered, ashamed
of myself; "but he is in trouble, and needs friends, and hasn't
any."

"He's lots of friends, an' that's all the good it does; but
the Lord ain't goin' to let a man like him be eaten up by
moths, I don't believe, though how he's to be saved I don't
see."

"Can't anything be done?" I asked, in despair.

"Not as it appears now; but be cheerf, Gilbert, be cheerf.
It'll all come out right in the end, an' truth'll triumph, if
what the Sunday-school teachers preach is true.  To make
sure, though, git your uncle into the idea of movin', an' I'll
have him clear of the place an' out of the country in twenty-four
hours"; saying which, Blott wrung my hand and hurried
away, as if not daring to trust himself to speak further.

Save what I have related, the two days passed without my
being able to find out anything new or of interest to Fox.
Upon my going to the meeting-place, as we had agreed,
however, he was not there, nor did he come.  This I could not
account for, unless, indeed, he was discouraged like the
others, and seeing no hope for Uncle Job had avoided meeting
me.  This I thought was the case, but waiting until midnight,
I at last returned home, worn and discouraged, without
one comforting thought regarding the trial to come off
the following day.





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.. _`JOB THROCKMORTON'S TRIAL: THE TRAGEDY`:

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   CHAPTER XL


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   JOB THROCKMORTON'S TRIAL: THE TRAGEDY

.. vspace:: 2

The next morning I arose at break of day and hastened to
the jail, to be with Uncle Job to comfort him in some measure,
if that were possible, before going to the place of trial.
Afterward, seated beside him in the crowded courtroom,
I looked about, to see Miss Betty a few feet away, her eyes
red and swollen, as if she had grieved much and slept but little.
All the fun was clean gone out of the poor thing, and in its
place nothing but sorrow and deep anxiety.  Her face, too,
always so rosy and smiling, was now pale and drawn, giving
her the look of being much older than she was.  Meeting my
gaze, she smiled upon me, as if in gratitude for my being
there.  Constance sat beside her, and when I caught her eye
her face lighted, and this I knew to comfort me and give me
courage to abide the end, whatever it might be.  Except these
two and Setti, who sat next to Constance, no friendly look
met mine.  Surely, I thought, some of our friends might
have come, or was our cause so desperate that every one
stayed away to hide their grief at the end they so clearly
foresaw?

Uncle Job bore himself like the fine gentleman he was,
neither courting nor shunning the eye of any one when he
entered the room.  Bowing politely to those who recognized
him, he passed others who avoided acquaintanceship with the
grace of unconsciousness that only well-bred people possess.
This happening led me to believe then and this belief has
only been strengthened by time, that no good man or woman
ever can refuse to recognize another whom they by chance
know, however humble or obscure, unless such person has
been convicted of some crime that shames our morals.  Only
the smaller parasites and hangers-on of social life, I am
assured, can commit such an offense against good manners.
Uncle Job, however, did not appear cast down by what he
saw, though craving kindly sympathy and being a man who
would have freely offered it under like circumstances.

Moth sat near by, looking pinched and meaner than ever,
I thought, though his appearance was always inferior to that
of other men.  The cunning look he gave me from out his
deep-set eyes when I glanced his way I pretended not to see,
so greatly did I loathe the man.  Looking beyond to the jury,
I could not make them out, unless, indeed, they had the air
of expecting a treat, for which pay was to be forthcoming,
rather than having a duty to perform.  Being men tanned in
the sun and simple of habit, however, I could not tell.
Mr. Promb, Uncle Job's lawyer, sat beside Moth, and suffered
greatly, I thought, in comparison with that saffron-faced and
eager-eyed man.  Otherwise he was wholesome to look upon,
and without doubt much the better man of the two.  If
Uncle Job could but have had Mr. Lincoln to plead his cause,
I mourned, as we sat waiting, there would then be no need to
borrow trouble.  His innocence would be made clear as noonday
to every one by the honesty and God-like persuasiveness
of his advocate.  Alas! neither he nor any other fit person
for occasion so great could be had, and Uncle Job must,
perforce, suffer whatever fate befell him.

Mr. Seymour had thought it greatly in Uncle Job's favor
that the trial was to be before Judge Douglas, a rising man,
already much spoken of in the state because of the brilliancy
of his mind and his vast comprehension of the world and its
affairs.  This truly great man was, at the time of which
I speak, just beginning the wonderful career that for many
years made him a power in the land and known of men far
and near, all finally to culminate in his strivings after the
presidency with Mr. Lincoln and his death at an early day
thereafter.  Of his greatness, however, soon to be proven in
the Senate and elsewhere, only the more discerning had then,
any inkling.[\*]

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[\*] The Statesman Gilbert Holmes here refers
to was Stephen A. Douglas, called
"The Little Giant" because of his sturdy form
and the strength of his intellect.
Judge Douglas was afterward for many years
United States Senator from Illinois, and
prominent in the politics of our country
immediately preceding the great Civil War.
In 1860 he was a candidate for President
with Lincoln and Breckenridge, and upon the
opening of the war, in 1861, generously came
forward and offered Mr. Lincoln his support
and that of his adherents.
This act of unsolicited patriotism proved of incalculable
benefit then and afterward to the President
and the Union.—THE AUTHOR.

.. vspace:: 2

With the arrival of the hour set apart, the clerk arose and
called the trial, and loudly, as if the matter were unexpected
and notice now given for the first time.  No sooner did he
cease and the prisoner had answered "Not guilty," than Moth
arose, with great show of deference to the judge and jury.

"May it please the honorable court and this intelligent
jury," he went on, "I appear here on behalf of the people to
aid in the punishment of a monstrous crime—a crime conceived
in cunning and lust of wealth by one who before stood
high in the estimation of many good men.  You will notice
I do not say all good men, and in this qualification I speak
advisedly.  Many have never believed the prisoner honest;
I never have, and for good reason.  He is young, of aspiring
nature, of unknown antecedents, and greedy of preferment
and gain.  This latter some of you may have known before,
but it is well to again call it to your attention.  His downcast
look and the lean and covetous lines about his face tell
a story of duplicity and cunning no intelligent man, least of
all a jury so circumspect as this, can mistake," and Moth
looked with lowering eyes upon Uncle Job, whose countenance,
truth to say, was neither lowering nor covetous, but
open and manly as one could wish.  Then turning to the jury,
he cried, waving his hand: "I do not ask you to believe me.
Look for yourselves, gentlemen."

"I object to this line of procedure, your honor, in advance
of the evidence," Mr. Promb broke in, with considerable
spirit, "as being likely to prejudice the case of my client, and
wrongfully."

"The attorney for the state will confine himself to the
line of evidence he proposes to present.  The jury may
properly be left to form their own opinion of the prisoner's
personal appearance," Judge Douglas responded, with some
severity.

"Very well, your honor; but it is impossible to prejudice
a case so plain to all men as this will be made to appear
further on.  Restricting myself, however, as you justly observe,
we shall prove all that I have intimated and more.  We will
prove that a sum of money, great enough to tempt the cupidity
of a weak man, such as the prisoner at the bar, was left in
his care, and that taking advantage of the confidence reposed
in him, he deliberately and feloniously and with malice
aforethought made away with it, to his own advantage and the
detriment of his patron and the good morals of society.  All
this we will prove, may it please your honor and the honorable
jury."

When Moth concluded, Mr. Promb arose, but only to
excuse himself from addressing the court at this stage of the
proceedings.  Whereupon Moth sprang to his feet again and
asked that Mr. Henry Seymour, a friend of the prisoner, be
sworn.  When thus called, Mr. Seymour, who sat some way
off, arose and made his way to the witness-stand, all eyes
turned expectantly upon him, as if he, too, might possibly be
guilty, being a friend of the accused.  Passing Uncle Job,
the latter smiled upon him as if in assurance of unalterable
good will, whatever his testimony might be.  When Mr. Seymour
had been sworn, Moth proceeded:

"Were you present in the office of Throckmorton & Rathe
on the evening when the sum of money stolen, amounting to
about ten thousand dollars, was intrusted to the personal care
of Job Throckmorton for safe-keeping over night?"

"I was."

"Did the said Throckmorton receive the money?"

"He did."

"Did he not volunteer to perform this service without
solicitation from anyone?  Nay, did he not insist upon
assuming the care of the money when Mr. Rathe asked to be allowed
to perform the duty?" Moth went on.

"I do not understand that Rathe did more than volunteer
to take charge of the money."

"Answer my question, yes or no.  Did not the prisoner
insist upon remaining at the office to guard the money?"

Upon this the witness turned to the judge, as if seeking
guidance, and the latter nodding assent, Mr. Seymour
answered, but with manifest reluctance, it was plain:

"He did."

"Afterward, on the following morning, when the money
had been stolen, what reason did Throckmorton give for its
loss?  Did he not claim he had been drugged?" Moth asked,
looking toward the jury rather than at the witness.

"He did; and what he claimed I verily believe," Mr. Seymour
answered, with great promptness.

"I did not ask you what you believed; it is of no consequence,
either here or elsewhere.  The prisoner lives with
you, I understand, and pays you for his board and lodging,
and naturally, and because of this, you would believe anything
he said," Moth answered, addressing the jury.

"I call on the court to protect me from the insinuations
of this mountebank," Mr. Seymour cried, very red in the
face, turning to the judge.

"I call on the court to fine and imprison the witness for the
use of an epithet so uncalled for and so little in harmony with
the dignity of the place and the honorable judge and jury,"
Moth answered, loudly, and as if grieved and humiliated
beyond expression.

"The attorney for the state will go on with the case, confining
himself to its merits and the evidence in hand," Judge
Douglas commanded, addressing Moth.

"The witness having testified to the truth of what we look
to to prove the guilt of the prisoner, I have, your honor, no
further questions to ask him," Moth concluded.

Upon Mr. Promb's intimating that he did not desire to
cross-examine Mr. Seymour, Moth asked that Mr. Philetus
Tipps be called.

This gentleman, who sat near Moth, arose upon his name
being thus announced, and doing so lifted his eyes, as if to
economize time in taking the oath, in pursuance of a habit long
acquired.  Mr. Tipps' presence was not commanding, though
a tuft of hair standing upright on the edge of his narrow
forehead served to augment his height and add to the dignity of his
manner; it also gave him a somewhat fierce look, in which an
air of alertness blended.  Altogether his manner conveyed an
idea of weariness, as if he were going through a ceremony
often repeated and of little or no interest to him in the first
instance.  Contrary to what one would suppose of a person
performing the office of constable, Mr. Tipps' body was
nothing to speak of, being so slight that he might easily have
slipped between the rails of a common fence without injury to
his raiment.  This, however, did not apply to his feet, which
were much spread abroad, as if by long waiting and standing
about the corridors of justice.  It was also a peculiarity of
Mr. Tipps that in raising his eyes to take the oath he did not
look upward, but at an angle, as if the Being he appealed to
dwelt somewhere on the horizon.  This, however, was a device
merely, it was apparent, to save labor and conserve his
strength, and not at all as indicating the presence of the
Deity in that particular place.  Of these interesting details
Moth took no account, but taking the witness in hand, as if
he were a lemon or pomegranate ripe for squeezing, demanded
of him, in a peremptory way:

"What is your name and residence?"

"Philetus Tipps, of Rock Island."

"What is your business?"

"Constable."

"Have you been looking up evidence in the case of the
State *versus* Throckmorton?"

"I have."

"In such investigation have you discovered evidence of
the presence of chloroform in the office of Throckmorton
& Rathe, and likely to have been there on the night of the
robbery?"

"I have," Tipps answered.

"In what shape, may I ask?"

"In the shape of a bottle partly filled with that substance."

"Indeed!  Where, may I ask, did you discover this bottle?"
Moth inquired, as if hearing of it now for the first time.

"I found it hidden away under the stairway off the room
in which Throckmorton slept on the night of the robbery."

"Have you the bottle with you?"

"I have."

"I ask that you deliver it to the clerk of the court"; and
upon his complying, Moth turned to the judge, saying he had
no further questions to ask the witness.  Cross-examination
being waived, as in the case of Mr. Seymour, Moth asked that
Augustus Collygog be called, which being done that gentleman
stepped forward to be sworn.  Mr. Collygog was a slender,
clerical man, with pale face and considerable particularity of
dress, having about him the look of one accustomed to handle
delicate things, and such as might on occasion pertain to
men's lives or matters of that nature.  When he had taken
the oath, which he did solemnly and as if determined to be
strictly accurate in all he said, Moth asked:

"You are a druggist, are you not?"

"Yes, sir, a druggist; or, excuse me, more appropriately
speaking, perhaps, an apothecary," Mr. Collygog replied,
without relaxing the fixed expression of his face.

"You keep a drugstore?"

"Ha! yes, a drugstore; or, you will excuse me, sir, more
properly a pharmacy," he answered, nursing the feeble
whiskers that grew on his sunken cheeks.

"Where is your place?"

"In Appletop, sir, and directly over the way, facing the
Galena road, if you please, and convenient from every part
of the city."

"You fill prescriptions and orders for medicine and things
of that kind?" Moth asked.

"Yes, and a very delicate duty and requiring circumspection.
Yes, certainly, requiring circumspection—and much
experience," Mr. Collygog replied, as if deriving great
personal satisfaction from what he said.

"Will you look at the bottle partly filled with chloroform,
in the possession of the clerk of the court, and tell me if it
was put up at your shop?"

"Yes, to be sure, at my pharmacy, if you please," the
witness answered, after carefully examining the bottle from
different points of view.

"You are sure?" Moth asked, sternly.

"Oh, dear me, yes, quite sure!  The bottle bears my
label, as you may see: 'Doctor Augustus Collygog, Pharmacist
and Dealer in Surgical Instruments and Small Notions,
Appletop, Illinois.'"

"Who procured it of you?" Moth asked.

"Who?  Oh, excuse me, sir; but the secrets of the
profession are sacred—sacred, sir."

At this Moth turned to the judge, but the latter, not
waiting, said:

"The witness must answer the question."

"Thank you, Judge, if I must; but only on compulsion."

"Well, who was it?" Moth asked, impatiently.

"Ha! yes.  Who was what?" Doctor Collygog answered,
losing the thread of the examination.

"Who was it that bought the stuff of you?" Moth screamed
at the top of his voice.

"Oh, yes, I understand; but not quite so loud, if you
please, sir.  It was Mr. Job Throckmorton."

"That will do.  If you please, your honor, the state rests
here, confident of having proven its case and steadfastly
believing in the intelligence of the honorable jury called to
pass upon the testimony.  Indeed, it is so plain, that I should
waste your time with explanations.  Having bought the
chloroform and sprinkled it about his bed, Throckmorton hid
what remained.  Through the happy chance of finding the
half-filled bottle where he placed it, however, the whole
scheme is made clear, and his identity as the robber proven
beyond the shadow of a doubt."

Upon Moth's concluding, Mr. Promb arose, and facing
the last witness, asked:

"When did Mr. Throckmorton procure this medicine of you?"

"Yes, Mr. Promb.  Let me see; in September, I think, or
possibly—I do not say positively—in the fore part of October.
The books of My House will show."

"Did he say what he wanted it for?"

"I think not; but indeed I might be mistaken in this, it
not being thought material in his case, he being a man grown
and responsible."

"Did he not say it was for his nephew, who was ill at the
Dragon?"

"Ha!  I think not, Mr. Promb; but, dear me, I can't be
certain, as I have just said."

"That is all.  May it please your honor, we should like to
have Mr. Seymour recalled"; and upon this being done,
Mr. Promb asked:

"Do you recognize this bottle?"

"I do," answered Mr. Seymour.

"For what purpose did Mr. Throckmorton procure the
chloroform it contains?"

"For his nephew, then sick at my house."

"Was it so used?" Mr. Promb asked.

"It was, to my personal knowledge."

"When?"

"About the time stated by Mr. Collygog."

After this, Mr. Promb recalled Tipps, who arose, with hand
uplifted and eyes raised obliquely as before, but nothing
came of his re-examination.  After him many other men, all
reputable and of good standing in the community, were
summoned by Mr. Promb to prove the prisoner's high character;
and with this, and a fine speech, but lacking force, I thought,
Uncle Job's attorney closed the defense.  Upon this, Moth
asked that Mr. Seymour be recalled, and when this had
been done, he asked:

"After the recovery of Mr. Throckmorton's nephew, what
was done with the bottle of chloroform?"

"I do not know."

"Who would know?" Moth asked.

"The servants, or perhaps my daughter."

"That is all," Moth responded; "I desire that Miss
Constance Seymour be called, your honor."

She not moving, nor seeming able to move, her father
went to her, and taking her hand, led her forward, speaking
encouragingly as they made their way through the crowded
room.

"What is your name?" Moth asked, upon her being sworn.

"Constance Seymour."

"Do you recognize this bottle, Miss Constance?" Moth
asked, and with every show of gentleness and respect, I am
bound to say, for which I could not help but feel grateful to
the scoundrel.

"Yes, sir."

"What was done with it after Gilbert Holmes' illness?"
Moth asked.

To this Constance did not reply, nor would she until Judge
Douglas, leaning forward, said, with a smile of encouragement,
that she must answer the question.

"I placed it in Mr. Throckmorton's room," she replied
at last, trembling, and scarce above a whisper.

"You placed it in Mr. Throckmorton's room?  Thank
you; that will do," Moth said, looking toward the jury, as if
they must certainly now confirm his belief that he had proven
Uncle Job's guilt beyond the shadow of a doubt.  "Your
honor, I submit the case without further statement," he went
on, "having fully proven that Throckmorton is the thief, and
no one else"; saying which, he bowed and sank into his seat
with a complacent smile.

Upon this Mr. Promb conferred for a long while with
Uncle Job, urging upon him something he would by no means
consent to, but of what nature I could not tell.  Afterward,
turning to the judge, he said:

"The defense also rests its case here, desiring only to
point out to the honorable court and jury that in all his life,
and in every affair of business in which he has been engaged,
and they have been many, Mr. Throckmorton has borne an
honorable character before men, no shadow of any kind
resting upon it.  We hold, and in this we believe the jury will
agree, that because of his good name and unimpeachable
integrity it is impossible he could have committed the crime
imputed to him.  There is a mystery connected with the case,
we admit, that we cannot now fathom, but feel assured that
time will do this, and ere long, and to your entire satisfaction
and that of the community.  In the confident belief that this
is so, he throws himself upon your mercy, believing that the
knowledge you have of men and how little likely they are to
go wrong when all their lives have been animated by honorable
acts, will be found sufficient to justify his acquittal—nay,
to command it of you as a right."

The trial being thus closed, Judge Douglas arose to charge
the jury, and doing so, pointed out that they must be
governed in all things by the testimony, but that if adverse to
the prisoner, his previous good character might of right be
considered in fixing the sentence or in considering any plea
for mercy the jury might think fit to make.

Being thus instructed, the jury retired, no one in the room
leaving or making any move to do so.  Such as had been
thoughtful enough to bring their lunch, ate it, chatting the
while, yet never, except for a moment, taking their eyes off
the sad face of the accused, who sat during this trying
time, much cast down, it was apparent, at the desperate
strait in which he found himself.  Thus half an hour
passed, when word came that the jury had agreed upon
a verdict.  At this, Judge Douglas resumed his seat and
motioned for the jury to be brought in.  As the twelve men
filed into the room, I scanned them one by one to see if
I might find some hopeful sign, but unavailingly.  For, as if
having an unpleasant duty to perform, the face of each was
filled with perplexity and regret, nor did any one of them look
toward Uncle Job.  At this, and arguing from it that he was
lost, I sprang up, and throwing my arms about his neck,
screamed at the top of my voice:

"He's innocent!  He's innocent!  I know he's innocent!"

Upon this a great commotion arose, the whole audience
getting to their feet, the better to see the prisoner and learn
the cause of the disturbance.  In the midst of this, and while
the sobs of Miss Betty and Constance could be plainly heard,
a great noise arose at the entrance to the court, and this
growing louder and being accompanied by cries and oaths,
every one turned to see what it was all about.  This I did
not regard, until Uncle Job, standing up, cried out: "My
God, Rathe!"  Then looking up, I saw Fox and Blott, and
back of them Mr. Hayward and the landlord of the Eagle's
Nest dragging and pushing Rathe forward into the room.
Bringing him bound to the table about which the lawyers sat,
Fox stepped aside and whispered to Uncle Job, Mr. Promb
joining them.  While this was occurring, the jury stood still,
not understanding in the least what it meant.  Nor the judge
any more than they; and at last, leaning forward somewhat
impatiently, he commanded the bailiff to enforce order in the
court.  Moth, all this while, had not stirred, but suspecting
what was about to happen, the color left his face and he half
arose to his feet.  Never have I seen a man more disturbed,
but whether his passions were directed toward Rathe or Uncle
Job I could not tell; nor did it matter.  When some order
had been secured, Mr. Promb turned to the court, and in a
voice he could scarce make heard, so greatly was he moved, said:

"May it please the court, we beg in the interest of justice
that the case of the State versus Throckmorton be reopened,
as we have important evidence to present, not before
obtainable."

"What is the nature of the evidence?" Judge Douglas
asked, evidently at a loss to understand the meaning of what
had occurred.

"We have here in the person of Rathe one of the men who
committed the robbery, Mr. Throckmorton not being in any
way concerned in it, as we have claimed all along, and are
now able to prove."

"I protest, your honor," Moth cried, springing to his
feet.  "This is a conspiracy of robbers to ruin an honest man
and liberate a rogue, and nothing else.  A reward is out for
the man Fox there for highway robbery.  He is nothing but
a common bandit, and I call on the court to arrest him here
and now."

"We will attend to that presently, Mr. Moth," Judge
Douglas remarked, holding up his hand to enforce silence.
"Meantime, Mr. Promb, the court and jury will hear any
testimony you may have to offer, if it is material, as you say."

"It is material, your honor; indeed, proves the innocence
of the prisoner at the bar.  In pursuance of our just rights in
the matter, therefore, I desire that Mr. George Fox be called
to testify."

No further objection being offered, the latter stepping
forward and being sworn, Mr. Promb went on:

"Now tell the judge and jury, if you please, all you know
about this case, and who it was that took the money
Mr. Throckmorton is accused of stealing."

"It is this way, your honor," Fox went on.  "Believing
from information I had picked up that Rathe and the outlaw
Burke were implicated in the theft, I said as much to these
gentlemen with me, telling them, upon their expressing disbelief,
that I would prove what I affirmed if they would go with
me, and this before they should be called upon to act in any
manner.  Upon their consenting, we secured a boat, and last
night dropped down the river to Black Hawk's abandoned
hut, where I had reason to believe the thieves were to divide
the proceeds of the robbery.  Secreting ourselves where we
could see and hear all that occurred, we had not long to wait
before Burke appeared, and presently Rathe.  Lighting
a candle, Burke produced the very packages of money which
Mr. Throckmorton is accused of stealing.  When, however,
he was about to open them for the purpose of dividing the
plunder, Rathe, who stood somewhat in the shade, drew
a pistol and fired upon him.  Burke had not noticed the
motion, and when the ball struck him, staggered and partly
fell.  Not being wholly disabled, he gave a cry and rushed
upon Rathe, but the latter evading him, drew a huge knife
and plunged it to the hilt in his breast.  At this Burke threw
up his hands with a groan and fell to the floor dead.  All this
we saw, and rushing into the room, overcame Rathe, but too
late to save Burke.  In proof of all I say, your honor, here
are the witnesses and there the packages of money, and the
knife with which Rathe killed Burke"; saying which, Fox laid
the money on the table before him, placing the bowie-knife,
the blade of which was black with clotted blood, beside it.
"We expected, your honor," Fox went on, as he stepped back,
"to have reached here before the trial, but the river being full
of ice, were prevented."

Moth waiving cross-examination, Mr. Promb called
Mr. Hayward, who confirmed Fox's account, after which he
turned to the judge, saying the defense had no further
testimony to offer.  Upon this Judge Douglas turned to Moth and
asked if he desired to question the witness, or had any
evidence to present.  To this Moth only shook his head, not
taking his eyes off Rathe.  For it was apparent he had believed
Uncle Job guilty, and what he now heard fell upon him like
a stroke from heaven, as his face clearly showed.  Judge
Douglas, upon this, turned to the jury, saying they must
consider the new evidence with the old; but they, not moving,
and all looking toward Uncle Job, spoke up as with one voice:
"NOT GUILTY."

Bowing to Uncle Job and smiling, Judge Douglas dismissed
him, ordering at the same time that Rathe be removed
to the jail to await commitment and trial.  At this the latter
who had not moved, took a step forward, and facing the
judge, bowed, saying, as if speaking of some commonplace
occurrence:

"I admit all that has been said, your honor.  There was
not enough for two, and so I killed Burke, and a good riddance
it is to the community.  I am only sorry, however, that it
was not the pious Throckmorton instead," he added, turning
and looking at Uncle Job.  "Burke deserved death, but not
more than I, you will say, and truly enough.  I intended to
kill him when I went to the cabin, and in this way, to
illustrate, your honor, and quite simply," Rathe went on, taking
up the knife with both hands, his arms being only loosely tied.
"As he came toward me, the pistol-shot not proving effective,
I drew my knife, and raising it the full length of my arm,
buried it to the hilt in his bosom, like this"; and as he
concluded, and looking the judge calmly in the face, he plunged
the weapon to the handle in his own heart.

At first the lookers-on thought he was acting, but when,
after a moment, he wavered and fell full length on the floor,
there was a cry of horror from all present, many women
fainting, and the men staring, not knowing what to make of it.

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When some time had elapsed and the dead body of Rathe
had been removed and order had been restored, Moth arose,
and turning to the judge, said:

"I call upon the court before it adjourns to order the
arrest of the man Fox for highway robbery."

At this, Fox, who was standing within the inclosure, turned
to the judge and said:

"May it please your honor, I admit all this man may say,
not denying anything, and beg that I may be tried here and
now, and by the present jury."

To this Judge Douglas demurred, but after reflecting upon
it for a while and conferring with the jury, he turned to Moth
and said:

"You hear his admission, Mr. Moth?  Are you ready to go
on with the case, as he suggests?  If so, I can see no legal
objection."

"It is what I desire above all things, your honor," Moth,
answered, in a sober way.  "The man should be in the
penitentiary, and the sooner he is sent there the better for the
community."

"Then the trial may proceed.  Bailiff, conduct the prisoner
to the bar," Judge Douglas ordered.

When this had been done and the jury again sworn, Judge
Douglas motioned Moth to proceed.  This he did, after taking
the oath, recounting at length and with great particularity,
the attempt to rob him, and Fox's mishap and final discomfiture
and imprisonment.  When he had finished, Fox, standing
up and declining counsel, turned to the judge, and said:

"What this man says, your honor, is true, save, perhaps,
a propensity natural to him to exaggerate.  I, however, did
not seek to injure him, and at the time he speaks of he was
himself striving to unlawfully kidnap this friendless youth,
except for whom Rathe would now be at liberty and
Mr. Throckmorton a convicted criminal," saying which, Fox
stepped back and put his arm about my neck.  "This does,
not excuse my crime, I know.  I only claim Moth was not
harmed at my hands, either in body or purse.  My former
lawless way of life I have abandoned, as I can prove, though it
was more foolish than harmful.  Folly, your honor, comes
natural to me, crime does not.  I played robber, and thought
I was one, when in fact I was only an ass.  No one here or
elsewhere has ever been harmed by me.  I am no one's
enemy but my own.  Against my manhood and knowledge of
right I sinned, and sinning have paid the penalty by outlawry.
Moth's complaint against me is at best a moral one only.
I regret it, however, and would undo it if I could, but cannot,
though I repent in sackcloth and ashes.  Such are the facts,
your honor and gentlemen.  I do not claim I am what I should
be.  Nor was this man, a self-confessed kidnaper, and that
against the weak and unfriended.  Among my sins, your
honor, I have not such a one to answer for.  I ask you,
gentlemen, to judge between us.  Look in his face and mine, and
say if in your hearts you think him the more honest.  If so,
then convict me; if not, be lenient.  My life is harassed by
him beyond endurance, and I cannot mend until I shake him
off.  The worst I can suffer will be better than the present.
He was not robbed by me, nor did I seek to cripple or kill
him, either of which things I might have done had I wished.
That is all I have to say, your honor, and concluding, I put
myself in your hands, craving forgiveness and mercy of all
men"; saying which, Fox sat down and buried his face in his
hands, overcome by his agitation and shame.

When he was through, and Moth making no move, Judge
Douglas turned to the jury and said:

"You have heard the evidence.  If a crime has been
committed, it is not denied.  You may retire."

This they did in a scramble, but scarcely had the door
closed than it flew open again and they filed out, but not now
with doleful faces, as before.

"Have you reached a verdict?" Judge Douglas asked, not
showing any surprise at their quick return.

"We have, your honor," answered the foreman.

"What is it?"

"We find the prisoner not guilty."

"Mr. Fox, you are at liberty.  The court stands adjourned";
saying which, Judge Douglas arose, and coming forward,
congratulated Fox and Uncle Job in the most kindly manner on
their happy deliverance.  Afterward turning to Moth and
taking his hand, he greeted him with the utmost cordiality,
at which I wondered with open mouth.

When the trials were thus concluded, Uncle Job put his arm
about Fox, the two leaving the room together; but not without
much difficulty, for at every step they were made to stop
and receive the congratulations of those present.  For of all
who were critical and cold before, not one but now vied with his
neighbor in grasping and holding the hands of the two gentlemen
as they passed, giving them at last a mighty cheer as
they disappeared through the door.  Mr. Seymour, staying
behind, collected our friends and saviors, and with Judge
Douglas we all went to the Dragon together, where Uncle Job
and Fox had already arrived.  Here a table was soon spread,
Miss Betty and Constance and Setti and I waiting upon the
guests, and this with such love and throbbing hearts as I am
sure never beat in the breasts of servitors before.

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Of the particulars of the crime for which Uncle Job was
tried, we learned in part later.  It was the sight of the
bottle of chloroform in his room at the Dragon that
suggested the conspiracy to Rathe, a movable panel fixed in the
stairway beside the cot in the office being the means employed
afterward for getting at Uncle Job without entering the place
where he lay asleep.  When these preliminaries had been
arranged, Rathe waited for an opportunity, which he knew,
from Uncle Job's business, would not be long in coming.  Of
the villain Rathe and his previous life we never found out
anything, for among his effects there was no scrap affording
clew to his parentage or country, unless, indeed, a sheet of
paper in his box, on which there was a coat-of-arms, with
the legend "*Superamus eos qui oppugnant aut morimur*," might
have afforded such a clew.





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.. _`THE REUNION`:

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   CHAPTER XLI


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   THE REUNION

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The next day being Christmas, Mr. Seymour gave a dinner
party for twelve, the guests of honor being Miss Betty and
Uncle Job.  Such things were common with the landlord of
the Dragon, and this, too, notwithstanding the marked
disapproval of many good people in Appletop, who looked upon
them as frivolous innovations, and therefore likely to lead to
harm.  Mr. Seymour, however, maintained that the practice
was a good one, and this in the face of all, on the ground that
the custom was old, and one, moreover, he had been used to
in his own country.  It was his habit to celebrate every
notable event with a dinner, in which more or less formality was
observed.  It was this last feature, the outgrowth of Effete
and Worn-out Usages of the Old World, that threatened, it
was believed, to bring our Institutions into Disrepute, if not
Open Ridicule, among the Young and Thoughtless.  As Mr. Seymour
was greatly beloved, however, this displeasure did
not go to the length of any formal protest, but confined itself
to furtive remarks and other expressions more or less open.

Outside these special events, it was also his habit to give
a dinner on all the great days of the year, such as Christmas
and the like, but usually not more than two or three guests
were invited on such occasions.  The dinner now to be given,
however, was intended to surpass all others in the number of
guests, if not in its other appointments, and this because of
the conjunction of notable events it was designed to
commemorate.  Thus, the day being Christmas, it was one of
feasting, and then, too, it was intended to fittingly celebrate
Uncle Job's reëntry into the world.  Moreover, the announcement
of his betrothal to Miss Betty Singleton was here to be
made for the first time.  This last not all the guests knew
about in advance, so that it came to them in the nature of
a happy surprise.  Altogether the dinner was on a great scale
for Appletop, and considering, too, the limited time allowed
for its preparation.  In the new country, however, wild game
of every kind and delicacy was plentiful, and this was made
the chief feature of the occasion.  Other necessary things
more difficult to obtain Mr. Seymour was in the habit of
collecting at his leisure and unknown to the purveyors of the
town.  These supplemented the substantial things I have
mentioned, and in extent and delicacy were such as one would
hardly have believed possible in so remote a country.  It fell
out, therefore, and because every resource was taxed to the
utmost that the event was a notable one, as our host intended
it should be.  This, however, was not by any means trumpeted
abroad lest it should increase the growing Unrest, as I have
said, in respect to such Trivial Matters.

Another thing I may mention that added to the disquiet
with which Mr. Seymour's dinners were viewed was the fact
that Wine was served, although sparingly, it was claimed, by
the more conservative among his friends.  The practice,
however was thought to be Bacchanalian in Its Tendency and
likely to encourage Habits of Intemperance in the Young, and
because of this ought to be Frowned upon by Every One.
These objections I could never understand, because of the
great quantities of whisky and poor liquors of all kinds that
were openly consumed in the country.  This, too, in reckless
disregard of health and the peace of the community, which
latter was often grievously disturbed thereby.  In view of
these complainings, and it may be with some reference to their
effect upon the patronage of the Dragon, such circumspection
was observed by the host as was possible without interfering
with the festivities the dinners were designed to celebrate.

We received the Singletons in a body, every one being glad
to see Miss Betty in such fine color and without trace of tears
or weariness of any kind to cloud her fair face.  Contrary to
her habit, she was now demure—nay, blushing and shy; at
which Constance and I looked at each other in surprise.  This
being the first time I had seen Mr. Singleton since the
happenings on the steamboat, I was greatly interested to know
what kind of a person he was, and in this was pleasantly
surprised.  For he proved to be a man of great good sense and
sprightliness of manner, in which love of his family was plainly
apparent.  This not strangely, for men of correct lives and
most lovable traits, I have since come to know, are often led
astray as he had been.  Usually, too, in such cases it needs
some shock such as he had received to make them conscious
of the outcome that sooner or later overtakes all who give
themselves up unreservedly to play.

Since the great trial, Uncle Job had done nothing but
stand about the common room of the Dragon and receive the
congratulations of the community, now as outspoken in its
good wishes as it was for the moment evasive and cold.  On
the present occasion he bore himself like the fine gentleman
he was, and when he offered Mrs. Singleton his arm to take
her out to dinner I thought there was not a handsomer man
in the world, nor one who made so little of it, either.  In this
belief I was sure others of the company shared, and more
especially Miss Betty, who could hardly keep her eyes off
him, so great was her admiration.  Seated about the table
the faces of all present, and more particularly Uncle Job's
and Miss Betty's, evinced the utmost contentment and happiness,
and such altogether as befitted an occasion so rare in
their lives.  Seeing which, every one smiled their approval
and satisfaction.

When the more serious business of the dinner was over,
Mr. Seymour toasted the bride to be, and with so much
delicacy of manner and expertness of speech that we could not
take our eyes off him for the surprise of it.  What he said was
attended with many happy blushes on the part of Miss Betty,
and afterward by much hilarity on the part of the company,
in which Uncle Job joined, and with such spirit, too, as I had
never seen in him before.  Surely, I thought, you are in great
luck, Miss Betty, to get so fine a man for a husband.  Then
Uncle Job was toasted by Mr. Seymour, and this with such
elaboration of compliment and prolixity of happy discourse
that we thought he would never let go the opportunity to
felicitate the company and Uncle Job on the event we were
celebrating.  This greatly increased the good feeling of all
present, and for a time there was such a bedlam of voices and
clinking of glasses that I tiptoed to the door lest some
inkling of it should come to the ears of the sleeping village.
When quiet had been secured, though this was not possible
for a long time, Mr. Seymour turned to where I sat, with much
solemnity of manner, as if amid all our joy some discordant
note had been struck, saying:

"Having drunk to the health and happiness of our guests
of honor, I desire in the most kindly way to condole with our
young friend and Knight of the Road, Mr. Gilbert Holmes."

At this every one looked up in surprise, not knowing what
he meant, and for a time all conversation ceased, but
Mrs. Singleton, presently regaining her voice, cried out:

"Pray, why should you condole with my young sweetheart,
Mr. Seymour?  What has he done, or what misfortune hangs
over him?  I am sure he looks as happy as any one here."

"That is true, Mrs. Singleton; but the mercenary element
in our nature never shows itself till we have had some experience
of life.  Gilbert is no exception to the rule, and so his
dreams are still undisturbed.  Give him time, Mrs. Singleton,
give him time, and then you will see how his face will furrow
with anxiety and the unhappiness that accompanies a
discontented mind," Mr. Seymour answered, in his grave, stately
way.

"We don't understand at all the drift of what you are
saying, Mr. Seymour," Mrs. Singleton went on.  "Surely we
should all of us be unhappy if a cloud were to come between
Gilbert and the sun, no matter how small it might be."

"What is it, papa?  Don't you see you have put a stop to
all the pleasantry by what you are saying?" Constance spoke
up, and with some irritation of manner, too, I thought.

"It is a serious matter, Doll, and one that calls for sympathy
if not active aid, and in this I know all will agree,"
Mr. Seymour went on, stopping as if the better to engage attention.

"What is it, Henry, if you are at all in earnest," Uncle
Job now spoke up, "that can possibly threaten the happiness
of one I love more than any one on earth, except—"

"Except Miss Betty, of course," Mr. Seymour responded,
quietly.  "There, don't blush, sweet lady.  It was a slip of the
tongue, and excusable, I am sure.  I must believe, however,
from what you say, Job, that you are something of a dissembler,"
Mr. Seymour went on; "for is it a light thing to cut off
a young man without a settled income or hopes of any kind,
as you are preparing to do?  Yesterday Gilbert was an heir,
your expectant heir; now how does it stand?  Gilbert, you
are undone, and by your uncle of all men!"

At this foolish ending there was a roar of laughter, in
which I joined more heartily than any one else, for of the
need of money I then knew nothing.  I therefore cried out
with great cheerfulness:

"I'm glad to give up my prospects to Miss Betty, for I
shouldn't know what to do with money if I had it.  Besides,
the ladies, it is said, are less able to get on without it than
the rest of us."

"There is another fling at women!" Miss Betty cried,
gayly.  "Fie, Gilbert, for you to slur us when you know
I have always admired you next to—to—"

"Out with it, Miss Betty—next to Job, of course.  How
slyly they compliment each other, and properly, too; but it's
a toss-up between Job and Gilbert, don't you think,
Constance?" Mr. Seymour asked, turning to her.

"Yes, I'm sure it is, for I have always admired Mr. Throckmorton
next to—to—Gilbert," Constance replied, with great
pertness, looking at Miss Betty and laughing.

"Well, to straighten it out and make every one happy
again, I propose, Betty, that we make him our joint heir, thus
doubling his prospects," Uncle Job broke in, turning to her.

"I agree to that with all my heart," she cried in response,
"and propose we toast him as such"; and this every one at
once proceeded to do.

"That ought to be satisfactory, but still I very much fear
Gilbert's prospects are in the dumps," Mr. Seymour responded,
with mock gravity.

In this way, and with much similar talk and hilarity, the
evening passed to the great enjoyment of every one present.
Mr. Seymour, mindful of decorum, had named an early hour
for the dinner, so that it was over in time not to shock the
more staid of the community, who were ever of the opinion,
in the infancy of the republic, that respectability and good
hours went hand in hand.





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.. _`AN ADVENTURE`:

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   CHAPTER XLII


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   AN ADVENTURE

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The next day we all met in the Treasure room of the
Dragon, but not altogether by chance I thought, however it
might have appeared at first, for after a little talk about
unimportant things, my future was brought up for discussion
and settlement.  Indeed, it was for this the meeting had
been called, and it would have gone hard with me, I am
convinced, except for Constance and the great tact she
showed.  For it appeared that Uncle Job and Mr. Seymour
were both of the firm opinion that my education could
no longer be neglected, and this being so I must at once
go away to school.  Upon their finally intimating as much, I,
not knowing what to say, turned to Constance and implored
her by a look to come to my aid.  For to leave Appletop
meant our parting, and this I was now in no way inclined to
after having been away from her so long.  Answering my
appeal, the sweet girl went to her father, and placing her arms
about his neck in the most winsome way you can imagine, said:

"Is Gilbert strong enough to do this, papa?  See how pale
he is; and you know he has not been himself since that
dreadful storm.  The trial, too, nearly broke his heart.  You
remember how he cried out, and you yourself were affected.
It's only a little while, too, since he was so ill and we thought
he was going to die.  I should think you'd want him to get
some strength before sending him away.  Surely the school
can wait."

"Why, you little puss, what do you know about Gilbert's
health?" Mr. Seymour answered, returning her caress.  "You
talk as wise as a doctor."

"It doesn't need a doctor to tell, papa, for we all know
what he has gone through.  He never was strong, you know,
and Fox told me only yesterday that they thought he never
would come to that night at the Eagle's Nest"; and Constance
looked at me as if distressed beyond measure at my uncertain
health.

"That was a long time ago, puss."

"No, not a week; and think what he's passed through
before and since!"

"He will be all the better for going.  The change will do
him good," Mr. Seymour answered, toying with her hair.

"Sometime, papa, but not now.  Wait till he is strong.
He can study with me; why not?"

"Oh, fie on you!  But what do you think, Job?" Mr. Seymour
asked after a pause.  "Suppose we leave it until another
day.  There is some sense in what Kit says," he went on,
patting her cheeks.  "Gilbert doesn't look very rugged, and
besides he could not do much before the summer vacation."

"I had not thought of his health," Uncle Job answered,
looking me over as one might a horse he thought of running
for first prize.

"Nor I; but it's as puss says, or a little that way,"
Mr. Seymour answered.

"Well, then, let the matter drop for the present," Uncle
Job responded.  "An education is not worth much if one
breaks down in getting it.  So go and build yourself up,
young man, and we will talk about it again."

Thus happily, through Constance's sweet intervention,
I was granted a further respite, and this more to my liking
than I would have cared to tell, for I was now become greatly
enamored of my liberty, and thought little of books, except
as I might read them when Constance was by.

Being in this way freed from all anxiety, Constance and
I did not lack for ways in which to pass the time agreeably
in each other's company.  If the weather happened to be fair,
we rode or drove; or if there was snow, went coasting on the
bluff back of the town.  The thing, however, most to our
liking, and of which we never tired, was skating.  For this
we went to the river, but later, and best of all, to
Mr. Appletop's in the park across the road from the Dragon.  This
gentleman, now very old and feeble, was the father of the
village, but a mystery to all its people, no one knowing his
history, he having come into the country while it was still
occupied by the Sacs and Foxes.  A wanderer and misanthropist
it was believed, he after a while married an Indian
woman, and then, as if tired of roaming, settled down a little
apart from the tribe in the house he still occupied.  His wife
dying about the time of Black Hawk's war, he remained when
the Indians left, and in this way acquired a title to the land
upon which the town stood.  Being improvident and of careless
habits, he had little by little parted with all his holdings
until now he had scarce anything left save the park wherein
his house stood.  Here he lived without servants or companions
of any kind, if I except a number of dogs he kept about
him, some of which were of good breed, but in the main were
of no account whatever.  Seeing Constance and I skating one
day on a small piece of ice beside the road, he asked us to
come to the lake in his private grounds.  This we did, to our
great delight, and also to his no small pleasure, I must believe,
for he used to sit and watch us and applaud everything
Constance did for hours at a time.

In this manner, and to Constance's and my great happiness
and the complete building up of my health then and for all
time, the winter passed.  In the spring, Uncle Job being
away and having now no partner, he made me his agent
to look after the house he was building in expectation of
his marriage.  This I found greatly to my liking, for in the
work Constance and Miss Betty shared, and together we
conceived many features in connection with the structure not
common to the new country, nor contemplated in the plans
Uncle Job had drawn.  These, it was found, added to the
cost, but he approved every one we proposed, claiming, and
rightly enough, that they would cost less then than if added
at a later period.  After the house was built, much time was
spent in furnishing, trips to Galena and Chicago being thought
necessary in order to make sure we were getting the best of
everything, and not patterns palmed off on our local merchants
by the more fashionable purveyors in the larger towns.

While thus engaged I again suddenly changed my place
of residence and manner of living, and this naturally enough.
For, as might have been expected, my irregular life since
leaving Wild Plum had made me impatient to see something
of the great world outside, and so ready for any change that
suggested itself.  Of such things I often spoke to Constance,
but not altogether to her liking, as I could plainly see by the
expression of her eyes and more often by the tremor of her
lips.  In nothing, however, did the sweet creature array
herself against anything I proposed, for had she done so I would
have given it up, so great was my love for her.  Thus we
talked, at first vaguely, and then more particularly, but without
anything definite, until one day we stood idly watching the
War Eagle as she lay moored at the landing below Appletop,
when suddenly seizing her hand, I cried out:

"Constance, I'm going to get a place on that boat if I can.
It's the very thing we've talked about.  What happiness to
ride up and down the river and see the world, and earn your
own living, too!"

At this outbreak she was so startled she could not speak,
but after a while, turning to me with a sob, said, and
sorrowfully enough:

"You'll not do that, Gilbert, and leave your Uncle Job
and—me!"

"You, Constance—only you!" I answered.  "Uncle Job
has Miss Betty now, and so will not miss me," I answered.

"Oh, but he will!  Please don't think of it any more, Gilbert.
I should never see you again, I know," she answered,
taking hold of my hands.

"Yes, you would, Constance, and often, too, for the boat
is passing here all the time.  When she ties up in the fall,
I will come back, and it'll not be long, either."

"Your uncle will never forgive you, Gilbert.  You are like
a son to him, as you are to papa."

"I know, but I have got to make my way in the world
sometime, and why not now?" I answered.

"Papa and your Uncle Job will help you to do that, and
be glad of the chance."

"I know; but what more can they do than they have?
And if I don't do this, Constance, I'll have to go away to
school soon, and then I'll not see you for a long time, and
maybe never.  What if they should send me to New York, or
thereabouts.  It takes months to go, and I couldn't come
back for years!"

This and much more I said to win her consent, but most
of all the thought that if I went away to school she would see
me no more, at last won her to my way.  So with tears streaming
down her dear face, she put her arms about my neck and
bade me do as I wished.

"There's no one on earth so good and sweet as you, Constance,"
I cried, kissing her.  Then, not waiting to say more,
I ran down to the landing, calling to her to stay where she
was until I returned.

The captain of the War Eagle was on the upper deck, and
reaching the spot where he stood, I looked back to see
Constance, sad and dejected, standing where I had left her.
Much put out now the time had come to proffer my request,
I knew not what to say or do, but presently, as the captain
did not look around, I went up to him and made known my
wish, but without any voice or heart whatever.  To this he
paid no attention any more than as if I had not spoken, but
continued on with the business he had in hand.  Plucking up
courage after a while, I said, and now with more animation:

"Captain, I want to get a berth on your boat, if you
please."

To this he made no reply, any more than in the first
instance, but looking down called angrily to the mate about
some matter that was going wrong; and this makes me think
that I have never known men with such high tempers, or its
semblance, as those who work on the rivers.  For if the
smallest thing goes wrong, they appear to fly into a furious
passion; but no sooner has the occasion passed than you will
see them laughing and talking as if nothing in the world could
disturb the serenity of their tempers.

Angered beyond speaking at the captain's treatment, and
observing Constance watching me, I now went close to him,
and taking hold of his jacket gave it a jerk, calling out, loud
enough to be heard half across the river:

"Captain, I want a place on your boat as cabin-boy."

Upon this he turned about, half in anger, and eying me
a moment, demanded:

"What is that you want, young man?"

Upon this I repeated my request, but now more respectfully,
and hearing me through he answered, pleasantly enough:

"I've no work for you, my son.  You are not strong
enough for a roustabout, nor tall enough to look after the
berths, and besides the darkies attend to such things."

"I only want a place as cabin-boy, sir."

"You are not smart enough for that," he replied, looking
me over.

"If I don't know, I can learn," I answered, seeing my
hopes slipping away.

"You are too slight, my son, that is what I mean.  There,
go away; I have no time to talk to you," and with that he
turned and faced the crew as before.

Rebuffed and discouraged, I stood still, but he taking no
further notice of me, I at last made my way to the lower deck,
and now by the opposite stairs, so as not to be seen from the
shore.  In this way I reached the farther side of the boat,
where I stopped, filled with such disappointment and shame
that I could not find it in my heart to go back to Constance.
While thus waiting, not knowing what to do, a woman
standing by my side gave a cry, and as she did so I heard a splash
and at the same moment the wail of a frightened child.

"Oh, my God, my baby!" she screamed, wringing her
hands and leaning over the water as if about to throw herself
headlong into the stream.  Looking down, the child had
disappeared, but while I gazed it came to the surface a little way
below, and doing so, threw up its hands imploringly as it
again sank beneath the water.  This distressing sight and the
cries of the poor woman were such as would have stirred any
one, and without thinking I threw off my shoes, and running
to the spot where the child had disappeared, plunged into the
stream.  The water being clear, I found the little thing
directly, and supporting it with my arm, brought it to the
surface.  Now, indeed, I was thankful to my dear father for
having one day thrown me headlong into the pool at Wild
Plum, in sport, he said, to make me swim whether I would or
no.  Putting my arm about the child, I lifted it to my
shoulder, and with the other turned about to regain the boat.
This I might easily have done had the water been still, but
the current turning outward with the bend in the river, or
from some other cause, carried me swiftly in the opposite
direction.  Saying some soft words to the child, I soon had
it quieted, for it was in no way the worse for the ducking
that I could see.  Then, on its showing some further
uneasiness, I made as if we were having a lark, whereupon it
laughed, and taking up the water in its hand, dashed it in my
face, crowing with glee, as if it were great sport.  The little
thing's weight was nothing, and I carried it as easily as I
would a riding-whip; but having the use of only one arm
I could make no headway whatever.  As we drifted farther
into the stream the current grew stronger, boiling and
bubbling about us, but without adding much, if any, to the labor
of keeping afloat.  At first I plainly heard the captain giving
orders to man the yawl, but while this was being done, the
father of the child, a poor deck-hand, frenzied with grief,
sprang into the river.  This, foolishly, as it appeared, for he
could not swim a stroke, and so sank where he fell.  Thus he
had first to be rescued, and when the boat at last turned in
my direction I was but a speck on the distant water.  The
exertion of keeping afloat did not in any way tax my strength,
but not knowing the cause of the delay I could not make out
why they were so long in coming to our relief.  Finally, no
boat appearing, I thought they had given us up for lost.  At
this I was greatly discouraged, for I could see no way by
which I could reach the shore unaided, because of the swift
current, which now ran like a mill-race.  While meditating on
what I should do, I looked back, and to my great joy saw the
boat coming toward us.  At this I felt as good as new, and
thus we floated on past the bend in the river, and out of
sight.  This only for a moment, for the boat quickly came
into view again, throwing the spray high on either side, as if
skimming the water like a bird.  Then in a moment they lifted
us aboard, and we were saved, the captain taking off his
jacket and wrapping it about my body, the mate doing the
same for my little companion.  When we were thus tucked
up, and not until then, the captain spoke, but it was no longer
the voice I had heard, but that of a soft-hearted,
compassionate man.

"How do you think you find yourself now, my son?"

"I'm all right, sir," I answered, as indeed I was.

"We should have reached you sooner, but for that fool of
a deck-hand.  I expect you found the water pretty cold?" he
asked, fastening his jacket more securely about my body.

"Not at first, sir, nor enough to hurt.  The little one,
though, looks pinched.  See how blue its lips are," I answered,
no whit the worse for my bath.

Upon this the captain called to the mate to rub the child's
hands and limbs and wrap it up more warmly, but the little
thing was in nowise cast down.  Brought up on the river, it
looked on the water as its home, and this fortunately for me,
for it gave me no trouble whatever, but from the first treated
the whole thing as if it were play.

On our way back the shore was lined with the passengers
and crew of the War Eagle and such of the townspeople as
happened to be about, and among them I saw Constance with
arms outstretched.  At this I stood up in the boat and waved
my hand, calling her name, and this I continued to do, that
she might see I was safe and unharmed.  When finally we
reached the War Eagle, I made my way to where she stood,
and putting my arms about her trembling form, held her,
neither of us speaking.  While we stood thus, the captain
came up, and thinking we were brother and sister, said, out
of compliment to her:

"You ought to be proud of your brother, my little lady!"

"Yes, sir; but he's not my brother," she answered, without
offering to disengage herself from my arms.

"A cousin, or some relative?"

"No, sir."

"Your lover, then?  Well, I like that best.  Yes, yes,
decidedly, that's as it should be.  A few years, and they will
soon pass, and then you will make a fine couple.  Be always
as you are now, though, for it was in that way my wife and I
grew up; and now she is the finest woman in the world.
Come, my son," he went on, "are you the lad that asked me
for work?"

"Yes, sir," I answered.

"I thought so.  Well, I have changed my mind; captains,
you see, can do that as well as other people.  If you don't
know enough to be a cabin boy, you will learn, and of that
I am sure.  So if you still want the place, I shall be mighty
glad to give it to you."

"Thank you," I answered; "I wish you would."

"When do you want to come aboard—to-day or on our
return?  For we shall be pulling out in a few minutes."

"Yes, to-day; and I'll be ready as soon as I can go to
Appletop and back."

"You have plenty of time for that, or if not, we will wait
for you.  Now be off and get some dry clothing.  We will
furnish your uniform, and glad of the chance."

"Thank you, sir; I'll be back in half an hour," I answered,
taking Constance's hand.

"Good by, little lady, and don't worry.  I will take good
care of him, and send him back to you as full of wisdom as
a turtle," the captain called as we hurried away.





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.. _`ON BOARD THE WAR EAGLE`:

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   CHAPTER XLIII


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   ON BOARD THE WAR EAGLE

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Accompanying Constance to her home, I returned with all
haste, to find the War Eagle ready to cast off; and the captain
seeing me come aboard, gave the word, whereupon the boat
backed into the stream.  No sooner had I set foot on deck,
however, than the roustabouts and emigrants flocked about
me as if I were a lord, determined to make a great deal out
of what I had done.  This is always the way, though, and
grows out of the natural amiability of men and the desire they
have to be agreeable.  Among the foremost to welcome me
were the child's father and mother, the latter holding the
little thing high above her head.  Upon perceiving me, it
reached out its hands, and seeing this I took it in my arms,
but more to please its father and mother than anything else.
For, like most men, I have never had any great fancy for
strange children.  The father and mother I could hardly
shake off, and throughout their lives, all too short, they loved
me and never tired of going out of their way to do me some
office of kindness.  Telling them, and truly enough, that if
I had not done what I did, others would, I finally got off, and
so made my way to the captain on the upper deck.  He
received me kindly, and upon my answering that I was ready
to go to work, sent for Mr. Devlin, the third steward, and put
me in his charge.  This gentleman, when stripped of all
superfluity of title, I found to be the head waiter, and nothing
more.  Taking me to his room, he offered me the half of it,
which kindness I gladly accepted.  Here I was fitted out with
my uniform of light shoes, duck trousers, and jacket to match,
a military cap completing the outfit.  Thus arrayed I looked
far more like a dapper young cadet, I thought, than the
country-bred lad I was.

As the day was partly spent, Mr. Devlin told me I need
not go on duty till the next morning, and in the mean time
might look about and acquaint myself with the boat and the
duties I was to perform.  Thanking him, I first of all sought
out those who were to be my companions, and these I found
to be agreeable young fellows, mostly the sons of farmers and
small traders living about the river towns.  They one and all
received me kindly, as did the lower officers, so that I was at
once put at my ease among them.  After that I made a tour
of the War Eagle, and a fine vessel she was, with side-wheels,
and a sharp prow that stuck out like the nose of a fox, and
in a way that seemed to invite other boats to follow.  A band
of gold encircled her side, and at the summit of her flagstaff
an eagle perched as if about to fly.  Another like it, but of
burnished gold, hung suspended between the smokestacks,
and this with outstretched wings and eager neck, as if all its
strength were put forth to keep up with the noble vessel.

Going through the boat, and critically, as one having some
knowledge of these things, I found it far beyond what I had
thought, and such as to fulfill in everyway the captain's pride
of ownership.  The management and practices on board, too,
were also in keeping and orderly, as I soon came to know.
For the captain was a fine business man, and neither drank
nor gambled, nor encouraged such things in others.  This,
every one agreed, was greatly to his honor, considering that
the receipts of the tap-room were wholly dependent upon
such lines of custom, and by his giving way ever so little its
earnings might have been greatly increased.  Being a firm
man, however, he was never led astray by prospect of gain
once he had made up his mind in regard to a thing of this
nature.  He was also strenuous in respect to matters of
conduct in others.  Thus, he would have it that all gaming
should cease promptly at break of day, and this so that the
business of the boat and the comfort of other passengers might
not be interfered with unduly.  If there were exceptions to
the rule, they were infrequent and such as could not properly
be criticised, being called forth by the prominence of the
guests, or for some other equally good reason.  Another thing
he did that was commendable was this: Whenever guests
became incompetent from drink, and so as to scandalize the
management or create disorder, he would insist that they
should abstain from further indulgence for the time being,
and if still incompetent, should go to their rooms.  I could
recite a hundred instances like these, if necessary, to prove
his fine sense and firm determination not to let matters drift
as the captains of some vessels were in the habit of doing, to
the great scandal of the river and its business.

After I had finished the round of the boat, I went to join
Mr. Devlin, and this young gentleman I found stretched in
his bunk, reading Kent's Commentaries, or something like
that.  For it was his ambition, it appeared, to become
a lawyer, and his present duties were only a means thereto.
Notwithstanding this, he easily surpassed every one about
him in the business we had in hand.  For once a guest had
been served, and opportunity afforded Mr. Devlin to get
a look at him, he knew from that time on better than the man
himself what dishes pleased him best.  A passenger had
but to move his lips or raise his eyes, and he was off like
a shot to procure what was wanted.  If we did not happen to
have the thing asked for, which was sometimes the case,
though not often, he was never abrupt or rude in making it
known, as less skillful persons would have been, but tactful,
so that in the end the passenger felt that nothing in the world
could have been more inopportune than his request.  Thus
he kept every one in good humor and taught his subordinates,
by example and otherwise, the science of doing obscure things
well.  Often, too, it fell out that some of us small fry would
get into trouble with a guest, whereupon Mr. Devlin would
be called, and always to the extinguishment of the passenger.
For, while he did not deny that we were in the wrong, he in
the end never failed to bring about our vindication.  This,
however, only to such as he thought were doing their best.
The others he sent ashore with their pack and such small
savings as the clerk had to their credit at the first landing.

Unused to business or any kind of stir, I thought it fine to
be doing something, but strive as I would I could never come
up to the needs of the office.  Of all the things set me to do,
however, I found it hardest to remember the names of the
dishes to be served at dinner and the order in which they
were prescribed.  For we had no written or printed bill of
fare, as was afterward the custom, and as, indeed, some of
the more wastefully managed boats had at the time of which
I speak.  These lapses of memory, so strange and inexcusable,
were a constant source of mortification to me, for none of my
companions had any difficulty in saying off the names glibly
enough.  To overcome this weakness I put forth every effort,
but never with any success to speak of.  Thus, acquainting
myself with the names of the dishes in advance, I would con
them over till I had them at my tongue's end; but when
I approached a guest and sought to repeat them in order, they
vanished from my mind as if I had never heard them.  This
not wholly, but in part, and usually the more important dishes,
such as rare meats and particular pies, held in high esteem by
our customers.  Perhaps if some irate guest had rebuked me,
I might have mended, but no such thing happened.  For
sometimes, when one would face about with kindling eye as
if to say some rude thing, they would turn it off in another
way.  Why, I do not know, unless it might be because of my
heightened color and look of shame.  My companions soon
came to know my failing, and so would stop as they passed to
and fro to set me right, or recite at length the dishes that
were being served.  Because of this I labored the harder to
master the business, but never, as I have said, with any
success.  Truly, I would often say to myself in shame, the
captain was right when he said I was not smart enough for the
business.  No, alas! and never would be.

We had breakfast on the War Eagle at seven, and dinner
at twelve, supper being served at six.  With the first and
last I got on very well, as there were but few dishes and they
easily remembered.  Dinner being an elaborate affair and
made much of by the captain, I could in no way get the hang
of it.  Because of these lapses I mourned much in secret, and
came to look forward to the hour with direful forebodings.
Mr. Devlin, in his great kindness, placed me at the upper
end of the saloon, where the ladies sat, and this, I knew,
because they were less exacting than the men.  Indeed, I was
every day in debt to one or more of these dear creatures for
some act of forbearance or gentle office of kindness in this
connection.  Sometimes, when I blundered more than usual,
I would glance in affright at the captain to see if he noticed
my awkwardness, and doing so would perhaps see a frown on
his face; but when he saw me looking toward him he would
smile in the most amiable way possible and as if greatly pleased
at the deftness I showed in a business so perplexing.  This
forbearance endeared him to me the more, but without in any
way lessening the shame I felt at not being able to do as well
as the others.  Indeed, in the end, it so preyed upon me that
I went to Mr. Devlin and asked to be put in the pantry to
look after the knives and forks.  This he would by no means
do, saying I got along very well, and that no complaint had
ever been made by the captain or any guest.  Encouraged by
this, I redoubled my efforts to please, but without ever being
able to come up to any just expectation of what I was
required to do.

One of my duties, and that which I liked best, was to see
that the pilots were supplied with drinking-water and such
small things as their business required, which the fixedness of
their work did not permit them to look after themselves.
This took me to the wheelhouse, and many times, I am sure,
when there was no excuse for it.  For of all places this was
the best for seeing what was going on, and especially for
watching the river and the country round about.  Had I been
older, I thought, I should have sought to learn the trade of
pilot, for save that of captain, it seemed to me the most
considerable in the world.  To know the channel by day or night
and be able to carry the boat forward and be its master were
things apart and worthy of any man's strivings.

The work of the cabin boys was not hard, nor their hours
long.  We were up at sunrise and off duty at seven in the
evening.  After that we were our own masters; and it was my
habit, if the weather was not too rough, to spend my spare
time on the upper deck or in the pilot-house.  Thus midnight
often found me, and reluctant to go to my room, where
I was always sure to find Devlin poring over his studies.

Of all the things that happened, and they were many,
the most romantic, I thought, was the landing at night for
wood.  Then the torches, placed here and there, lit up the
dark forest and glistening water, making them look for all
the world as if they were alive to what we were doing.  At
such times the patient roustabouts, running back and
forth, amid the cries of the mate, gave to the scene the
air of being a place of punishment, where lost souls were
scourged with blows and curses to do more than lay in the
power of men.  This, I have often thought in my more mature
years, was not far from the real truth, though the necessity
of haste in the business of such carriers makes those in
charge impatient of delay, and so perhaps more prone to lose
their tempers than other men.

Thus the summer and fall passed as the War Eagle went
back and forth between the fair city of St. Louis and the
distant posts on the upper river.  St. Louis was then the most
considerable city in the West, and well worth studying by
those seeing the world.  Because of this I sought in every
way during our visits to increase my knowledge of its affairs;
and thus it fell out that here for the first time I found my way
to the theater one hot night in midsummer.  This not advisedly,
as it turned out, for demanding a ticket at the office, and
the agent being busy over his accounts, answered absently:

"Where?"

Not knowing what he meant, I replied at random:

"Anywhere, if you please."

At this he looked up, and seeing me, cried out with great
promptness and show of gayety:

"Ha, no coat!  From the country.  To the gods with
you"; and straightway handed me a bit of paper and claimed
his quarter.

Not among the gods, but rather with the damned in hell,
I thought, on climbing to my seat, for I could conceive of no
hotter place than that in which I found myself.  Here, too,
I lost what small change I had about me, and this by the help
of a pleasant-spoken young man who sat beside me and was
at pains to point out the fine points of the play, and otherwise
entertain me with stories of the town, in the intervals of the
acts.  This adventure, because of my inexperience, discouraged
me from making further excursions of a like nature, so
that thereafter I was content with such exterior views of the
city as my short stature and the crowded streets would permit.





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.. _`THE STEAMBOAT RACE`:

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   CHAPTER XLIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE STEAMBOAT RACE

.. vspace:: 2

The season, which had been a highly prosperous one for
the War Eagle, at last drew to a close, and when, late in
October, we left St. Louis on our last trip, travel had ceased,
and we were without passengers of any kind save a few
emigrants for Keokuk and the towns thereabouts.  Nor did we
have any freight to speak of, but were promised a load on the
down run, and this it was that had induced the captain to
make the venture so late in the year.  Of the cabin boys only
Devlin and I remained, and like reductions had been made
elsewhere throughout the crew.  Thus lightened of men and
merchandise, our good boat skimmed the water like the
seagull she was.

The War Eagle was the pride of the upper river, excelling
all others in beauty of outline and speed, so that the most
ill-natured did not venture to question her supremacy.  As the
season was closing, however, whispers crept about the landings
that the new boat, the Northern Light, was the better of
the two.  These insinuations our people did not regard, for
if this were so, why did she always leave ahead of us, or lag
behind when we pulled into the stream?  Other signs there
were of fear, too plain not to be seen of all men.  Still the
whispers went on, till at last there had come to be a settled
belief on the part of many that the Northern Light was the
faster boat.  This was mere boasting, it was plain, for now
we were making our last trip without having once heard the
roar of her wheels or the boom of her exhaust alongside the
War Eagle.  Surely there could be no better proof than this,
if proof were needed.  Thus matters stood when one crisp
afternoon, just as the sun was setting, we turned into the
Appletop landing, and this happily, we thought, for there lay
the Northern Light with steam up, as if awaiting our coming.
Pert and trim she was, too, we could not help but own, riding
the water like a wood-duck ready for flight.  Looking her
over from out the corner of his eye, Captain McGonnigle
discharged the little business we had, and taking all the wood
aboard we could carry, signaled the mate to cast off.  This in
such haste, too, that I had scarce time to say good by to
Constance, who, with Setti, had awaited our coming.

As we backed into the stream, the Northern Light preceded
us, and reaching the channel, took the opposite side, and
doing so slowed down her engines.  Surely invitation was
never more plainly or courteously given!  Now at last they
were going to see which was the better boat, and fairly, as
such things should be.  Mounting to the top of the
pilot-house, a thing most unusual with him, Captain McGonnigle
signaled to put on all steam; and even as he gave the order
great clouds of black smoke, changing soon to gray, belched
forth from the towering stacks of the War Eagle.  Nor was
it long before the heightened roar of the exhaust told him
his summons had been effective, and that the Northern Light
would not find us lagging in the race.  Thus in a few moments
we found ourselves in the channel, the Northern Light, with
her wheels slowly turning, awaiting our coming, as if not
desiring advantage of any kind.  Seeing this, Captain
McGonnigle smiled and raised his cap to the other captain in
graceful recognition of his fairness.  With this friendly act,
however, all intercourse between them ceased, for it was not
a question of courtesy now, but of supremacy, in which the
good name of the War Eagle hung trembling in the balance.
Squaring himself and looking forward, Captain McGonnigle
became from this time on lost to everything save the windings
of the channel and the movements of the two boats.  Straightway
as they shot ahead a stillness as of death took possession
of all on board, for in the hearts of the most hopeful there
could not but be a doubt as to which would prove the faster
now that the struggle was fairly on.  As the vessels gained in
speed, the water, already tipped with white-caps, flew high
above their prows, spraying the decks and those who stood
watching as with a falling shower.  Behind, it tossed and
foamed, white and glistening, like an angry cataract, as far as
the eye could see in the gathering night.  High above the
swash of the wheels and the noise of the escaping steam, and
as if in emphasis, the sharp clang of the bells could be plainly
heard as the captains called for sharper fires.  Scarce would
one cease to vibrate than the other would take it up, and this
with angry vehemence, as if the previous summons had been
neglected or only half fulfilled.

Thus the challenge rang back and forth as we stood
watching and listening, doing nothing, nor able to do anything.
In this way night came on, and the stars flared out in
the peaceful sky, but without any one regarding them, or,
indeed, knowing that the day had set.  Now lights began to
blaze forth from the cabins of the struggling boats, and at
every prescribed place, fore and aft, and amidships, the signals
of the river gave forth their warning.  About the furnaces,
red with heat, the glare of the fires threw a lurid light over
the gurgling waters and the toiling stokers as they bent over
their work, stripped to the waist and streaming with sweat.
Till now no gain had been made by either boat; or, if in the
windings of the channel, which the sharp prows followed as
bloodhounds do their quarry, the inner circle, shortening the
distance, gave some advantage, it was quickly lost in the next
turning, where the circle was reversed.  Thus, amid the
cheering, first of one crew and then the other, the boats flew
onward, the water beside their prows sparkling as if the river
were aflame from the friction of the flying vessels.

Increasing her speed by greater skill in firing, or some
cunning device held in reserve for such emergencies, the War
Eagle stretched away as a greyhound will when its prey is
full in view, yet without gaining any advantage, however
small.  Nay, the other presently bringing into play a trick
not before employed, began to forge ahead.  This for no
reason that we could see, until at last, the flash of her fires
lighting up the interior of the vessel, discovered her crew
pouring oil on the fuel, and at intervals flinging great balls
steeped in the liquid substance into the roaring furnaces.  At
the sight Captain McGonnigle threw up his hands, crying out:
"God save us!" as if astonished beyond measure at the
recklessness of the thing.  Regaining himself after a moment, his
brow darkened, and bending over he ordered the engineer to
push the fires as the other was doing.  With his speaking,
and as if action had only awaited his command, the War Eagle
responded to the added force, and so regained after a while
the few feet it had lost.  Now great flames burst from the
tops of the heated smokestacks, rising high in the air, and
falling, left streams of fire to slowly sink into the glistening
river far behind.  Such flames, indeed, we had seen bursting
from the Northern Light, but, simple-minded, we ascribed
them to their greater skill in firing.  In this way the War
Eagle plowed her way through the darkness, passing one after
another the little towns at which we had thought to stop,
but now giving them no attention whatever.  Making no gain,
Captain McGonnigle at last looked about as if to discover
some way by which he might increase the speed of his vessel,
but without result.  Seeing this, I approached him, and
plucking his sleeve, cried at the top of my voice, so as to
make myself heard:

"Wouldn't it help the boat, sir, if we lifted the yawl that's
dragging at the stern?"

This weight he seemed not to have thought of, and was
on the point of directing me to have the boat hoisted, when,
reflecting, he shook his head, saying:

"Go and see if their boat is dragging, and if it is, leave
ours."

This practice will seem strange to you, but at the time of
which I speak was common enough.  The landing-places were
then far apart, you must know, so that it was the custom to
take on passengers or put them ashore at intermediate points;
and to save time in such emergencies, a yawl or light boat was
allowed to drag ready for use, except that the oars were
removed to prevent their being stolen.

Upon receiving the captain's order I hastened to the lower
deck, where I found our yawl dragging in the water, as I have
said.  Turning to the Northern Light, I clearly made out its
boat tied in like manner, and in the stern one of the crew
resting at his ease.  Envying him his seat, and reasoning that
we ought not to enjoy any unfair advantage, as the captain
himself had thought, I slipped into our boat, and untying the
rope, let it run out through the ring that held it, until in this
way I had dropped back a yard or more.  Thus master of the
situation, I could at will come close under the deck of the
War Eagle or remain away, as I might wish.  Reclining in
the stern of the boat, wearied with the excitement of the
evening, I was soothed and rested by the swash of the water as it
tossed the light craft in which I lay this way and that.  Yet
without in any way losing interest in the race, for now a new
view presented itself, and this more picturesque, I thought,
than the other.  Above my head clouds of fire and escaping
steam flew across the reddened sky, while about me the air
was filled with spray, which, falling on my upturned face,
wet it as with a refreshing dew.  Before me the War Eagle
groaned and creaked, and a little way off the other vessel,
not less strenuous, put forth her every effort to gain some
slight advantage, but unsuccessfully, as one could plainly see.

After a while, beginning to tire, as we will of every form of
excess, I was meditating a return to the War Eagle, when
flames, higher and fiercer than before, burst from her stacks,
lighting up the heavens with a deeper and wider glow.  Thinking
some new device was being tried, I sat still, and doing so,
felt the increased power of the boat, and this as if she had
before been held by some restraining hand.  Seeing how it
was, our crew raised a cheer, but alas!  For as our stern
tipped the prow of the Northern Light and victory seemed
clearly ours, there came a sickening roar, all too plain, from
the hull of the War Eagle.  With the sound, and sooner than
I can tell, the sky was aflame with fire and steam, and about
me, and on my body and upturned face, particles of wood and
iron fell in showers, as if dropped from heaven.  Following
the sound, and without any interlude whatever, the flying
vessel, her body burst asunder, began to settle in the boiling
water.  Seeing this, and aroused by the sight, I sprang to my
feet, and letting go the rope, the fierce current quickly
drew it through the ring, and I was freed from the sinking boat.

Now I bethought me to aid the others, but alas! on looking
about, there was not so much as a stick by which to hold or
guide the craft in which I stood.  In this way, and in agony
of grief, and crying out at the top of my voice, I floated away
into the gathering darkness as the War Eagle sank beneath
the troubled waters.  This, as I say, without being able to so
much as lift a hand to help my friends.  Not so those on board
the Northern Light, for immediately the explosion occurred
she reversed her engines, and in a moment her boats were
dancing on the water and hastening, amid the cries of her
crew, to the aid of our stricken people.  This much I saw,
but only partly and from afar off, so quickly did the current
carry me away and out of sight.  Standing up and straining
my eyes to the utmost, the lights one by one faded out, until I
was alone and helpless on the silent river; but of this I
neither thought nor cared, for my heart was filled to bursting
at the unhappy fate of my late companions.  Gladly in my
grief would I have stayed to share their death, but instead I
was each moment being carried farther away, helpless as
driftwood to aid either them or myself.  Thus I stood for
hours, looking back and mourning till the night was far spent
and the moon arose over the distant hills of Illinois.  At this,
and in a measure soothed by the sight, I know not why, I
threw myself down in the bottom of the boat, and so, after
a while, fell into a troubled sleep.

Awakening at dawn, I stood up and scanned the shore on
either side to see if I could make out some familiar object.
In vain, however; and thus an hour or more passed without
my seeing any one or being able to tell my whereabouts.
Despondent and chilled by the sharp air, I began to search
the boat anew, to see if I could not devise some way to reach
the shore.  While thus busied a voice hailed me, and looking
up I was gladdened by finding myself abreast of Mr. Hayward's
ferry, where Constance and I had passed so many
happy days.  Calling to Mr. Hayward—for it was he—to
come to my aid, he loosened the skiff that lay fastened at
hand, and pushing into the stream, soon neared the spot where
I lay drifting with the current.

"Hello, Gilbert; is that you?" he cried, in surprise, on
discovering who it was.

"Yes, sir."

"What's the matter?  Where do you come from?" he asked,
resting on his oars as if too much astonished to proceed.

"From the War Eagle, sir."

"Why in this shape?" he exclaimed.

"It's all that's left of her, I fear."

"All that's left of her!  Why, what do you mean?"

"She blew up last night."

"God bless us! blew up! and the passengers and crew?"

"There were no passengers, but about the crew, oh, Lord!
I don't know," I answered, sorrow-stricken.

"How did you get off?" he asked, after a while.

"I was dragging at the stern."

"Well, that was lucky, anyway."

"Yes, I suppose so," I answered, not elated as I should
have been over my escape, so great was my sorrow for those
who were lost.

"What was the matter?  Were you racing?"

"Well, there was a boat alongside of us."

"That's it," he answered, his temper rising, as men's will
sometimes after a great shock; "our river men will never
learn anything, and now this new accident!"

"Yes, sir; but it couldn't be helped.  No one was to
blame."

"No, of course not.  It was Providence," he answered.
"That is where we lay the blame for all the foolish things
we do.  What a spinal column Providence must have," he
went on, "to carry so great a burden!  But while we are talking,
the current is taking us to the gulf"; and starting up, he
soon reached my boat, and fastening it to the one he was in,
put forth all his strength, and so brought us quickly to the
landing a few steps from his home.





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.. _`TELLING THE NEWS`:

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   CHAPTER XLV


.. class:: center medium bold

   TELLING THE NEWS

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Hayward was greatly surprised at my coming, and
more so at the terrible accident that had befallen the War
Eagle.  Hastening, I begged a horse of Mr. Hayward, that I
might reach Appletop before news could come to Constance.
While standing at the door of the cabin waiting, I told them
of the mishap and my escape, at all of which they wondered.
When I was ready to mount, Mr. Hayward asked me what I
intended to do after seeing my friends.

"Bring your horse back and thank you for your kindness,"
I answered, not attaching any other meaning to what he said.

"Where will you make your home, I mean?  What will you
do, if I may ask?" he replied.

"I don't know, but I suppose Uncle Job will want to send
me off to school, as he talked before," I answered, thinking of
it now for the first time.

"That would be greatly to your advantage," Mrs. Hayward
exclaimed, pleased at the idea.

"Yes, I suppose so; but I don't fancy it now any more
than I did at first."

"Why not?" Mr. Hayward asked, surprised.

"Because I don't want to leave Appletop," I answered,
looking toward Mrs. Hayward, who knew of my love for
Constance.

"Yet you have been away all summer," he replied.

"I know, but I could come back when I wanted to, and so
it was not like being away."

"That made a difference, to be sure; but you will go if he
wants you to?"

"No; it's too much to ask," I answered, making up my mind.

"I think you will do wrong to refuse," he replied, after
a while; "but if you don't go, how would you like to come
and live with us?  I need some one to help me, and I think
we would get along finely together.  Helen, I am sure, would
be glad to have you," he added, turning to his young wife.

"Indeed I should," she responded, and as if meaning what
she said.

"Thank you," I replied; "it would be just what I'd like,
if it could be brought about."

"I could help you with your books, too, if you would let
me," she went on, pleasantly; "I taught school, you know,
before I married Mr. Hayward, and liked it very much.  So
that if you wish to come and live with us, I should be glad to
direct your studies, and could find the time, I am sure."

"Nothing in the world would be so good as that, Gilbert,
for you will never find another such teacher," Mr. Hayward
exclaimed, glancing at his wife with admiration and love.

"I know it, and it would exactly suit me to live here,
too," I answered, looking toward the great river and the
forest that bordered its shores.

"Well, suppose you speak to Mr. Throckmorton about it,
if you are of the same mind after thinking it over,"
Mr. Hayward replied.

"That I will," I answered, mounting my horse.

Bidding them good by, I soon reached the Dragon, where
I found Constance in the little garden beside the Dragon, busy
over her plants.  Hearing me approach, she looked up, and
seeing who it was, gave a cry of joy.

"Gilbert!"

"Yes," I cried, slipping to the ground and running to
her; "I'm back again, and well, you see, and as the captain
promised."

"Oh, Gilbert, you are always surprising us in this way,"
she answered, holding my hands and scanning my face to
make sure I was not deceiving her.

"Yes; and I hope you are glad to see me?"

"You know I am, though I was not expecting you so
soon."

"You see I couldn't stay away from you any longer,
Constance.  I've been away too long already," I answered,
kissing her hand.

"Have you left the boat?  And what are you doing with
Mr. Hayward's horse?" she asked, in surprise, noticing the
animal now for the first time.

"I've just come from the Haywards."

"How can that be, when you went up the river last night?"

"Our boat met with an accident, and so I dropped down
to the Haywards before landing."

"An accident!  What was it?"

"A serious thing," I answered; "and that's why I wanted
to be the first to tell you."

Well it was, too, that I made such haste, for, while I was
yet telling her what had happened, a messenger came up from
the river, with a crowd of people following, calling out that the
War Eagle was blown up and all on board drowned.  Stopping
him, I asked if it were true that all were lost, and replying he
said not one was saved.  This was so much worse than I had
thought that I cried out in anguish at hearing it; but so it
was.  Not one saved—Captain McGonnigle! and Devlin! and
the pilots!  The poor roustabouts, too, so patient and striving!
All gone! every one cut off, and without time to breathe
a prayer!  It was too terrible to think of, and sinking down
on the ground I covered my face with my hands.  Alas! poor
captain, I mourned, you have sent me home as you promised,
but you yourself will never go back to the wife you have cherished
so long and tenderly.  Devlin! and is this the end of all
your ambition and cleverness!  It is too much!  And the dear
pilots! the wise men up aloft!  Surely, never before have you
traversed a course so dreary or steered a sea so black!  Thus
sorrowing, Constance put her arm about me and led me into
the Dragon; but there was no longer any sunlight or pleasure
in life for me, for my heart was full to bursting over the
terrible fate that had befallen my friends.





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.. _`THE AMERICANS`:

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   CHAPTER XLVI


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   THE AMERICANS

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Uncle Job, who had been married to Miss Betty while I
was away seeing the world, now lived in great comfort and
peace of mind in the new house I had helped build and furnish
before my departure.  At first neither he nor Aunt Betty
would listen to my going to the Haywards, but after a few
days, and much to my surprise, they consented.  What led
them to change their minds I never knew, unless it might
have been something Mr. Seymour may have said.  For I had
told Constance that I thought Mrs. Hayward the best teacher
I could have, and that if I did not go there I would not go
anywhere.  However that may be, I was permitted to do as I
liked, and I bless the day that it was so, and the happy
chance that thus brought my wayward mind within the
influence of Mrs. Hayward's sweet will and gentle presence.

The Haywards, with whom I now went to live, belonged
to that fine-tempered class that have made our country
what it is.  Peasants in position and fortune, they
possessed the instincts of rulers and the fortitude that only
the noble in body and mind have.  Poor, they endured its
privations with fortitude, awaiting better fortune with
sobriety and patience.  If, in the end, their efforts should be
crowned with success, they would still retain the generous
impulses of their former station, or if this was not to be, their
children, less burdened, would achieve the greatness they had
failed to grasp.  It is among this class, in our free land, that
the virtues of the state lie dormant, awaiting warmth and the
favoring shower, as all who are acquainted with our people
know.  Struggling on, vainly more often than otherwise, their
children, coming to manhood, rule our country and direct its
commerce.  Achieving a just ambition in this way, none can
excel them the world over in greatness or the gentle arts of
husbandry.  Nor this alone if we would be truthful.  For not all
are great, but shoulder to shoulder and crowding, demagogues
abound, the like of which has not been seen since the days of
Athens.  This has been foretold, I know; but who can greatly
object if amid so much golden grain some tares appear?
Even these depraved creatures have their pride in the Great
Republic, sweetened with the belief that they, too, will become
honest men like their neighbors, once they have garnered all
the loosely guarded resources of the state.  Importunate, they
abuse our trust, I know, but impartially.  For if they rob and
delude you to-day, they will deal unfairly with others to-morrow
for your benefit, if thereby they can gain further lease of
life.  So it goes; and shall we complain too bitterly if,
good-naturedly permitting every one to thrust his hands into the
kneading-trough, many are unclean and much of the bread
in consequence shall be sour and unfit for use?

Of Mrs. Hayward I can never say enough, for she was to
me in all things a tender mother and loving friend.  Of her
virtues there was no end, and of these not the least were her
gentle womanly ways.  In the rude hut where she lived she
was yet a queen, and this by right of her grace and the sweet
serenity of her nature.  Beautiful, the meed of admiration
was hers, albeit her only mirror was the placid waters of the
great river.  Educated, who could deny her admiration,
though her only book was her Bible?  For such deprivations
are ever the distress of poverty and life in a new country.
Full of the buoyancy and joy of living, the fragrance of her
presence was a benediction, lifting all about her into a world
of virtue and peace.  Of loving and pure mind, the scandal
and distraught of life passed her by, leaving no taint of evil
or cloud in her trustful heart.  Exalted above men by right
of her inability to do wrong, she yet believed in their
goodness as she did in the goodness of God.  Such was the dear
lady with whom I now came to live, and who gave each day
some portion of her time to the betterment of my head and
heart.  Thus instructed, I spent several years of my life, and
to my great advantage then and now.

Of Mr. Hayward, what shall I say that you may see him
as I do, looking back, and not too clearly, through the
fast-gathering years of a long life?  A man of talent and ambition,
and every way kindly, he yet lost something each day in
comparison with her.  This not strange, for the pliant reed,
bending before the sweeping torrent, recovers its poise unhurt,
while the stouter plant, struggling against the swift-running
stream, is uprooted or broken in the effort.  Amid the rude
surroundings in which he sought preferment, and where none
might wholly succeed, every encounter left some dent or
disfiguring scar.  The struggle and its hopelessness seamed his
face and clouded his brow, despite his courage, so that all
too soon he lost the glow and ambient fire of his youthful
days.  Diversion would have prevented this, and preserved
till death impulses that lost in warmth for lack of nourishment;
but this, unhappily, is ever the misfortune of obscure
or lonely life.  For of vices he had not one, save a too great
ambition to get on in the narrow world in which he lived.
Amid great surroundings he would have been great.  As it
was, striving to accomplish much with little, not one of his
ventures enriched him, while many failed altogether.
Unconquerable, however, he struggled on undismayed, as such men
will, to the very end.  This, sorrow over it as we may, is,
unhappily, ever the beginnings of men as it is of the affairs
with which they deal.

Of these friends of my youth I can never think except with
bowed head and throbbing heart.  One sought to teach me
the beauty and sweetness of life, mixing with her instruction
the gentle thoughts that animate women and make them, as
has been said, the inspiration of men and the Mother of God.
The other taught me more simple and practical things, but
not the less necessary, on that account, to our welfare and
happiness here and hereafter.





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.. _`MAKING THE MOST OF THINGS`:

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   CHAPTER XLVII


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   MAKING THE MOST OF THINGS

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Mr. Hayward in his youth, so it was said, had looked
forward to a professorship or something of that nature, but
coming to the West when a young man, and there being no call
for anything of the kind, he had ended by becoming a
ferry-man and small farmer.  Of his business I knew little, but my
presence affording him some leisure, it was not long before
he began to extend his affairs, and in directions not before
thought of, or at best only vaguely.  In this his energy and
fertility of mind never ceased to be a matter of wonder and
instruction to me, and never will.

"Learn something every day, Gilbert," he would say, "if
it is only the fraction of an idea.  You can't make headway
else, for it is as necessary to fertilize the mind as it is a
cabbage-patch.  If you don't thus burnish your wares, they will
rust, for there is no standing still.  Besides, new ideas are
needed to encourage you to keep on in what you are doing,
to say nothing of attempting other things."

"How can one learn anything here?" I asked one day,
looking about on the still landscape.

"In many ways.  You see, you hear, you think; and while
the people who use the ferry don't impart much knowledge,
the Lord knows it is what their idle chatter suggests that is
valuable."  And truth to tell, he never failed himself to profit
by the advice he gave; for however small the hint conveyed
in what he heard or saw, it was enough to set his mind in
motion, and so bring forth fruit of some kind.[\*]

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.. class:: small

[\*] Gilbert Holmes, on reviewing this chapter of his life,
thought it should be omitted.
It was apparent, however, that he was influenced
in this by the fear that it would in
some way reflect on his dear friend Hayward.
I could not share in this opinion, believing
it greatly to the latter's honor, and for this reason
have disregarded his expressions
in the matter, feeling that Mr. Hayward was beyond
most men, and what he did and
said worthy of regard.  Moreover,
it serves to make us better acquainted with Gilbert
Holmes himself, and his sweet charity and gentle
ways and belief and trust in those
about him: and for these reasons, if for no others,
I have thought it should not be
omitted.—THE AUTHOR.

.. vspace:: 2

As the ferry was not much used, Mr. Hayward early
conceived the idea that other things might be sandwiched in to
occupy our spare time.  For of idleness he was the sworn
enemy, and because of it rainy days and other unprofitable
moments fretted him beyond endurance.  Rest, as most
people understand it, he looked upon as idleness.

"You can rest best by changing from one kind of work to
another," he would insist, "not by whittling a stick or going
to the circus."

It was in pursuance of such ideas that we hit upon the
scheme of manufacturing shingles in the intervals of our other
duties, and this to our great advantage, as it appeared.

"People must have roofs over their heads, and many have
none, or at best only poor ones," he explained.  "They
need shingles for this, and their manufacture will open a new
field for us, and one that will dovetail with our work at the
ferry."

For him to conceive an idea was to put it in execution, and
so we at once set out to build a machine, and this so near the
landing that both industries could be carried on at the same
time.  The blocks for making the shingles we cut in winter
and brought to the mill when other work was not pressing,
and in order that bad weather might not hinder us we inclosed
the machine in a rough shed.  At one side we built a vat, and
filling this with blocks of the needed length, we let in the water,
and now starting a brisk fire in the furnace, the steam and
heated water soon softened the material ready for cutting.
I being the smaller of the two, and yet sufficient, held the
blocks while Mr. Hayward worked the lever by which the
knife was raised and lowered.  Black walnut being plentiful,
we used it, but sparingly, exacting a higher price.  Being
tenacious of fiber, the labor of cutting this wood was great,
and so taxed Mr. Hayward's muscles that they sometimes
fairly snapped under the strain.  With cottonwood, of which
there was no end, it was different; for if steamed to a proper
consistency, you could cut it as you would clip a sausage.
Of the two kinds of shingles our preference inclined strongly
to cottonwood; on Mr. Hayward's part because the labor was
less, and on mine because it did not discolor my hands, black
walnut staining them so that they were of every shade from
light brown to a deep black.  This mortified me at first, but
afterward, Constance not speaking of it or appearing to notice
anything unusual, I became more reconciled to the disfigurement.
Indeed, the dear girl regarded it so little that when
visiting us at the mill, if I happened to be packing the shingles,
she would sit by my side and pass them to me, one by one,
for an hour at a time.  Or, if I was holding the blocks in the
machine, she would seat herself in my place, and do the work,
or make pretense of doing it.  At such times I watched her
from the platform where I stood, and this not always
discreetly; for one day, when observing her instead of attending
to the business in hand, I came near to losing my arm under
the great knife.  After that I determined to be more
circumspect, but nevertheless took many desperate chances that
I might speak to her or gaze upon her dear form while
occupied with my work.

Of the two kinds of shingles, buyers were averse to
cottonwood, on the ground that it would warp and, being soft,
the more quickly decay.  Neither of these things, however,
would Mr. Hayward fully admit.

"If properly seasoned, as in our case, and cut with reference
to the grain, and afterward laid with sufficient lap and
due regard to security of joints, a cottonwood shingle will
afford protection that any man may be proud of—for the
price," he would say, and truly enough.

Of the prevailing belief that pine made the most serviceable
shingle, he professed to think lightly.

"You must not overlook the great difference in cost
between cottonwood and pine," he would say to customers;
"that is always an important item with poor people.  Black
walnut is superior in wearing qualities, and we furnish it when
wanted; but if utility and cheapness are considered,
cottonwood is preferable to all others."

Of the outcome of our sales I do not so well remember,
but in new communities, where everything is being tried,
buyers do not treasure malice, as they do in older societies,
against a seller if they happen not to get the very best.

"Only idle men and fools can spare time to think of their
grievances," Mr. Hayward was in the habit of saying, and
indeed he carried this out in his own life when he got the
worst end of a bargain, as he often did.  Moreover, if we had
a margin of advantage in the sale of our shingles, it was offset
by the difficulty we had in collecting our money afterward.

"Most men are like children," Mr. Hayward used to
remark, when looking over our list of bad debts; "they will
buy anything if too much stress is not laid on payment, and this
last one cannot do if his goods are in discredit, as in our case."

Of the latitude allowed traders in respect to their goods,
he was always tenacious, but never to the extent of taking
undue advantage of any one.

"In ancient times, among trading people," he once
explained, referring to such matters, "gain of every kind was
thought meritorious, no matter how acquired.  In our day it is
different, though we are allowed to put as good a face on
matters as possible, and this holds true of cottonwood shingles as
much as it does of poor calico or sanded sugar.  Our shingles
may curve a little now and then if not properly placed, but
when Jake Kilp says a boy must sit on every shingle to keep
it down, he goes to the other extreme."

"Yes, Klip's a liar," Blott, who was standing by, spoke
up.  "Why, a willin' boy could easily keep down two such
shingles, or three, for that matter, if he was spry."

"Nonsense!" Mr. Hayward answered; "there is nothing
funny about it.  If they will put enough nails in the shingle
it will hold.  It is with shingles as it is with trees; but men
will plant a ten-dollar tree in a five-cent hole, and then blame
the seller if it dies.  There is nothing in such economy, though
plenty of men practice it."

When we were at work, if a team or horseman were to be
sent across the river, Mr. Hayward would go, and that time
might not be frittered away, I occupied myself meanwhile
collecting and packing the loose shingles ready for delivery.
This with great industry, be it said, if Constance and Setti
did not happen to be by; but if they were, little was done, at
which Mr. Hayward would stare on his return, but never in
an angry way.

As the demand for our product was limited, it became
necessary to devise other means of filling up the time, and
accordingly Mr. Hayward hit upon the idea of manufacturing
mattresses, great numbers being required by the people
coming into the new country.  Of hair and things of that sort
generally resorted to by manufacturers we had none, but of
corn-husks great quantities, and of much delicacy and firmness
of texture.  These Mr. Hayward conceived to be especially
fit for making beds—not, indeed, in their raw state, but
manufactured to meet needed conditions.  The machinery we
used for this was simple in the extreme.  Taking pieces of
wire, we heated the ends, and in that condition pressed them
into a board of suitable width and thickness.  The other ends
we sharpened to a point, and thus had a strong comb of
upright wires.  Now taking the husk in our hands, we drew
it across the sharpened prongs, and so split it into myriads
of small threads.  Afterward collecting these, we had the
material for a bed.

"A couch fit for a prince," Mr. Hayward maintained,
"and the equal of the best in durability and restful qualities.
Its healthfulness recommends it, too, because of freedom
from vermin and the small particles noxious to the lungs and
body known to attach themselves to feathers, no matter how
carefully selected and steamed."

Of these beds we manufactured many, and with fair profit
so long as our husks held out.  Afterward, buying in the
market, our gains were lessened, but not perceptibly, as the
material was not thought to have any value to speak of.  The
labor of production, while not great, was exacting in the
extreme, for if by chance the eye wandered ever so little,
your fingers becoming impaled on the sharp needles, ugly
wounds would result.

"Such accidents," Mr. Hayward would say, philosophically,
"teach the necessity of close application in business if
one would avoid mishaps," but Mrs. Hayward, looking upon
them in a less practical way, would often shed tears, as she
busied herself binding up our torn hands.

To further our industry, we also made bolsters and pillows
from husks and a species of lichen, which latter was found in
great abundance in the neighborhood.  Separating this with
care, and afterward heating it, Mr. Hayward maintained that
a pillow thus manufactured was the equal of the best.

"Not only that, but it will be found to possess aromatic
qualities highly curative of influenzas and catarrhal afflictions
prevalent here.  As regards comfort nothing can excel it,
unless it may be the selected feathers of tame geese, and these
being rare and high-priced, none but the rich can afford them."

However, notwithstanding the excellence of our goods,
trade lagged, and this despite all that could be said.

"The trouble is," Mr. Hayward was in the habit of saying,
"a pillow being open to the view of visitors, something plump
and fluffy must be exhibited by every good housewife.
Because of that we must content ourselves with making pillows
for rooms that the critical eyes of neighbors do not reach.
Our mattresses being hid away, people buy them and save
money, but they must have fat pillows made of feathers for
the effect on visitors and other peepers.  Pillows ought not
to be used, anyway," he always maintained, "for they give
people stringy necks, like turkeys; but if used at all, they
should be of moderate thickness, such as we make."

The forms of industry I have enumerated, however productive,
were only a part of Mr. Hayward's means of piecing
out our profit-and-loss account, and among other things a way
of utilizing the forests that lay about our house soon
suggested itself to his practical mind.  There, if it were mild,
our cattle found nourishment to carry them through the
winter, with little of the help other and less provident farmers
were required to furnish.  Protected by the trees, the soft
grasses grew far into the winter, and with the first
disappearance of snow sprung again into luxuriant life.  The cows,
thus fed with little or no expense, afforded us butter and
milk, and a margin for sale; but as this last required some
measure of attention upon the part of Mrs. Hayward, he did
not press it.  For in all things he was very tender of her,
shielding her in every way from the hardships he himself so
unflinchingly faced.  Of this I thought much and gratefully
at the time and in after years, and the more because of his
boundless ambition and great activity of life.

The care of the cattle, pastured in the way I have described,
being a matter apart, was attended to when other business did
not press.  Thus, if at dark they had not come home, I went
in search of them, and in this my knowledge of the woods and
the wiles of these creatures stood me in good stead.  Going
this way and that, and stopping at intervals to listen, no
sound would reach me save those peculiar to the forest at
night.  For of all cunning animals there are none, you must
know, equal in wiliness to the leader of such a herd.  She
comes to know, and this with certainty, that the slightest
movement means discovery, followed by other annoyances
repugnant to her placid nature.  Because of this she will
maintain such steadiness of poise for hours at a time that no
warning note of the bell she carries will disturb the stillness
to mark her presence.  Thus I would often wander about or
sit listening on my horse far into the night, until some unlucky
stroke betrayed her whereabouts.  Because of these visits
my face and hands were much disfigured by the stings of
mosquitoes and other insects; but of the former Mr. Hayward
maintained, and doctors there were who agreed with him, that
it was preventive of malarial ailments, and in other ways of
considerable sanitary benefit to men.  This, I know, is now
disputed, but certain it is that my wanderings never resulted
in any harm to me.  On the contrary, I each day grew more
robust, and so straightened out that at sixteen I had attained
my full height.

Of the many varied diseases then common to the new
country, Mr. Hayward acquired a specific for fever and ague
that was superior to all others then known.  Not only would
it stop the tremor of the chill and the fever that followed,
but killed the disease utterly, so that no trace of it afterward
reappeared.  This, it is well known, quinine will not do; and
it followed that our house came to be much frequented by
those afflicted in the way I speak of.  Indeed, it was no
unusual thing when we arose in the morning to find a motley
crowd, with sallow faces, standing about the door, their teeth
chattering like castanets in the frosty air.  Supplying
ourselves, therefore, with great quantities of the specific, and
selling it at a moderate profit and for cash, when we could, we
derived much gain and the community a great and lasting
benefit.  For in this thing Mr. Hayward was admittedly
a benefactor, as he was in many other matters not so
apparent at the time.  If it happened that an applicant was
unable to pay, which was often the case, Mr. Hayward would
refuse to accept anything; and as nearly every one was poor,
Mrs. Hayward would often say:

"Why do you take pay for the medicine, William?  Surely
the cost is not enough to speak of."  But to this he would
always answer:

"They would never touch the stuff if I gave it away,
Helen.  Medicine is like advice; if people have to pay, they
will go miles to get it, even from a knave or fool.  Why not
charge something?  My medicine is better than the doctor's,
and the cost not nearly so much.  Besides, my dear, as I say,
they would not come near us if we gave it away.  It is the
people who set great store on what they have that are most
sought after."

As our little farm had to be tilled, this required horses,
and as the best were high-priced, and we did not have much
money, Mr. Hayward contented himself with such as he could
get at a moderate figure.  It resulted from this, our selection
being limited, that we were often scurvily dealt with by those
having these animals to sell.  Often by patience we could
bring the unruly beast under subjection, but at best only partially;
for of all things in the world a horse is the most difficult
to break of a bad habit.  In this way we came in time to own
a great variety of animals, some of which, notwithstanding
Mr. Hayward's skill as a trader, he found it impossible to
dispose of except at a loss.  One animal of great stature that
we acquired in the way I speak of had a trouble in breathing,
but this we did not discover until too late, some soothing
lotion having been used to deceive us for the moment.
Indeed, so choked would the animal become with undue
exercise that coming suddenly upon a croupy child could not
startle you more.  There were those who maintained that
the Raven, for so Mrs. Hayward named him, was broken in
wind, but this Mr. Hayward would not admit, ascribing the
trouble mainly to irritation of the larynx, such as singers and
public speakers are often afflicted with.  With a moderate
gait, however, the Raven would go from sunrise to sunset
without show of weariness; and of all the horses I have ever known
there was never one with a better disposition.  So true was
this that in the excursions Mrs. Hayward and Constance and
I sometimes took at odd moments and in the way of indulgence,
we always chose the Raven by preference.  Fastening
him beside the pole, he would haul a wagon with ease, and
because of his great docility could be safely left beside the
road or wherever we might wish to stop.  For gossiping and
idling by the way, no horse in the world could equal him.
Indeed, from the manner in which he pricked up his ears,
and a habit he had of changing from one foot to another, we
came in time to think he understood much, if not all, we said.
He must be driven quietly, however, and within limits.  For
if you but urged him beyond this, the women would hurry
from their homes as we passed, to see if by chance some child
had not been stricken with croup or other ailment of the
throat, so loud and hoarse was his croaking.

Of the end of this valuable animal I do not know, for in
an unfortunate hour and through eagerness of trade Mr. Hayward
swapped him for a cholera specific he thought we could
use to advantage.  This trade caused us all much sorrow, for
of the Raven we never heard more.  Of the cholera medicine,
however, we came to know a great deal, for about this
time, the dreadful scourge being prevalent in the neighborhood,
and the people being frightened, every ail that afflicted
them they ascribed to its presence.  In these emergencies
Mr. Hayward had recourse to our specific, and this not
always advisedly; for it was very hot and scalding to the
mouth, so that the lips of those who used it were in a
constant state of irritation, as if they had eaten cranberries or
something of that nature, and this without the use of napkin
or similar device.

From this medicine Mr. Hayward derived great profit; for
coming down shortly with the disease, he would take nothing
else, and happily recovering and the people hearing of it, they
came from far and near to supply themselves with the remedy.
Indeed, the sale of it came nigh to making him rich, had not
losses in other directions about that time offset his gains from
this source.  Being of an experimental turn of mind, he
thought to try the specific on our horses and cattle in cases of
colic, and this with great success, as it turned out, so that
from that time on we were saved the expense of veterinary
surgeons and cow doctors in respect of this particular malady.
When the great merit of the medicine became apparent,
Mr. Hayward told me how he acquired it, and this for my benefit,
I thought.

"The man was not much inclined to dicker, but when
I told him he must give boot, he began to prick up his ears.
Never trade even, Gilbert, though it is only a jackknife.
The bargain looks more attractive to the other if you claim
your goods are worth the most.  I let him do all the talking,
too, for I once heard of a man who grew rich, and all because
he stuttered.  Those with whom he dealt, out of pity, would
talk for both sides, and when they reached a point that made
the trade attractive, the stutterer would close the deal.  Nor
is stuttering so much of an affliction otherwise as people
think.  It is a great pity it is so easy to talk, for in the main
it doesn't amount to anything.  If you are not inclined to
believe me, watch the first two men you see together.  Neither
listens to the other, unless it be a bit of gossip, but each waits
his turn to speak, and not always patiently, either.  Talking
is a disease with many, and results in much harm, and for that
reason it would be better, I think, if it required some effort
to use the voice."

Thus by trade and harmless dicker, such as I have
described, Mr. Hayward added to the earnings of the ferry
and our little farm.  Of the last the soil was rich beyond
belief from the overflow of the river, but in dickering for the
land, this drainage, Mr. Hayward pointed out to the seller,
might lessen its value, because of the baleful effect on the
health of those who worked it.  Having, however, obtained
possession of the farm at a fair price, it turned out different
from what he had thought.

"The overflow," he was in the habit of saying afterward,
"far from proving injurious, is really beneficial in this, that it
purifies and sweetens the earth, which would otherwise become
clogged with malarial germs.  This in addition to greatly
enriching the soil."  Thus his fears, as it often happens in
trade, proved groundless once the bargain was struck and
resultant benefits clearly seen.

This farm Mr. Hayward and I looked after unaided, save
in the middle summer, when possibly some patch of grain was
to be gathered and threshed.  Mostly we cultivated corn, as
being a sure crop, and afterward affording fodder for the cattle
and much choice material for mattresses, as I have explained.
As our work took us some distance from the landing, where
we could not hear the bell on the farther side of the river,
Mrs. Hayward contrived a way out of the difficulty, and very
cunningly, we thought.  To do this, she caused a flagstaff to
be erected near the house, and here, when there was a call
for the ferry, she gave us notice by hoisting a signal.  If
a foot passenger, meaning me, the flag was white; if a team
or horseman, and requiring the big boat and Mr. Hayward's
presence, red was used.  Supplementary to these, she raised
a black flag to tell us it was time for dinner or supper.  Black,
she would say, was most appropriate for this, because of our
great appetites, and indeed we were never lacking in this
respect.  Going to and from the ferry when working in the
field we considered a rest, so that we came in time to look
forward with considerable strife to see which flag, the red or
the white, was raised by the sweet lady, our mistress, at the
house.





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.. _`THE CARRIERS`:

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   CHAPTER XLVIII


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   THE CARRIERS

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At night, when supper was over and Mr. Hayward had
some leisure to look about, he was in the habit of saying that
the man who built his house, whoever he might be, would not
have ruined himself had he made the ceiling a log or two
higher.

"Nor can I see, for the life of me," he would add, as he
surveyed our narrow quarters, "why he cut the logs so short,
when the forest is full of fine timber he could have had for
the taking."

Off the main room, and there was but one, we built
a kitchen, and beside it a sleeping-room.  This was thought
by some of the neighbors to indicate growing pride and
a striving after luxury, though the addition sloped to the
ground so fast that the side next the eaves did not afford
room for one to stand upright.  This inconvenience, however,
we did not much regard, a little stooping now and then
not doing any one harm.  The attic over the main room was
mine, to do with as I pleased, save some small space set apart
for seed-corn and things of that kind in winter.  It was
reached, and deftly enough, by a ladder of stout poles, which
answered the purpose perfectly, and had the great merit,
moreover, of taking up little or no room.  My bed occupied
one corner, and lying outstretched my nose would have
scraped the shingles had it been an inch or two longer.
These shingles were neither black walnut nor cottonwood, as
you may think, but oak clapboards split and shaved in the old
way, before shingles were known in the new country.  If they
did not always keep out the water, it did not enter in any
great quantity, and by using a little calculation one might
avoid it entirely.

The room was greatly to my fancy, and I have never seen
one I liked so well.  If in summer it was sometimes hot,
because of proximity to the roof, air might always be
obtained from the window at the end; and as for light and
ventilation, this and the crevices in the roof afforded all that
any reasonable person could desire.  What was best about it,
though, was its nearness to the wind and rain.  For lying
upon my bed, the patter and swash of the water sounded
directly in my face, and when the wind pushed and crowded
about the house it was not at some far-off place, but in my
very ears.  Such volume and artfulness of sound, too, words
cannot describe, each log and crevice of varying size answering
back some note of its own to pouring rain or driving wind.
Nowhere else, indeed, have I heard, or ever will, such
symphonies; for these things belong to our youth, and come not
in like freshness to the mind or wearied body of more mature
years.

It was the river, however, that attracted me most, for
there was no end to its beauty and variety.  In rain and
sunshine, it made no difference, it kept its way, changing with
every cloud and breath of air, always offering some new and
better view.  Of the ferry, Mr. Hayward, discarding all the
devices of our competitors, adopted in their place a method
better than them all; and in this I will not except the McDuffs,
who made so much of their new-fangled power and patent
steering-gear.  Nothing could be more picturesque, either,
than our device.  For going up the river a little way,
Mr. Hayward attached a stout wire to a great tree that grew on
an island there, and uncoiling the wire, brought it down, and
connected it to a rope fastened to each end of the great boat.
Drawing this rope taut at the prow, the latter pointed up the
stream, and so, loosening the craft from the shore, the
current carried it swiftly to the other side.  Of all
Mr. Hayward's methods for saving labor and cutting down expenses
not one exceeded this, I thought.  To prevent the wire
dragging in the water, it was upheld by buoys, and these always
facing about in the direction the great boat was going, added
to the beauty and animation of the scene.  These devices
were the subject of much ridicule at first, and more especially
on the part of the McDuffs, but on trial, the community
coming to regard them with favor, the subject was not referred
to again.

Of the doings of these McDuffs little that was good could
be said.  Not only were they innovators in respect to the use
of steam, but given, as we proved more than once, to the
cutting of rates and other underhand dealings of a like nature.
Such practices Mr. Hayward despised as unworthy of
common carriers, nor would he be a party to them in any way;
unless, indeed, it might be in the case of a large customer,
but then only sparingly and under close cover, so that there
could be no known excuse save weakness or pure spite for the
cutting of rates on the part of others.  The McDuffs were
also given to misrepresenting distances, to the injury of our
ferry, so far as their stories were believed by the
simple-minded.  In this and other ways they were a constant source
of irritation and injury to trade, and to such a degree that as
a way out Mr. Hayward, with great circumspection of conduct,
finally proposed a trust, or consolidation of the properties.
This project came nigh to happening, too, and indeed
was thought to be as good as done, when word of it somehow
came to the ears of the public.  Upon this the community
flew into a rage, accusing us of monopolistic tendencies and
other and worse things, so that in the end the undertaking
fell through.  In the warfare that was made upon us at this
time, strangely enough the most bitter were those who never
made any use of the ferry to speak of.  This I could not
understand until Mr. Hayward explained it.

"There are a lot of people who lie awake nights watching
and listening lest the public suffer some wrong.  These
guardians, as a rule, never achieve anything themselves, and in
the end are buried at the expense of their friends.  In every
case they are impracticable people, with little or no knowledge
of affairs.  Well meaning enough, they will pull a house down
to straighten the lightning-rod, or destroy a garment to
remove a stain.  The trouble is they lack sense.  With skulls
big enough to hold a squash, they have nothing to fill the
space save surmises and suspicions."

We were always of the firm opinion that the McDuffs had
made known Mr. Hayward's efforts to consolidate the properties,
and this to discredit us with the public, for grievously
we suffered from the falling off of traffic that followed.  This
until, happily, the wife of the mayor of Appletop bringing
forth triplets, and all boys, the mind of the community was
diverted for the moment.  As it would happen, too, an
accident occurring about the same time at the McDuffs', whereby
a passenger lost his life—a thing Mr. Hayward had clearly
foretold—we came again into our share of the business, and
kept it.  Mr. Hayward, however, was ever very sore on the
subject.

"The consolidation was clearly in the interest of the
people," he would say in speaking of it.  "They would have had
only one family to support instead of two, as at present, and
reduction in tolls would surely have followed sooner or later.
Why, except for such things mankind would be eating roots
to-day and living in caves.  Affairs of state have felt this
most of all, for one government answers now where there
were myriads at one time.  Thus England has but one ruler,
where she once had fifty to support, with all their hungry
followers.  There was consolidation for you with a vengeance,
and it has been so with every country on the globe.  So it
will be with many industries.  You may be sure, though, that
not one little despot was ever tumbled from his throne
without the people raising a cry that they were being enslaved."

"Has everything been done that will be in this direction?"
a chance traveler asked one day, hearing what Mr. Hayward
said.

"No; it will go on until each continent has but one
government, and in the end all will be merged."

"Which people will dominate?" the traveler inquired, as
if quizzing him.

"The most vigorous and the wisest.  The nations we
know, however, will all have disappeared ere then, it is
probable.  No one can tell."

Thus Mr. Hayward would go on by the hour when the
subject of interference with natural laws was spoken of, and
nothing could stop him.

Among other things that favored our ferry was a certain
romantic fancy that attached to it.  Thus the little buoys,
skimming the water like ducklings, never failed to attract the
attention and elicit the admiration of those who crossed.  Of
our signaling devices, they were very simple; two strokes of
the bell indicated a horse or wagon, one a foot passenger.
The last fell to me, and because of it, I became in time very
expert in handling the small boat, never failing, as good
fortune would have it, to bring my passenger safely to shore.
Our landing-places, too, were exceedingly picturesque, and
caused the more sentimental no end of foolish talk.  On the
side where we lived hawthorns and elder covered the banks
and edges of the river, and on the other shore two great elms
guarded the approach.  These last were remarkable in their
way, and because of it added considerable to our earnings.
One was of great height and grand to look upon from
a distance, but the other, stopping midway, as if tired of
striving to keep pace with its neighbor, reached out its
limbs in every direction in the most picturesque and pathetic
way, as if inviting alms.  This tree was called the Penitent,
and the other, because of its stateliness and dearth of shade,
the Pharisee.  The trees were given these names at first in
idle fancy by a customer of ours, a devout woman much given
to snuff and gossip; but the cunningness of the fancy tickling
her greatly, she gave it the widest publicity, so that in time
travelers came miles out of their way to view the curiosity
and comment upon it.  Because of this and the good lady's
attendance upon covenant meetings and the like, Mr. Hayward,
who was not lacking in sentiment, reduced her fare
one-half.  This, like most things he did, proved a great stroke
of business in the end, for now she visited Appletop twice as
often as before, and in her journeyings to and fro never tired
of speaking of the beauties of our ferry and its fine location
and good business management.

"A queer woman, that," Mr. Hayward one day remarked
as I came up from the landing after setting her ashore, "and
tending to show that what people think, they will do.  If her
name, now, had been something beside Snuffe, she would
never have thought of using the stuff as she does."

"Why, what has that to do with it?" I asked, not seeing
the connection.

"After she got married, much thinking of the name of
Snuffe, and some worrying about it, she says, caused her to
help herself to a pinch now and then out of pure perversity
of spirit, until in the end she got to like it, so that now she
can scarce finish a prayer without a sly dip into her bag."

"Her husband might have changed his name; he would
not have had to look far for a better one," I answered, to see
what he would say.

"Oh, Snuffe is as good as any, and the family will be
a power in the land some day.  The old man will not eat
anything he can find a market for, and there is no surer way to
get on than that if one has the patience to stick to it."

Constance, who was always in my thoughts, I grew to love
more and more as the years passed, and as Mrs. Hayward had
her much at our house, scarce a day went by without my
seeing her.  When she stayed to supper, which was often the
case, I would take her home; and of these journeyings
I remember every one, and what we said, which was not
much, for we were but little given to speech when in each
other's company.  Her visits clothed our little home with
such a halo of romance and delight, that my heart swells to
this day when I think of it.  For my belief in her knew no
bounds, and, like my love, grew stronger as we grew to be
man and woman.  This not strangely, for at sixteen she was
such perfection of loveliness that there was no joy like that
of being near her, and if I but touched her hand, heaven itself,
I thought, could not convey greater happiness.  Yet, strangely
enough, I could not have told the color of her eyes, if indeed
they were always the same, which I knew they were not.
Nor could I have described her mouth, except that it expressed
such tenderness that its like was never seen before.  Of her
face this I know, that it was oval, but of her complexion, it
was of such delicacy of white and pink that no one could
describe it, nor have conceived anything so perfect.  Her
hair, too, like her eyes, could not be described, but was ever
taking on some different phase or color, so that if you thought
you knew its every shade of loveliness, some new light or
manner of arrangement would add beauties to it not before
dreamed of.  Such, you must know, was Constance, my sweet
love, at the time of which I speak.





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.. _`THE BETROTHAL`:

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   CHAPTER XLIX


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   THE BETROTHAL

.. vspace:: 2

Amid surroundings such as I have described three years
passed, and happily for me, and to my great good then and
for all time.  Indeed, I do not look back to any period of my
life with greater pleasure, for it was filled with Constance and
thoughts of her and nothing else.  My bed, once too long,
was now too short, yet I would not change it in any way.
Lying there, the pattering rain sang of my love, and at night
the sighing and chattering wind lulled me to sleep with
thoughts of her.

Thus I lay one midsummer night, listening to the whir and
beating of a great storm that had come up suddenly from out
the south, after the day had closed.  Above the roar of the
wind and the splash of the water on the roof, I could plainly
hear the wash of the river as it beat on our shore, and this as
if to add to the strength and rhythm of the storm.  If by
chance the wind abated for a moment, the rain fell anew, and
in torrents, as if the deluge were come again.  Then, it in
turn showing some pause, the wind would spring up afresh,
and in such fury that the windows and logs of the house
trembled as if shaken by an earthquake.

While I lay thus listening, not caring to sleep, and in such
comfort of position and delight of mind that movement of any
kind was like pain, there came to me above the tumult of the
tempest, faintly and far off like an echo, the dull boom of the
Penitent's bell.  But that could hardly be, for surely no one
would venture abroad on such a night!  Thinking thus, I lay
still, and in a little while it came again, and plaintively, the
like of which I had never heard before.  There could be no
mistake now; it was the Penitent's bell calling, and nothing
else!  Still I did not move.  The storm was too great, and
no boat could live in it a minute!  Then let the great tree
shelter its guest, for there was no other way.  Turning
uneasily on my bed, the signal came again and stronger,
booming above the swash of the water and the rush of the
wind as if it were the voice of some one crying out in anguish
of body and mind, not far off nor vaguely now, but high and
resounding, as if tolling for the dead or dying.  Frightened,
I sat bolt upright; and soon it came to me again, and with
greater stress of melancholy, if that were possible.  Trembling,
unable to withstand the call longer, I sprang up, and
putting on my garments, quickly found my way to the floor
below.  Those resting there had not heard the summons, and
so leaving them undisturbed, I opened the door and stepped
out into the night.  At this, and as if watching my coming,
the wind, rising to new fury, tossed me here and there so that
I could scarce keep my feet.  Above, there was some glimpse
of light in the leaden sky, but about me only inky darkness
and the circling wind and falling rain.  As I stood clutching
a tree, loath to go on, the boom of the bell came again, and
as if with new import and stress of haste.  No longer
hesitating, I hurried on, listening as I ran; and now, I know not
why, stricken with a chill, as if somehow its tolling meant
harm to me or those I loved.

Reaching the boat, and emptying it of water, I fixed the
oars in their place, and without thought shoved it into the
stream.  At this, the wind and waves taking it up in their
arms as if it were a plaything, hurled it back upon me, and
with such force that I came nigh to being crushed with its
weight.  Awaiting a more favorable moment, I sprang into
the boat, and doing so, pushed it into the boiling water.
Little, however, could I do now that I was afloat and held
the oars, for, enveloped in darkness, the waves flying before
the storm so tossed me about that effort to make headway
was lost in striving to keep afloat.  Then the wind, veering
with the windings of the river or overhanging trees, bewildering
me, I was fain to sit still and wait some clew to guide me.
This the stream would have done, but tossed by the wind, it
lost its force, so that I could not tell which way it ran, if
indeed it had any direction at all.

While thus striving to make headway, the Penitent's
bell came to me across the splashing water, but now at
longer intervals and indistinctly, as if those who rang it
were faint or dying.  Chilled by its stroke, it yet helped
to guide me, so that I struggled on the more hopefully
because of it.  In this way I after a while reached the
middle of the stream, and now I made greater headway;
but going on, the bell grew faint, and then at last ceased
its tolling altogether.  Filled with new fear lest losing its
guidance I should after all go astray, I put forth all my
strength to gain the farther shore.  Of sign of it, however,
or other thing, save the spray of the white-topped waves as
they swept over me and across the boat, there was none.
Nor could I hear any sound save the whir of the wind and the
churning of the waves as they beat against the boat or fell
back into the angry stream.  Going on, with scarce anything
to guide me, I came at last within the shadow of the forest,
feeling which I gave a shout.  For, listening, I could now
plainly hear the water as it beat against the shore, and above
it the roar of the wind as the trees bent beneath its force.
Putting forth all my strength anew, the boat in a moment
grated high on the shelving beach, and I was safe.

Thanking God for my deliverance, I sprang ashore, and
keeping hold, stood still.  Hearing nothing, I called, but to
this there was no response, save the confusion and tumult of
the storm.  Not knowing if I were above or below the
landing, I fastened my boat and hurried forward, and this
fortunately; for I had gone but a little way when I came
upon the beaten road that led from the shore back into
the country.  Springing up the bank, I stood beside the
Penitent, and now for the first time some measure of
fear seized me.  For, save the gurgling water and the
moan of the wind, as if spirits filled the air, no sound
reached my waiting ear.  Listening, I presently called, but
without response or movement of any kind.  Steadying
myself, I stood still, holding the swaying rope, and doing so,
a sigh came to my strained ears, and this from off the ground
at my very feet.  Or was it merely some trick of the storm
and pushing wind?  Groping about, my outstretched hands
came in contact with the face of some one lying prostrate on
the ground, and damp and icy cold, as if life had fled.  Too
agitated to speak, I knelt and lifted the body on my knees,
and doing so, discovered it to be a woman.  Pushing back
the damp hair, I stroked her face and hands, but for a long
time in vain.  This until I was losing hope, when she sighed
again—or was it a sob instead?  Overjoyed, I put my arms
about her and raised her up, crying:

"Cheer up, dear lady; help has come and you are saved!"

Upon this she gave a cry, and lifting her arms they caught
about my neck, but as if life had left her with the effort.

"Oh, God, my sweet love!  Constance!" I cried, half dead
with fright; for it was she I held in my arms, and no one else.
Bereft of my senses, I clasped her to my breast, calling to
her again and again, and entreatingly, and by every pet name
I could think of, but without response of any kind.  This for
a long time, until regaining some presence of mind, I fell to
stroking her hands and face, covering them with kisses as
I worked.  Sighing after a while, she murmured my name,
but with such faintness I thought she was dying.

"Constance, my darling, my sweet love, speak to me!
You must not die now that I have come to save you."

Struggling to regain her strength, she answered, but
oh! so softly:

"How dear of you, Gilbert, to come to me."

"Come to you, Constance; had I known you were here,
the thought would have killed me."

"I expected Mr. Hayward would answer, and you came
instead—and oh, the peril of it!  When I heard your voice
I thought I was dying, my happiness was so great."

"I was never in any danger, Constance.  I heard the bell,
but would not stir.  Then it drew me on in spite of myself,
as if some danger threatened, I knew not what."

"It was I calling, as I stood reaching out across the dark
water; but at last, thinking my summons was not heard,
I knew no more till I found your arms about me."

"I ought to have reached you sooner, sweet love, but the
waves tossed me about so that I thought I should never find
the shore.  Had I known you were lying here, I should have
leaped into the river to reach you sooner."

"How good of you, Gilbert; and you will always come to
me?" she answered, softly.

"Yes, Constance, and you know why.  Because I love
you, love you, love you, dearest, above everything on earth,
and always have and will; and you, Constance, say that you
love me, for this you have never done."

"You know I love you, Gilbert," she answered, after
a while, clinging closer about my neck; "and if you did not
love me as you do, I should not want to live.  I love you
above everything, and you are in my thoughts day and night,
you sweet boy"; and with that she took my face in her hands
and drawing me to her kissed me many times.

"I am always thinking of you, too, dearest, and of what
you do and say, and how you look and what will please you.
Now I can't tell you how happy I am to hear you say you love
me," I cried, covering her face and hair with my kisses,
happy beyond anything I had ever dreamed of.

Thus we plighted our troth beneath the great tree, not
thinking where we were, nor caring for the storm, which now,
indeed, was fast dying away.  Soon, however, and as if
startled out of herself, she sprang up.

"Oh, Gilbert, I can never forgive myself, to have forgotten
what I came for in the happiness of being with you.
Quick—come with me," she cried, saying which, she grasped my
hand and drew me toward the forest.

"Why, what is it, Constance?  I have never thought to
ask what brought you here."

"Nor I to tell you, Gilbert; but yesterday, papa and
I going into the country, and night coming on, we thought to
return by the other ferry; but reaching it, some accident to
the boat prevented our crossing, and so we had to retrace our
steps, and the night and the storm coming on, our horse
strayed from the road, throwing us into the ditch.  When
I found papa he lay like one dead, nor could I bring him to,
and after striving for a long time in vain, I at last thought
to come here for help."

"Oh, you sweet love, to be in such distress and I not
know it!" I cried, lifting her arm and kissing the sleeve of
her dress.

"Yes; but we must make greater haste," she answered,
hurrying forward.

"Is it far?" I asked, that I might hear her sweet voice.

"I don't know; the way seemed long, but I was frightened
and often strayed from the road."

"No one but you would have had such courage, my brave
little wife, for that you will be some day, sweetheart."

To this she made no response save to press my hand as
we hurried on.  Now losing the road in the darkness, and
regaining it only to lose it again, we made so little headway
that I thought we never should reach him we sought.  Going
on, we after a while stopped, affrighted lest we had passed him
in the darkness.  While standing in this way and straining
our ears to catch some sound, we heard the neighing of a horse
a little way ahead.  At this we went on again, and coming to
the spot, were overjoyed to hear Mr. Seymour's voice in
answer to our call.  Hastening to where he lay, we found him
as Constance had said, but now able to speak.  Kneeling and
taking his head in her lap, she stroked his hair and face, and
I, gathering hold of his hands and body, so rubbed and
worked over them that in a little while he was able to move.
Hunting up the robes, I placed them under and about him;
and presently, the day breaking, we were able to do still
better.  In this way, through our aid and by his own efforts,
Mr. Seymour was soon on his feet.  For he was not much hurt,
but the shock being great, had for a long time rendered him
unconscious.

When he was somewhat recovered, I brought the horse,
and stripping off the harness, we put Mr. Seymour on his
back, and in this way, Constance and I walking on either
side, we made our way to the ferry.  Mr. Hayward, who
was already abroad, hearing the Penitent's summons, soon
came to our aid, and great was his surprise at discovering
me and the danger he imagined I had escaped.  For Constance
quickly told him all that had happened, adding many
things that did not amount to anything, so determined was
she to make the most of my adventure.  This greatly disturbed
Mr. Hayward, for in all things he was a very tender-hearted
man indeed.  In proof of this, I must tell you, I have
known him many a time, when worn out with work, to go
a great way to watch at night by the bedside of some poor
person in distress who would not, except for him, have had
any care whatever.  This for many nights together, and
uncomplainingly, and he worn out, as I say.  Nor was he
backward in giving outright when need be, and I have in this way
seen a whole month's gains from the ferry or some Specialty
of ours vanish in a moment.  This I tell you lest you should
mistake his character from what I have said concerning him.
Indeed, I have never known a man so generous or tender of
heart as he.

Hastening to the boat, we quickly reached the opposite
shore, and in a minute were safe in our little home.  Here
Mrs. Hayward taking charge of Constance, soon had her
arrayed in dry garments; and if they were too long and
somewhat too large, it did not matter, for never did woman look
more lovely than the sweet maid as she entered the room.
Indeed, I thought the quaintness of the dress, if anything,
added to her beauty and the gentle modesty of her demeanor.

While Constance was being looked to in the way I say,
Mr. Hayward busied himself with her father, afterward giving
him some bitters with a dash of the cholera mixture, whereupon
Mr. Seymour declared himself as good as new.  Thus
was brought to a happy ending a most eventful night, and
memorable above all others because of Constance's confession
that she loved me.  For there can be no doubt whatever
but that the happiest moment in every man's life is that in
which the woman he loves confesses that she loves him in
return.  All other things, I must believe, are as naught and
not worth mentioning in comparison with this sweet boon.





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.. _`UNDER THE WIDESPREADING HAWTHORNS`:

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   CHAPTER L


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   UNDER THE WIDESPREADING HAWTHORNS

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Some days after, as I was pulling my boat home from the
Iowa shore, thinking of Constance and watching the Penitent
as it reflected its graceful foliage in the dark waters of the
great river, a voice I knew and loved hailed me from the
landing I was fast approaching.  Pretending not to hear, it
called again, and louder than before, and with such sweetness
and cheerfulness of life that it made my heart beat the faster
to hear it.

"Gilbert!  Gilbert!  Gilbert!"

Turning about as if hearing for the first time, I saw
Constance standing in the shade of the hawthorns, holding
something aloft in her hand.

"Hurry up, you lazy boy!  See!  I have a letter for you,"
she cried, waving it above her head and turning about at the
same time as if to go away.

"Wait; don't go; I'll be there in a minute," I called
back.  Then, that I might be near her and not because of the
letter, I lengthened my stroke, and put such strength into my
arms that in a few seconds my boat shot into the soft bank
near which she stood.

Springing ashore, I clasped her in my arms, but not in
a way to shock any one's modesty, for of all the cunning
bowers Nature ever formed for lovers this was the fittest.
Looking out on the great river, but apart, it was a place to seek,
or to make the most of if by chance you met your love there,
as in my case.  Having many things to say, as lovers do, and
will till the world ends, her errand was forgotten; but after
a while recalling it—if that was really the thing that brought
her—she gave me the letter, and together we fell to examining
its superscription and seal, wondering the while who it
was from and what it was all about.  In this way our faces
touched and our hands came in contact and lingered, loath to
part, but not strangely, and as lovers should, you will say.
There was no need of haste, it was plain, and, moreover, the
getting of a letter was a thing to be treated with some
formality.  For, except as Uncle Job or Aunt Betty may have
written me, I had never received such a thing before in all my
life.  The day, too, was one to invite idleness, and of lovers
more especially.  Above our heads great clouds, white as
snow, floated slowly across the broad expanse, and on the
bosom of the majestic river, a ripple here and a calm there,
or maybe a bit of shadow, added to the placid beauty of the
surroundings.  About us soft winds stirred the leaves of the
listening hawthorns, and from out the thicket beyond the road
a thrush, awakened to life by our close proximity, called in
impassioned notes for its absent mate.

Lying outstretched on the yielding turf, I asked Constance
to open the letter, and this that I might the better look upon
her and listen to her sweet voice while she read.  No way
suspecting my reason for asking, the missive presently lay
open in her lap; and in those days, you must know, letters
were not hidden away in wrappers as now, but folded and
sealed and the address inserted in some nook or corner left for
the purpose.  When she had torn the letter apart, we looked
it over, but without deciphering any word till we reached the
end, and there, coming to the name, we were so startled at
what we saw that our heads came together with a bump as
we exclaimed with one voice: "Aunt Jane!"  Yes, Aunt Jane;
for printed matter never was plainer, and this notwithstanding
some tremor of the letters as if they had been put down
with labor, if not with pain.  Astonished, we looked into each
other's faces, for nothing so surprising as this had ever
happened before to either of us.  Glancing above the signature,
our eyes caught the closing words, "With tender love," and
seeing this, I cried out:

"What can it mean, Constance?  Surely something strange
must have happened!  Read what it says, and from the
beginning!"

Smoothing out the paper, she did as I asked, and this is
the sad message the letter contained:

"Dying, my child, I may at last speak out my soul's wish
as it is and has been from the first, concealing nothing nor
adding a word.  My heart is now too weak, too yearning, too
inexpressibly sad, to longer harbor reserve or any mystery of
life.  Sickness and tears and years of tender longing, my
child, for you, my next of kin, have melted it; and now,
coming to the end of my days, I may, all too late, speak as I am,
and was even in the old time when your father and mother
were yet alive.  Of my coldness, oh, believe me! it was never
real, but only a cloak, a shadowy thing put on without thought.
For it had no real substance, but hid my heart, and foolishly,
to my life's undoing.  I have no one but you, my child, and
dying I am alone and forsaken, for only the walls of my house
answer back my call for love and sympathy.  Surely, if I have
sinned through pride and in hiding my heart from you and
those who sleep in their graves, I have suffered and am
punished beyond bearing.  You could have loved me, and your
sweet-faced mother ever sought to win from me some show
of tenderness; but erring, I put off the day of yielding until
it was too late.  Now I am as one abandoned in the world,
for when you come to die only those of your own blood can
respond to your heart's yearnings.  Sweet child, if you can
yet conjure up some shadow of kindness for your poor aunt,
come to her in her sickness and loneliness, that she may press
you to her heart and have you by her when she yields her life
to God.  For believe me, her persecution, as you thought,
was but her love and striving for your welfare, but oh, how
mistakenly conveyed, as all her acts have been from the
beginning.  Then forgive and pity her, sweet one, and hasten
if you would let her see you before she dies."


Tears ran down our faces long ere Constance had finished
reading, for of its truthfulness we had no shadow of doubt.

"Surely, she has been punished, if she has erred,"
Constance at last said, as she took up the letter again.

"Yes; and how I have mistaken her all these years,"
I mourned, for I could not now doubt her love and affection.

"You can't be blamed, Gilbert, for she made no sign,"
Constance answered, as if to comfort me; "but how lonely
her life must have been, and how greatly she has suffered."

"Had I gone to her as I ought, her coldness would have
quickly given place to show of love; and it is I, not she, who
should ask forgiveness," I answered, remembering with shame
the scant respect I had shown her.

"You were not in fault, Gilbert, for she being older and
wiser should have been first to open her arms.  How could
you know her heart?" Constance answered, excusing me, as
she did in all things.

"I wonder if all letters are so full of tears?" I exclaimed,
taking the missive tenderly in my hands.  "But see the date,
and how long it has been in coming!  She will have died,
I know, ere I can reach her!"

"You will go to her, then?" Constance answered.

"Yes, and to-day, if there is a way," I answered, getting
to my feet.

"Oh, you can't go so soon, Gilbert, and on so long a
journey!" Constance answered, putting up her hand as if to
restrain me.

"Why not?  The distance is nothing," I answered, with
some pride.

"See, Gilbert, what is this?" Constance interrupted,
unfolding a paper she had picked up from the ground; "an
order to pay you money, and for five hundred dollars.  Surely,
your aunt means all she says and more!"

Yes, so it was; a fortune, and sent that I might come to
her without loss of time or expense to my friends.

"Oh, aunt, I will come, be sure!" I cried, scarce able to
decipher the paper, so clouded were my eyes with tears.

"You will need it all, Gilbert; it is so far, and you can't
go alone, you know.  Oh, how I wish I were going with
you!" the sweet girl exclaimed, clasping my neck as if no one
could protect me so well as she.

"I wish you were, sweetheart, for I shall be unhappy till
I come back to you," I answered, my heart sinking at the
thought of leaving her.

"You must not feel that way, Gilbert, for you will not be
long away," she answered, tears starting in her eyes.

"I must stay, once I get there; but I will come back, and
often, till that day, you know when," I answered, embracing
her.

Thus it was arranged, and going to the house I showed
Aunt Jane's letter to Mr. and Mrs. Hayward, who were as
much surprised as we had been.  When I told them I thought
I ought to go to her at once, they both assented, as I had
felt sure they would from the first.

"If you think best," I said to Mr. Hayward after we had
talked the matter over, "I will go on to town with Constance,
and if there is a boat, I will go by that, and if not will take
a horse and go across the country."

"Do as you think best; and you are welcome to one of our
horses, if you conclude to go that way," he answered.

For this I thanked him, but declined, for I knew he needed
them in his business, which was now grown somewhat, but
not as much as it ought.

"You will not think of going alone, Gilbert, I hope?"
Mrs. Hayward spoke up, as she helped me to collect the few
things I needed, and this as if she still saw in me the slender
youth she had welcomed with so much kindness years before.

"Why not?  The country is open, and I have but to go
ahead, and in three or four days at the most I will be there."

"He is not going alone," Constance broke in at this.
"The country is full of outlaws and wild beasts.  Think what
happened to him when he came to Appletop!"

"It is not so bad as that now, you know, Constance,"
I answered; "and besides, I shall have money and a horse
if I go overland."

"It has not changed much, and some accident might
happen to you, and then what would you do?  Surely your
Uncle Job or Mr. Fox will go with you, or if not, papa will be
glad to, I know," the sweet child insisted.

Matters being thus arranged, we took leave of Mr. and
Mrs. Hayward, and this on my part with a sad heart.  For in
the years I had made my home with them they had been very
tender and kind to me, and because of it I had grown to love
them, more, indeed, than I thought till the hour of parting
came.

When we reached Appletop we stopped at Uncle Job's on
our way to the Dragon.  Tears filled his eyes as he read and
re-read Aunt Jane's sad letter.

"Poor woman!  You will go to her, Gilbert?" he said at last.

"Yes; and I am glad you think I should," I answered.

"Of course; but when do you think of starting?" he asked.

"To-day if I can get off."

"That is prompt," he answered, as if pleased that I should
respond so quickly to her request.  "How will you make the
journey, do you think?"

"By boat, if there is one, and if not, across the country.
I would like the last best, though."

"There will be no boat till to-morrow night, and then not
surely," he answered, after a moment's thought.

"That is too long to wait, and a good horse will carry me
as soon or sooner than I could go the other way."

"You must not go alone," he replied.  "I would be glad
to go if I could get away, but as I can't, how would Fox do?"

"We had thought of him," Constance spoke up.

"Then you have talked it over?" Uncle Job asked.

"Yes; it is not safe for him to go alone, and that is the
way we happened to speak of it."

"Fox will be a good companion, and more agreeable than
I," Uncle Job answered, pleasantly.

"You know that is not so, uncle," I answered, "for
I should like no one so well as you."

"Well, it is nice of you to say so, anyway; but if you are
to start to-day you must be off, and while you are looking up
Fox I will get the dapple-gray mare in shape for you."

"The mare!" I answered, surprised at the reference.
"Will you let me take her?"

"Yes; and if you will accept the gift, I shall be glad to
give her to you.  I have been intending to do it for a long
time," he answered, smiling.

"I know that, for I have heard him say so before, Gilbert,"
Aunt Betty here interposed, and as if pleased at what her
husband proposed.

"Thank you," I answered; "there is nothing in the world
you could give me that would please me half so much"; for
since the night I rode her to Appletop I thought her the finest
animal in all the world.

Taking leave of Uncle Job and Aunt Betty, Constance and
I started for the Dragon, and on our way ran across Fox, as
good luck would have it.  When we told him about the journey
and our wish that he should go with me, he was delighted
beyond power of speaking, for he had long desired to get
away from Appletop, and only Uncle Job's wish kept him
back.  This because the past had been a bar to his getting
anything worthy of him, nor did it seem possible he could
live it down, though he labored hard to be thought worthy of
men's confidence.  It was plain, too, that he had now begun
to despair of his future, in which we greatly pitied him, for
he was in all things of blameless life and wholly free from
folly of any kind.

"Do you know where you can get a horse?" I asked, when
it had been arranged that he should go.

"Yes, I know a good one I can hire," he answered, and
sorrowfully enough, for it had been a long time since he had
a horse of his own.

"We had better buy one; Aunt Jane has sent me money
enough, and it can't be used in a better way, can it?"

"That would be fine; and have you a horse?" he asked.

"Yes; Uncle Job has given me the gray mare."

"Given her to you!  Well, that's past belief, for she is the
very apple of his eye," he answered, surprised.

While we were thus talking, Blott came up, bustling and
fat and as full of color as an alderman.  He had now been
married a year, and was, moreover, deputy sheriff, an office
he filled with great pride, and acceptably to the public.  When
I told him of our journey, the roving instinct in him showed
itself in the way he straightened up.

"I'd like to go with you," he answered, "for it'll be
a picnic; but business is business, an' the peace of the county's
got to be looked after," he added, with a sly glance at his
wife, a little woman with a firm mouth and big nose, who had
come up while he was speaking.  This little lady was a very
determined woman, and ruled her lord with an iron hand in
all matters relating to temperance and early hours and things
of that sort, but for his good, be it said, and not unkindly.

"We should like to have you go if you could get away,"
I answered, for Blott was fine company.

"It would be great if both Blott and Mr. Fox could go,
Gilbert," Constance spoke up, seeing in this greater safety
for me in fighting off the outlaws and desperadoes with which
she had peopled every lonely place since the night in
Murderer's Hollow.

"He can't, though, Miss Constance," Mrs. Blott broke
in.  "He couldn't be away so long, and besides he might have
a return of the old malady, an' I ain't goin' to risk it."

"There ain't a bit of danger, Sarah," Blott answered,
"for I'm livin' too near the sky to ketch anything but a cold.
Do you know, Gilbert, I can hardly keep my feet on the
ground, an' have to clip my wings every mornin', I'm so
good.  Only Sarah's stricter'n she need be sometimes."

"No, I ain't," Mrs. Blott spoke up, "seein' what
indulgence led you into before."

"You see how I'm treed," Blott answered, looking at me
ruefully.

"One can't be too careful, Blott," Fox answered; "being
out nights and away from the comforts of home is bad for
those inclined to malarial troubles."

"That's no dream; but there ain't no danger in my case,"
Blott answered.

"I don't know about that," Mrs. Blott broke in; "but
we've got the habit broke up, an' it's best to keep it so."

"Don't that frost you, Gilbert!  But she'll have her way,
she'll have her way, an' it's probably the best.  For I don't
mind tellin' you, even if she's by, that she knows more'n any
doctor, an' barrin' a little too much watchfulness, is the best
woman on earth."

"One can see that with half an eye," I answered.

"Yes; an' she's the kind of a woman for a poor man,
knowin' more'n to run into the fence when she gits to the
end of the furrer.  Rose-bushes is all right, Gilbert, in their
place; but they don't make good kindlin' wood, an' when
women ain't brought up to know nothin' 'cept to set 'round
an' make themselves pleasant-like, they shouldn't break the
back of a poor man by marryin' him.  Women is like trees;
sum air only purty; other's air just as purty, an' make good
rails an' firewood, too, when the need comes."

"How is it with men, Blott?" Fox asked, winking at Mrs. Blott.

"Well, I wasn't talkin' 'bout men," he answered; "but
there's many a little woman takin' in washin' to support a hulk
of a man who's too lazy to work."

"You will be sheriff some day, Blott, with such a wife,"
I answered, bowing to the little woman as we started to leave.

"Yes, you can't keep a good man down.  I'm gettin' old,
too, an' only young turkeys is willin' to roost on the lower
limbs.  I'm pipe-layin' for the place, Gilbert; but I mayn't
get it, for the deservin' don't always win, an' if they did
there'd be nothin' left for the others.  It's the compeetin'
of the deservin' with the ondeservin' that makes the world
interestin' to everybody."

Bidding Blott and his wife good by, Constance and I
hurried on to the Dragon, where we found Mr. Seymour, who,
as I expected, joined with the others in thinking I should lose
no time in going to my aunt.

"Come, you can't ride on an empty stomach!" he
exclaimed, after we had talked the matter over, and with that
led the way to the Treasure room, Constance and I following.
Here luncheon was served, and eating it we spent an hour
talking of the past and the future, for none of us could tell
how much my present journey might change my way of life.
Going downstairs at last, we found Uncle Job and Aunt Betty
and Fox awaiting us, the latter mounted on a fine horse and
holding the gray mare, saddled and bridled and looking as
fine as a fiddle.  Much affected by all their kindness, I came
near to breaking down, but putting as good a face on it as
I could, I bade them good by, and mounting my horse we set
off at a gallop.





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.. _`THE MAUVAISE TERRE`:

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   CHAPTER LI


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   THE MAUVAISE TERRE

.. vspace:: 2

The second evening after our departure we were far on
our way, stopping for the night at the hut of a lonely trapper
hid away among the steep inclines that shelter the perverse
and tortuous Kickapoo.  The next morning, getting an early
start, we rode into the little village of Peoria, crossing the
placid Illinois as the morning sun tipped the forest on its
eastern shore.  The fourth night found us, without adventure,
a few miles from Little Sandy, and here, worn out with
our long ride, we put up at a wayside tavern, half hidden by
the overhanging trees.  The next morning, impatient to
complete our journey, we were in the saddle while the east was
as yet scarce tinted with the coming of the summer day.
Riding forward into the great plain, the morning mists hung
white and trembling on the distant horizon, and this as if to
hide the beauties of nature that lay beyond.  Above these
shadowy curtains, serene and far off, the placid heavens, half
disclosed, looked down upon us in gentle salutation.  Going
on, and the day advancing, the soft murmurings and babble
of the prairie filled our ears as with the breath of life.
Nothing indeed was lacking to complete nature's picture; the
hum of insects, the chirruping of birds, the drone of wild bees
gathering their winter stores.  Inimitable throng!  We felt
its presence as we might that of the Great Creator.

"Surely God dwells here!" Fox exclaimed, half aloud,
slowing his horse to a walk.

To this I bowed my head without speaking, feeling, indeed,
that we were in His very presence.

"The prairie has its life and mysteries, Gilbert, great
and unfathomable as the silent sea, and not less grand," Fox
went on, pulling up his horse.

Stopping to contemplate the tranquil scene, the odor of
flowers and fragrant grasses and the smell of the sweet earth
came to our grateful senses on the soft air like a welcome and
benediction.

"It is nature's breath, and with the perfume of all the
ages," Fox exclaimed, removing his hat.

Nor was this all, for round about us, and as if in welcome
of our coming, the birds of the prairie and troops of meadowlarks
in ecstasy of song flitted here and there, or with faces
turned toward us perched swaying from some blossoming
flower.  Along the scarce-beaten path as we went slowly
forward the midgets of the plain, emerging from their
hiding-places, peered at us curiously from out the dew-laden grass,
or sat bolt upright, staring beside their nests.  Beyond these,
in the quiet lakes, white with the morning mists, wild fowl
watched from amid the reeds and round about them muskrats
swam back and forth or sat perched on their housetops
stroking their beards.

"See that old fellow with the pompadour!" Fox exclaimed,
his mood changing; "there! sitting on the roof of his Queen
Anne cottage.  How much he resembles General Jackson!
And I have no doubt will undermine every house in the pond,
as the general has done with our finances, if any one dare
make a face at him."

"What foolish talk," I answered, paying little heed to
what he said.

"No; the muskrat is as serious as Mr. Jackson, and knows
just as much about finance and good government."

"Nonsense, Fox!  General Jackson is a great man,"
I answered, impatiently.

"Yes, in some things; but there never was a man in office
who knew less of its duties."

"Well, he is a fine soldier that you will admit," I answered,
feeling about for some common ground on which we could stand.

"Yes; but all the air in heaven will not be enough to
supply those who will sing his praises in the days to come, not
as a soldier, but as a Statesman, with a great, big, fat,
succulent S.  He is to our liking, though—for if by chance freemen
find a man with a genius for killing people, they straightway
make him President or something of that kind.  Fitness to
the winds, my boy, tra la!  Give me liberty or give me death,
but in any event, something to worship, if it is only a
seven-months' calf."

Not agreeing with Fox in anything he said, and indeed
not knowing much about it one way or the other, I made no
reply, and so the subject dropped.  Stopping farther on to
refresh our animals in the sweet waters of the gentle Mauvaise
Terre, its dainty fish hurrying from their hiding-places, swam
in and out about our horses' feet, as if in greeting of these
new monsters come to visit them in their quiet home.  Beyond,
on the sloping bank, a robin, old and gray, eyed us critically,
and at last, as if seeing enough, gave a croak of warning and
hopped briskly away.  Farther up the steep incline, as if nature
were determined to exhibit all her stores, a covey of quail ran
scurrying across the way, but stopping on the other side, looked
down on us, and curiously, as if having naught to fear.
Abandoning ourselves to the dreamy sweetness of the hour,
there came presently from out the topmost branches of a
towering cottonwood the blackbirds' swelling chorus, rising and
falling on the morning air like an anthem of praise and
thanksgiving, as indeed it was.

"How is that, Gilbert, compared with our Appletop
choir?" Fox asked, shaking his head.

Not answering, I looked away; and far off, beneath an
overhanging oak, a gentle doe, with her young beside her,
stood drinking.  Looking in that direction, Fox spoke again,
but now soberly enough.

"See, Gilbert, in this Garden of Eden we are still thought
to be harmless like the other animals; and to think," he went
on without stopping, "that such a world should be bartered
for an apple with a worm in it!  But hark!" and as he
ceased there came to us, as in farewell and from some far-off
place, the soft cooing of the turtle-dove, sweetest and
saddest of all country sounds and fittest note of its remote and
restful solitudes.  Listening, but without speech, we rode
on, and regretfully, loath to leave a scene so full of beauty and
the fragrant sweetness of life.





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.. _`LIFE AND DEATH`:

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   CHAPTER LII


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   LIFE AND DEATH

.. vspace:: 2

Rousing ourselves as we left the shadows of the Mauvaise
Terre, we put spurs to our horses, and ere the sun was
half-way up the sky, rode into the town of Little Sandy.  This on
a day like that upon which I left it years before, but now how
changed!  The Dragon, once the center of so much stir, stood
forlorn and empty, its sign hanging half obliterated in the
morning air, as if in shame of its abandonment.  About the
town, the houses once so full of life and sprightly gayety were
now for the most part empty and fast falling to pieces for lack
of care.  The busy streets, too, were overgrown with grasses
and sprouting trees, so that the footfall of our horses could
scarce be heard as we rode slowly forward.  No need to tell
the reason of this decay, and that some new place was luring
the people to other homes.

Sorrowing over what I saw, we rode at a walk through the
dying town into the country beyond.  Here, nearing my aunt's
house, we turned into a quiet path, and doing so, came full
upon the lawyer Moth.  He, keeping his horse at a gallop,
raised his hat and saluted us with every show of kindness and
good will as he passed, but without stopping or speech of any
kind.  Returning his salutation, we went on, and now more
soberly, until presently our path brought us to the little
churchyard where my father and mother lay buried.  Here,
giving my horse to Fox, I went forward alone, gathering as
I crossed the intervening space the grasses and wild flowers
my mother had loved when she was yet alive.  Coming presently
to the graves with throbbing heart, I found them not as
I had thought, but covered with sweet verdure and such
profusion of flowers that I could scarce believe my eyes.  Seeing
this, and being overwrought, I burst into a flood of tears, and
throwing myself down upon the ground, rested my face upon
my mother's grave.  Calling to her aloud in agony of grief,
as a child might have done, I repeated again her prayers and
those that she had taught me kneeling at her side.  At last,
quieted in some measure, I yet lay still, and doing so, lived
over my childhood days, tasted its sweet cares and blissful
sorrows, heard again the voices of those I loved, called up anew
their forms and smiling faces.  Thus dreaming and mourning,
I lingered, loath to leave, until the sun was high in the heavens.
Nor would I yet have gone had not Fox come to draw me
away.  Then kneeling and kissing the mounds that covered
the dear forms, I arose and followed him.  Passing Wild Plum,
I did not stay, except to note with throbbing heart that
in everything it was as we had left it.  Here again I saw
Aunt Jane's loving hand, as in the flower-strewn graves, and
seeing it, blessed her for her love and tender care.

With my heart thus stirred with grateful thoughts, we
spurred on to her home, and coming to the gate, there was no
sign of bustle or life of any kind, but such quietness as no one
had ever known in the olden time.  For in those days the
very trees and plants, so it was thought, meditated on the
crops and the prospect of gain; but now how changed!
Standing upright and staring, they seemed without life and as if
awaiting some sad event which they had long foreknown.
Thinking my aunt was dead, and yet believing Moth would
have told me had this been so, I gave my horse to Fox, and
going forward, knocked at the door.  Scarce had I done this,
when it opened, and the servant, knowing me before I spoke,
took my hand, and kissing it, led me through the hall and up
the winding stairs to my aunt's room.  Here, opening the
door, she motioned me to enter, and when I had done so
closed it again and went away without having vouchsafed me
a word.  Gazing about in the dimly lighted room, I presently
made out my aunt propped up in her bed, and intent, as if
breathing a prayer.  Surprised at her worn and altered look,
I neither moved nor spoke.  For of the robust form and
commanding face of other days there lay before me only a shrunken
body, with features worn and wasted so as to be scarce
recognized as hers.  Only the eyes retained something of the old
look, but now lighted as if by some hidden and destructive
fire.  While I stood thus gazing upon her, my mind filled with
sad thoughts, she turned toward the door, and catching sight
of my form, gave a start, and stretching out her arms, cried,
in a frenzy of fear and haste:

"Gilbert!  Gilbert! is it you?  Come, come to me, quick! quick!"

At this I ran to her, and she, clasping my neck, trembling
and sobbing, drew me down upon her bosom.  Thus we lay
in each other's arms, my heart too full for speech and hers
beating against my breast as if it would burst with the strain
put upon it.  When she had somewhat recovered herself, she
did not speak, but murmuring half-articulate words of
endearment, fell to stroking my hair and face as if I were a babe
nursing at her breast.  Having in this way in some measure
satisfied her heart's longing, she took hold of my shoulders,
and holding me off, fell to studying my face, as if she would
read there all that it had to tell and more.  Then softly, and
oh, so differently from other days, she spoke:

"Oh, my child, my sweet one, how it gladdens my tired
heart to see you, and so soon, for I scarce expected you yet,
if indeed you came at all."

"I hope you did not think so badly of me as that, dear
aunt, for I lost not a moment after getting your letter."

"Yes, child, I thought you would come; and it was like your
father to act quickly.  In looks, though, how like you are to
your sweet mother!  Her color and face and eyes and hair!  It
is as if she stood beside me in life, so much do you resemble her."

"I am glad to hear you say that," I answered, kissing her,
pleased beyond everything at the gentle way in which she
spoke of my dear mother.

"Yes, child; and I hope you will be like her in temper and
sweetness of life."

"No one can be that; but what you say makes me very
happy, aunt," I answered, caressing her hand.

"You started right away, then, when you got my letter?"
she asked, toying with my hair.

"Yes, within an hour; but I can never forgive myself for
going away as I did, giving you no chance to speak, and on
my knees, dear aunt, I ask you to forgive me," I answered,
slipping down beside her bed and wetting it with my tears, so
sorrowing was my heart at her forlorn state.

"Don't kneel to me, dear one," she exclaimed, lifting me
up.  "We were all mistaken, you least of all; but my whole
life has been a mistake, and from the very beginning.
Wrapped up in my strivings, I thought not of my acts, nor
heeded how they appeared to others, only knowing that I loved
you all and labored that you might some day be the better for
it.  How mistakenly, though, and oh, how bitterly God has
punished me, till at last my prayer is answered, and He has
led you back to me."

"We were to blame, dear aunt, and should have read your
heart better.  Now how happy my mother must be, can she
but hear your words and know your heart, for all her life long
she wanted to win your love."

"I know it, and she had it above all others on earth; and
yet, oh, God, forgive my pride and wayward moods!  I would
make no sign.  Not even when she was about to die—but of
that, merciful heaven, I did not dream!" she cried in agony,
pressing her hands against her tear-stained face.  Recovering
after a while, she went on, but now more gently: "Tell me,
sweet child, how it is that you who were once so slight, yet
have your height and strength at scarce sixteen?"

"I don't know, dear aunt, unless, as I have heard, all our
people were the same."

"Yes, your father had his growth at your age, and went
about the world as if he were thirty."  Then, as if hastening,
she went on: "I hope your Uncle Job is well and happy.  We
greatly mistook him, and had you stayed with me, as I wanted,
you would perhaps not have been the better for it.  For you
must know that all you have done, and all that has happened
to you, I have known about as well as if I had been with you.
This you will wonder at, but I have followed your wanderings
as if you were my own son.  My estrangement from your
father and mother was all my fault, but I loved them none the
less.  When they died I thought to make some reparation by
the care with which I would watch over your young life, but
this failed, and unhappily, like all else.  Then as I could not
have you with me, I thought to watch over you and be near
should you need my aid—not forcing myself upon you, but
without your knowledge; and so your life since you left Wild
Plum is known to me better than to any one save yourself."

"I never dreamed of that, dear aunt, nor was I worthy of
it!" I answered, greatly affected by what she said.

"Yes, you were; and I have grown to love you better
because of your simple ways.  For believing you were alone
in the world, you yet kept on, not complaining nor going astray
in any serious way."

"I had help in that, dear aunt, of which you do not know,"
I answered, thinking of Constance.

"Yes, the help that comes from companionship with
a gentle and pure heart; from Constance's sympathy and love
for you.  You see, I know all about her and your love for
each other, you dear child.  Yes, even while you were yet at
Wild Plum, and children; and I shall die the happier for it,
Gilbert, for she is worthy of your love though you were
a thousand times better than you are."

"Oh, aunt, how good of you to speak in that way; but you
will not die, for no one of our family, save my father, was ever
stricken down so young."

"I am sorry if it grieves you, dear child, but in a little while,
you cannot dream how soon, I shall be laid beside your sweet
mother.  Put me there, Gilbert, and when you place flowers
on their graves, spare some for me.  It is all I ask, save that
you will remember me as kindly as you can when I am gone."

"Don't talk that way, dear aunt, for you know I will love
you always, and I loved you before I saw you, when I found
the graves covered with flowers, and at Wild Plum, where
everything was as it used to be."

"Did you come that way, child?  It was affectionate of
you, and as it should be.  When I am gone you can do as
I have, if you wish, for I shall leave you enough for that, and
much more to spend as you like."

"Don't speak so, dear aunt, for you are not going to die,"
I answered, melted anew to tears by the sad pathos of her
voice.

"I must speak, and about your future, for I have but
a little time left me.  I shall leave you all I have, my sweet
child, and it is much more than any one dreams of, save Moth.
Of him, too, Gilbert, I want to speak before it is too late.
Everything he did was by my direction, save that his zeal for
me made him sometimes forget what was due to others.  That
was only an excess of virtue, for in all things, great and small,
he has been true to me; and much of my great fortune, and it
is truly great, is due to his advice and never-failing
friendship.  Treasure him when I am gone, sweet one, for no matter
what you have thought, he is a man to trust; pure gold tried
over and over again in the furnace of life.  It was he who
reconciled me, in my heart, to your Uncle Job.  For after the
trial he came and confessed to me, almost on his knees, how
grievously he had been mistaken, and that in all things
Mr. Throckmorton's honor and good intentions were what they
should be.  Thus it has proven; for if you have struggled on
seemingly alone, it was for your good, and has built you up
as I could not have done, nor your uncle, had you looked to
him.  In this he has been wise, as you will see more plainly as
the years pass."

"He would have aided me more than he has had I let
him," I answered, anxious to do him justice.

"I know; and you have been a little headstrong, Gilbert,
but only that you might provide for yourself.  I don't treasure
it against you, for only good has come of it, and I love you all
the more.  Now, Gilbert, let me say a word about other
things, for I have but little strength, and may never be able
to speak to you again.  All my life, as you know, I have
occupied myself with business.  What else could I do?  Had
I married, as I might, and happily, it would have been different.
Determining otherwise, and most unwisely, I set out to
build up our fortune, and for your good, hoping to transmit
our name, not as it is known in this distracted country, but
as it was in another and more peaceful land.  In this I have
succeeded beyond all my hopes, but much of my success has
been due to Moth.  Wild Plum I redeemed, as I could under
your father's deed, and you will treasure it, and keep this
place too, I hope, in remembrance of me.  Beneath these
farms, and underlying all the many thousand acres I leave you,
there lie boundless fields of coal, the worth of which no one
dreams of now.  For in a little while our young state will
have filled with people, and with them will come factories, and
the furnaces of these you will help to feed.  These lands
I leave to you, and other things for your present wants, so
that you may spend all your life and still be rich; but do this
in moderation, Gilbert.  Others will come after you.  Leave
something for them.  Do not be idle, but occupy yourself not
less fully now that you will be rich.  For idleness is like a foul
distemper that destroys the mind and saps the character of
men, leaving only shreds and patches not worth any one's
respect.  Remember always that the greatest of God's gifts
is the opportunity to occupy our minds and bodies in the
attainment of honorable ends.  Thus busied, men never grow
old, but remain buoyant and fresh to the very end."

"What am I, dear aunt, that you should have planned like
this?  Surely, men are but little children compared with you."

"No; the most foolish among them have been wiser than
I, for their lives have had some ray of sunshine, while mine
has not had one gleam to brighten it."

"Oh, aunt, Constance and I will make your life happy if
our love will be enough, for we will love you as if you were
our mother."

"It is too late, Gilbert," she answered, with a sad smile;
"but I shall die happy in being reconciled to you and in
thinking you will grow to love me when I am gone.  Kiss me again,
sweet one, and may the good Lord have you in His keeping,
and forgive me all my sins."

"Oh, aunt! we will be more to you than you can think;
and Constance will come, and you will love her and she will
love you!  Don't speak again of dying," I cried, my heart
filled to overflowing.

At this her face brightened as with some ray of happiness,
but she made no response save to pull me to her and kiss me,
sobs filling her throat as she pressed me in her arms.  Then,
faint and gasping, she fell back on her pillow, and in a little
while, as if comforted, fell into a sweet and restful sleep.
Sorrowing over her sad life and on all she had told me, I sat
beside her, her hand clasped in mine, not moving lest she
should awake.  This till the shadows of the night were
gathering in the room, and then, she not stirring, I arose and
leaned over her bed, and doing so gave a startled cry.  For
while I had sat thus unconscious, her spirit, so great and so
unhappy, had taken its flight to the good Lord whose
forgiveness she had asked with her last breath.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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Thus this most unhappy lady, so capable of love, passed
away with a smile on her sad face and a prayer upon her lips.
I, following her wishes, lovingly and with tears placed her
beside the other two, and spreading flowers over all their
graves, knelt beside them and prayed that the lives and hearts
of the dear ones so long separated might be thus reunited in
heaven above.





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.. _`WHERE ALL THE ROADS MEET`:

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   CHAPTER LIII


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   WHERE ALL THE ROADS MEET

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After Aunt Jane's death, Uncle Job came on to Little
Sandy, and together we spent several months acquainting
ourselves with her affairs, for among other things it was
provided in the will that he should be trustee of the estate until
I was come of age.  In regard to this, however, she was at
pains to express the wish that I should have my way from the
start, being a man grown, she said, and not likely to abuse
her confidence in any respect.  Thus it fell out that at
seventeen, through her great wisdom and love, I was no longer
poor and without a home, but rich beyond anything I could
have dreamed of.

When, finally, there was nothing further to keep us, and I
had visited the graves of those dear to me for the last time, we
bade good by to the place, leaving Moth and Fox in charge.
Of their stewardship I never had cause to regret, for through
their wise and faithful management my affairs prospered in
the years that were to come beyond anything I could have
thought possible.  Taking our departure, we passed through
Little Sandy, and now for the last time.  For when I came
again there was no house to mark the spot, and where the
streets had been a young forest grew, and birds flew in and
out or hid themselves in its silent depths.  Passing the
Dragon, I saluted it, and with reverent sadness, as one might
a departing friend, for in its silent rooms and deserted halls
it treasured memories that only death could lessen or efface.

Our journey home was without event, and so filled with
the sweetness of the country that when we reached Appletop
we were rested in body and mind as from a refreshing sleep.
Constance, as if to set my heart in a greater flame, was grown
taller and more beautiful, if that could be, but otherwise had
not changed; or if she had, it was to my advantage, for when
I asked her if she had greatly missed me, she answered that
my absence only added to her love; at which sweet confession
I kissed her and was content.

Some time after our return Mr. Seymour gave a dinner
at the Dragon in my honor, but quite informally, so the
announcement ran.  At the table I sat next to Constance, and,
truth to tell, to the great loss of my appetite; for much of the
time my food was untasted and my fork lay idle on my plate
that I might be the more free to pay her some compliment or
press her hand beneath the cloth.  There being no one but
friends present, my affairs were much discussed, and this with
such excess of joy and good nature that I was many times in
tears, so greatly was I affected by their kind speeches and the
recollection of their goodness to me in the past.  Mr. Seymour
I never saw in better spirits, for my good fortune was as if it
had come to him, or as if I had, indeed, been his own son.
When the evening was somewhat advanced, he filled his glass,
and looking into the faces of those about him, said, in his
amiable way:

"I leave it to you, good friends, whether we may not
properly toast our young friend here before we part."  Then
stopping, as if to await their answer, a great shout went up
that made the room ring with its good-natured heartiness.
"That is as it should be, and expresses some part of our love
and happiness at his good fortune.  I say good fortune, and
this I know it will prove; for when he was poor he bore
himself with such modesty that I am sure he will not lose in
amiability now that riches have come to him.  For arrogance, as
every one knows, is not peculiar to the rich or those high in
station, but crops up oftentimes like a foul weed, born of
envy, among the more lowly in life, who, except for this
deformity, would be very agreeable companions and neighbors.
It is peculiarly happy that this stroke of fortune has
come to Gilbert, for some of you will not have forgotten the
belief I expressed that Mr. Throckmorton's marriage destroyed
all his hopes of preferment in that direction.  This has come
about as I expected, for Mrs. Betty's two fine boys, if she will
excuse my familiar form of speech, would have left little for
our young friend.  You can see that for yourself now,
Gilbert," he concluded, turning to me.

"Yes, nothing could be plainer," I answered; "though
I had forgotten what you said, and because, I suppose, I have
never wanted for anything, thanks to the goodness of my
friends."  This response was greatly applauded by all present,
and so, encouraged by their smiles, as beginners are apt to
be, I went on: "I am glad I have come into what I have, and
not altogether on my own account, either," and here I gave
Constance's hand such a squeeze that she came near to crying
out with the pain of it.  "Aunt Betty's boys it is not likely
will ever want for anything, but if they do I shall be glad to
share what I have with them, and this because of their father's
and mother's many kindnesses to me in the past."

"I know you mean that, Gilbert," Aunt Betty cried; "and
if it were not for disturbing everybody I would come around
and give you a kiss for your sweet speech."

This, every one agreed, quite repaid me, and I thought so
too, for Aunt Betty was a most affectionate and lovable
woman, and had been to me from the very first as if I were
a dear brother.  Mrs. Singleton, who in the years that had
passed was forever looking me up to see, she said, if I kept my
good temper or was not in need of some kindness, now turned
to me, and smiling as a mother might on her child, asked:

"What do you intend doing, Gilbert, now that you are
rich, if you have a mind to tell us?"

"I don't know," I answered, truly enough.

"That is not strange; but where will you complete your
education?" she went on.

"In Appletop, I hope, if Mrs. Hayward thinks I need to
know more about books," I answered, turning to her.

At this the sweet lady blushed like a girl, so confused was
she at the reference, but pleased withal, I thought, at the
compliment.  Recovering herself directly, she answered in
her pleasant way:

"I was but a poor instructor, I fear, Gilbert, and taught
you but little, and that not well.  William and I have talked
about it a great deal since the day you left us, for the ferry
is not the same to us now that you are gone."

"I will never again find friends who will be half as indulgent,
and not all the money in the world would repay the debt I
owe you and Mr. Hayward," I answered.  "You taught me all
I know, and with such forbearance and gentleness that I shall
love you for it as long as I live," I went on, and yet not
expressing the half I felt.  For of all women I ever knew,
save Constance and my dear mother, there was never one like
her for goodness and every womanly virtue.  Of Mr. Hayward,
if he was different, he was not less kind-hearted and true to
those near him.  "About schools," I kept on, determined
to have it out now that the subject was up, "I never liked
them when a boy, and less so to-day than then.  That is the
way I feel, and except for the necessity of it I would never
look in a book again unless it referred to something I liked.
An education, though, I suppose, is as needful as plowing
before a crop, and so I must go on and finish mine whether
I like it or no."

"You never liked to plow very well," Mr. Hayward
responded, as if it fell to him to answer, "but still you went
at it resolutely enough when there was need.  You will do
the same about finishing your education, I know.  The labor
ought not to be very great, for most men are overeducated.
Nine-tenths of those who go to the higher schools had better
spend their time boiling soap or hoeing corn.  The few who
are really great get along very well without so much
cramming, and in the case of others the preparation only makes
them the more dissatisfied with their real place in life," he
concluded, soberly, and as if not speaking altogether from hearsay.

"What studies do you like best, Gilbert, if any?" Mr. Seymour
asked, as if quizzing me.

"History and novels; things that have to do with men
and women and the like," I answered, truly.

"History is a fine study, and novels are a help to young
men when they refer to real things and not the imaginings of
authors," Mr. Seymour answered, mildly.

"I once wrote a story," Mrs. Singleton here spoke up,
much to our astonishment—"and you need not laugh.  There
were some beautiful things in it, too, I know; but on reading
them over I became at last possessed of a horrible fear that
I had seen them elsewhere, though I couldn't be certain, and
so in the end burned the manuscript."

"That is not strange," Mr. Seymour remarked, "for if we
happen to say something that is beautiful, we are as conscious
of it as others; but reflecting on the subject, it in time
becomes common, and so assumes the air of being old.  Immediately
this is so, we suspect it is not ours, but something we
have treasured in our memory, and so at last cannot
distinguish between the two."

"I am surprised at what you say, Mrs. Singleton," Uncle
Job interposed; "for I have heard the disposition to write was
so intense that it could not be appeased."

"It was not so in my case, for I have never had any
disposition to make a second attempt," she answered, amiably.

"If a man must write a novel, let him go ahead, and the
Lord have mercy on his soul," Mr. Seymour went on.  "The
taste, however, that leads some to select the worst types of
men and women to exploit, as if such people made up the rank
and file of society, or any considerable portion of it, is beyond
me.  What earthly interest, for instance, have refined or
decent people in the doings of the social drabs that some of
our authors are at such infinite pains to portray?"

"There are such people, you will admit?" Uncle Job
answered, as if to draw him on.

"Yes; and there are cataclysms in the sea and quicksands
on the land, but neither the currents of the sea nor the
highways by land lead to them.  It is only the casual wayfarer
who suffers through their existence, and so the impress of the
disgusting creatures these novelists depict would be slight if
not thus widely advertised."

"Then you think it does harm?" Uncle Job answered.

"Of course it does harm.  I may say a foolish word and
it counts for nothing.  I myself will not remember it; but if
some busybody or malicious person repeats it, then it circulates
and has enduring life, as if stamped in bronze.  So it is
with the acts of those who disregard the moral ethics of
society; but these authors give the reader the impression that
the sun only shines by fits and starts, whereas the shadows
are as nothing compared with its eternal radiance."

"They exaggerate the situation, you think?" Uncle Job
insinuated.

"Of course they do; for there are no such men and women
in real life.  Even the worst have good qualities; and if plots
are hatched to the undoing of mankind, it is not among the
young in life, for they are always trusting and of fair dealing.
No, the pathos and tragedies come after marriage, for beyond
that point the sea is strewn with wreckage.  To go back,
though, to what we were speaking about, Gilbert," he went
on, soberly enough; "you will not find it disagreeable to
finish your education along the lines you mention.  Nor will
you, I think, in other and more necessary ways."

"Thank you, sir; I will not lose time in making a
beginning, anyway," I answered.  "What would you say, Uncle
Job," I asked, turning to him, "to Cousin Rolland's coming
here to act as my instructor?"

"He would do very well, for he has a fine mind and is
a university man; but how about Cousin Angeline?" he
responded, looking at me with a twinkle in his eyes.

"I think we could manage that some way; and Cousin
Rolland is such agreeable company that study would not be
hard under him."

"No, I don't think it would," Uncle Job answered, but in
what sense I could not make out.

"Where will you live meanwhile, Gilbert?  I hope with
us," Setti here broke in for the first time, it never being in
her nature to talk much, as I have told you.

"I would like it better than any place on earth, Setti, but
the house would not be big enough for two such students as
Constance and I.  We would be jealous of each other's
learning before a month had passed.  I have an idea what I will
do, though, if Uncle Job agrees to it."

"What is it, Gilbert?  I agree beforehand to everything
you do or say, as I ought, for that was what your Aunt Jane
said, you know," Uncle Job answered, good-naturedly.

"Well, I have a mind to buy the Appletop place, and as
the owner is dead and it is for sale, I can't see that there is
anything to prevent," I answered, hurrying through, not
knowing how the company would take it.

Of Constance I was at once assured by the pressure of her
hand.  The others at first looked up in surprise, but after
a while, reflecting on the matter and thinking how fine it
would be to have the great place owned by a friend, there was
such clapping of hands and shouting as left no doubt
whatever of their opinion in the matter.  Turning to Constance,
I read in her eyes and heightened color how pleased she was
to think I should be so near her, and in such a home,
surrounded by trees and lawns and opening vistas, in the quiet
of the country and yet among my friends.

"If you buy it, Gilbert, and ever build a house, let it be
something like a manor, for that will be in keeping with the
place," Mrs. Singleton, who greatly admired the old-fashioned
houses of the South, spoke up.

"Yes; and I would like to suggest a name for it, Gilbert,
if you have a mind," Mr. Seymour interposed.

"I should be glad to have you, sir," I answered, in great
spirits, delighted to find my plan met with every one's
approval.

"Call it Black Hawk Lodge, in honor of that great man
and much maligned savage," Mr. Seymour responded.

"I will build the house if only to name it in remembrance
of him, and in gratitude for his having saved the lives of my
father and mother," I answered, the image of the great savage
rising like a specter before my eyes.

Afterward it fell out as I had proposed; and not waiting
to make any change in the Appletop house, I went there to
live, bringing Cousin Rolland from Rock Island, as we had
talked.  Now, having a good deal of time on my hands, for
my studies were not so much of a burden as I had thought,
I soon began to think of building the new home, the old one
being hardly fit to live in.  The planning of this, however,
I found required more time and study than I had thought,
and being in doubt about nearly everything pertaining to such
a place, I was compelled to seek Constance's aid, and this
almost every hour of the day.  First of all we had to locate
the building, and this with reference to the trees and lawns
and the streets that ran past the park.  This required a deal
of time and much walking back and forth, for we were both
agreed that the matter of location was everything.  The
labor, too, being tiresome in the extreme, we to rest
ourselves would oftentimes have refreshments brought and served
on the lawn, or in some friendly arbor.  Thus, not being in
any hurry, a thing I thought very simple at first grew each
day more difficult, so that in the end it required quite a year
for its fulfillment.

When we had fixed upon the location, the plans had next
to be drawn, and that there might be no mistake or lack of
attention we kept them in our own hands.  As we were new
to such things, and yet aware how important it was, we found
it necessary to make many changes, often tearing up the
plans we had made and beginning anew, so little satisfied were
we with what we had done.  At the start we determined that
the house should have a wide veranda supported by pillars,
as Mrs. Singleton had said.  Then the hall came next; and
this, as regards width and depth and the location of the
stairs, caused us a world of planning.  After that the
reception-room had to be agreed upon, and this with reference to
the drawing-room; but both of these we got fixed finally to
our liking.  The living-room, most important of all, you will
say, after making the circuit of the building in search of a fit
place, we at last located on the sunny side of the house, where
we should have put it at first.  The dining-room we
determined from the very beginning to make extra big, in the
belief that entertaining one's friends tends to keep people
young, if not carried to an excess; and thus it was.  The
sleeping-rooms and closets and things of that sort, as regards
number and arrangement, occasioned us a deal of study, but
finally all were arranged to our liking.  The stable, last of
all, we hid away behind a clump of pines, and so constructed
that we could add to it, and this without destroying the
symmetry of the structure, for we thought that a barn, being
almost as conspicuous as the dwelling, should be gracefully
planned, so far as it was possible to have it.

When finally the plans were arranged to our liking, and we
could think of nothing more, we called the architect to go on
with the work; but now some two years had gone by, so much
time had it taken to locate and plan the structure to our
liking.  At last, just before my twentieth birthday, the whole
was turned over to me complete.  Then, not waiting for
furnishings, but calling on Mr. Seymour, and he bringing every
needed thing, we celebrated the event with a dinner, and
afterward a great ball, to which all the people of Appletop
and thereabouts were invited.  This last was thought to be
a great event, and to surpass by far anything of the kind ever
before attempted in the new country.  Certainly it passed off
with great spirit; and one of the things that pleased me most
about it was having the Haywards and Blakes to stay with me
during the week of the celebration.

Now, being free and the house in readiness, Constance and
I began to talk more seriously of our marriage, but still as
a thing some way off.  Not, indeed, that we thought it
needful to wait till I was of age, but being separated by only
a step a few days more or less did not so much matter.  Thus
it would have turned out, except for the most surprising and
unheard-of thing that happened just at this time, and that
was the need that arose for Mr. Seymour's immediate return
to England.  For, so it appeared, he was not the obscure
Englishman we all had thought, but the son of a great lord;
and now, his two elder brothers dying without issue, and his
father being already dead, he had come into the title and
estate, and so must return to his own home.  Of his coming
to America, and the reason therefor, it appeared, so the
story ran, that when a young man and hot-headed, being
greatly disheartened and angered by the obstacles his father
placed in the way of his union with the lady of his choice, he
had married her whether or no, and gathering together all his
belongings, had come to this country, and finally to Little
Sandy and the Dragon, as you know.  Of all this I had not
a hint till one afternoon when Constance and her father were
to dine with me, and she, coming early, told me the story as
I have related.

"Surely you have known before to-day that your father was
the son of a nobleman?" I answered, when she had finished,
surprised out of my senses at what she said.

"Not always, but since we came to Appletop," she answered.

"As long ago as that, Constance, and you have never
said a word about it to me!  Do you think it was quite
generous to keep it back?" I asked, in some humiliation that
I should have been kept in the dark about so important a
matter.

"What good would it have done, Gilbert?  You knew us
as we are, and was that not enough?  What difference did his
being the younger son of a lord make?"

"I don't know; but have you not known he was to fall heir
to the title?" I asked, bewildered.

"Not certainly till to-day, though it has been likely these
four years."

"These four years!" I answered, astonished at what she
said; "and never a hint of it to me or any one."

"No, for papa did not want it known; and besides, his surviving
brother, although an invalid, might still have outlived him."

"Now that you are what you are—and have been all
along—Constance!" I answered, stammering and hardly
conscious of what I was saying.

"Well, what about it?" she asked, in her simple way.

"Well, our plans—our marriage.  Surely I am not going
to hold you to it now that you have come into such
prominence in the world," I answered, with a sinking heart.

"For shame, you silly boy, to speak that way!  What
difference does it make.  You know papa has always looked
on you as his son and has told you so a hundred times."

"I know, but he was not a lord then."

"Yes, he was.  A man noble born is always a noble, though
he may not have a title; and do you think papa is any
different now from what he was a month ago?  You know better,
Gilbert.  Besides, you cruel boy, did it make any difference
with you when you came into your fine fortune and found
yourself betrothed to a poor tavernkeeper's daughter?  For
shame!  I would not have believed you so full of pride."

"That was different, Constance, for without anything you
were always too good for me, and so Aunt Jane said, though
I knew it before."

"No, it is not different at all.  You loved me, and that
was enough, you dear, silly goose, and I would not give you
up for all the titles in the world.  Nor would papa have me.
There now, kiss me, and let us never speak of it again, for
you know what you have always said, 'I have you and you
have me, and what more is there?'"  And the sweet creature,
not waiting for me to do as she said, put her arms about my
neck and kissed me on both my cheeks.

"You are an angel, Constance, and a thousand times too
good for me," I answered, returning her caress; "but if your
father is going to return to England at once, it will put off
our marriage," I added, disturbed at the thought.

"Yes, I suppose so, though I had not thought of that."

"Why should it, though?  Why can't we be married before
he goes—now, if there is no objection?" I added, to clinch it.

"Why, what a hurry you are in, Gilbert," she answered,
but not as if displeased at what I said.

"Yes, for if we put it off, it may be for a long time, and
I see no need of such delay," I replied, thinking of my many
years of waiting.

"Why, you are only twenty, Gilbert, you know," she
answered, looking at me in the most quizzical way.

"Yes, but I have been a man these ten years, and have
loved you always, you know."

"Yes, you have, you sweet boy, and I will marry you to-day
if it will please you," she answered, putting her arm through
mine as if there were no other.

"Then we will be married before he goes, if he is agreed,"
I answered, kissing her.  Now, seeing Mr. Seymour coming
across the road, we ran forward to greet him at the gate.

"So you have heard the news, Gilbert?" he asked, as he
approached, seeing our smiling faces.

"Yes; Constance has told me, and I wish you joy of your
good fortune, for there is no one in the world half so worthy
of it, or who would honor it as you will," I answered, kissing
his hand.

"Then you still think well of me, a lord born and bred,
hot republican that you are?"

"Yes, and a thousand times more than I ever did before,"
I answered, remembering his great goodness to me always;
"but are all lords like you?"

"Yes, only better, though none of them have made the
success I have as a tavernkeeper.  And about that, what will
Appletop do, I wonder, when I am gone?" he added, as if
the leaving carried with it some pang of regret.

"It will never find anybody to take your place in the
tavern or elsewhere, and your going will fill every one with
sorrow, for there is not one who does not love you,"
I answered, thinking of his true heart and gentle kindness all
these years.

"Ah, Gilbert, you have the making of a fine courtier, it
comes so easy for you to say pleasant things," he answered,
smiling.  "Constance has told you, I suppose, that I must go
back to England at once?" he added, caressing her hand.

"Yes; and I am both glad and sorry."

"You understand that I shall want to take her with me?"

"No, not that, surely!"

"You wouldn't have me leave her here, would you?" he
asked, smiling.

"Yes, if we were married first," I answered.

"Why, you have not thought of marrying for a year yet."

"I know; but your going changes everything; and why
should we put it off longer, if you have no objection?"

"I have no objection, but don't you think it would be
better to have it occur in her new home?"

"Not unless she wishes it, or you desire it, for this is her
home and country, and always will be, I hope," I answered,
thinking it best to put the matter squarely.

"Well, do as you like, children.  It is never wise for old
people to meddle too much in such affairs," he added, as if
thinking of his own youth.  "Only I wish Constance to go
with me now, for I have to meet new conditions, and want
her by my side.  Afterward I will come back with you if only
for a month, for this is now my country, Gilbert, as well as
hers.  Its streams and slumbering depths," he went on, as
he looked across the intervening plain to the great river
and the dark forest beyond, "belong to all of us without
reference to our place of birth.  Nature claims this love and
kinship from her children everywhere, but in my case there
are other ties, as you know.  So do not fear, my children, but
that I shall return many times in the days to come to visit you
in your home, in the country of my adoption."

Thus it was concluded as we stood holding each other's
hands in the shadows of the spreading trees, and it being left
to Constance and me, we determined to celebrate our marriage
without further delay—not, as you may suppose, in the
new house, or in the church, but in the Treasure room of the
Dragon, where there were so many reminders of things dear
to us all, and now become a part of our lives.  When this
event that we had so long looked forward to had been consummated,
and every hope and longing was thus happily fulfilled,
we accompanied Mr. Seymour to England, as he desired.
There, as Lady Constance, my sweet wife was received by
her people in the most affectionate way possible, and
afterward, when they came to know her better, with such striving
to keep her among them that I came near abandoning my own
country for theirs.  For in my case they could not have been
more kind had I been an Englishman and a lord, and this,
you must know, is the feeling they have for all their descendants
beyond the seas, however lightly the latter may prize
their love.

In this way, and amid surroundings every way delightful,
we prolonged our stay for a year or more, but after a while,
and with some sojourn on the continent, came back to our
own home, where we stayed.  This, though the town faded
out after a little, as so many had done before, to reappear
under other names on the banks of the great river.  We
were content to stay, and soon where the streets had been,
meadows and trees took their place, for as the houses were
torn down or moved away we acquired the property, and so
added it to what we had before.  Of the Dragon, it remained
as of old, and the little garden Constance had looked after as
a girl we kept as it was, and filled always with the flowers she
had loved.  This part of our domain, the most cherished of
all, we left to Setti's tender care, and of the building she
made a playhouse for our children, and here they grew to be
men and women, all fair and with sweet tempers and gentle
ways like their mother.  Constance and I often visited the
old home, sometimes with the children at the little feasts they
spread, but often alone, when we wished to conjure up anew
the faces and forms of other days.  Thus we lived in the
stillness of the country in happiness and contentment of mind,
each year adding something to the great love we had borne
each other from the first.

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Here Mr. Holmes brought his story to a close, and doing
so, looked upward and away across the great river, as if
recalling the distant period of which he spoke.  For some
time I sat silent, and then, seeing he had finished, asked,
looking at the sweet lady who stood beside him:

"And Constance, sir?"

"You want to know about her?" he asked, smiling, recalled
to himself.

"Yes, she most of all."

"Surely, she most of all!  There could never be but one
Constance—and this is she," he answered, putting his arm
about the sweet lady at his side.  She, responding with no
less love, embraced him with tender affection, and as she
might in her youth, on the banks of the great river, beneath
the widespreading hawthorns.

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   THE REGAN PRINTING HOUSE
   CHICAGO

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