Chapter I: A Sweet Lady (15)

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.

*CHAPTER XLIX*

*THE BETROTHAL*

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.

*CHAPTER L*

*UNDER THE WIDESPREADING HAWTHORNS*

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.

*CHAPTER LI*

*THE MAUVAISE TERRE*

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.

*CHAPTER LII*

*LIFE AND DEATH*

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!"