Out of the stump of a blasted tree in the Coniston woods a flower will
sometimes grow, and even so the story which I have now to tell springs
from the love of Cynthia Ware and Jethro Bass. The flower, when it came
to bloom, was fair in life, and I hope that in these pages it will not
lose too much of its beauty and sweetness.
For a little while we are going to gallop through the years as before we
have ambled through the days, although the reader's breath may be taken
away in the process. How Cynthia Ware went over the Truro Pass to Boston,
and how she became a teacher in a high school there;--largely through the
kindness of that Miss Lucretia Penniman of whom we have spoken, who wrote
in Cynthia's behalf to certain friends she had in that city; how she met
one William Wetherell, no longer a clerk in Mr. Judson's jewellery shop,
but a newspaper man with I know not what ambitions--and limitations in
strength of body and will; how, many, many years afterward, she nursed
him tenderly through a sickness and--married him, is all told in a
paragraph. Marry him she did, to take care of him, and told him so. She
made no secret of the maternal in this love.
One evening, the summer after their marriage, they were walking in the
Mall under the great elms that border the Common on the Tremont Street
side. They often used to wander there, talking of the books he was to
write when strength should come and a little leisure, and sometimes their
glances would linger longingly on Colonnade Row that Bulfinch built
across the way, where dwelt the rich and powerful of the city--and yet he
would not have exchanged their lot for his. Could he have earned with his
own hands such a house, and sit Cynthia there in glory, what happiness!
But, I stray.
They were walking in the twilight, for the sun had sunk all red in the
marshes of the Charles, when there chanced along a certain Mr. Judson, a
jeweller, taking the air likewise. So there came into Wetherell's mind
that amusing adventure with the country lad and the locket. His name, by
reason of some strange quality in it, he had never forgotten, and
suddenly he recalled that the place the countryman had come from was
Coniston.
"Cynthia," said her husband, when Mr. Judson was gone, "did you know any
one in Coniston named Jethro Bass?"
She did not answer him. And, thinking she had not heard, he spoke again.
"Why do you ask?" she said, in a low tone, without looking at him.
He told her the story. Not until the end of it did the significance of
the name engraved come to him--Cynthy.
"Cynthy, from Jethro."
"Why, it might have been you!" he said jestingly. "Was he an admirer of
yours, Cynthia, that strange, uncouth countryman? Did he give you the
locket?"
"No," she answered, "he never did."
Wetherell glanced at her in surprise, and saw that her lip was quivering,
that tears were on her lashes. She laid her hand on his arm.
"William," she said, drawing him to a bench, "come, let us sit down, and
I will tell you the story of Jethro Bass. We have been happy together,
you and I, for I have found peace with you. I have tried to be honest
with you, William, and I will always be so. I told you before we were
married that I loved another man. I have tried to forget him, but as God
is my judge, I cannot. I believe I shall love him until I die."
They sat in the summer twilight, until darkness fell, and the lights
gleamed through the leaves, and a deep, cool breath coming up from the
sea stirred the leaves above their heads. That she should have loved
Jethro seemed as strange to her as to him, and yet Wetherell was to feel
the irresistible force of him. Hers was not a love that she chose, or
would have chosen, but something elemental that cried out from the man to
her, and drew her. Something that had in it now, as of yore, much of pain
and even terror, but drew her. Strangest of all was that William
Wetherell understood and was not jealous of this thing: which leads us to
believe that some essence of virility was lacking in him, some substance
that makes the fighters and conquerors in this world. In such mood he
listened to the story of Jethro Bass.
"My dear husband," said Cynthia, when she had finished, her hand
tightening over his, "I have never told you this for fear that it might
trouble you as it has troubled me. I have found in your love sanctuary;
and all that remains of myself I have given to you."
"You have found a weakling to protect, and an invalid to nurse," he
answered. "To have your compassion, Cynthia, is all I crave."
So they lived through the happiest and swiftest years of his life,
working side by side, sharing this strange secret between them. And after
that night Cynthia talked to him often of Coniston, until he came to know
the mountain that lay along the western sky, and the sweet hillsides by
Coniston Water under the blue haze of autumn, aye, and clothed in the
colors of spring, the bright blossoms of thorn and apple against the
tender green of the woods and fields. So he grew to love the simple
people there, but little did he foresee that he was to end his life among
them!
But so it came to pass, she was taken from him, who had been the one joy
and inspiration of his weary days, and he was driven, wandering, into
unfrequented streets that he might not recall, the places where she had
once trod, and through the wakeful nights her voice haunted him,--its
laughter, its sweet notes of seriousness; little ways and manners of her
look came to twist his heart, and he prayed God to take him, too, until
it seemed that Cynthia frowned upon him for his weakness. One mild Sunday
afternoon, he took little Cynthia by the hand and led her, toddling, out
into the sunny Common, where he used to walk with her mother, and the
infant prattle seemed to bring--at last a strange peace to his
storm-tossed soul.
For many years these Sunday walks in the Common were Wetherell's greatest
pleasure and solace, and it seemed as though little Cynthia had come into
the world with an instinct, as it were, of her mission that lent to her
infant words a sweet gravity and weight. Many people used to stop and
speak to the child, among them a great physician whom they grew to know.
He was, there every Sunday, and at length it came to be a habit with him
to sit down on the bench and take Cynthia on his knee, and his stern face
would soften as he talked to her.
One Sunday when Cynthia was eight years old he missed them, and the next,
and at dusk he strode into their little lodging behind the hill and up to
the bedside. He glanced at Wetherell, patting Cynthia on the head the
while, and bade her cheerily to go out of the room. But she held tight
hold of her father's hand and looked up at the doctor bravely.
"I am taking care of my father," she said.
"So you shall, little woman," he answered. "I would that we had such
nurses as you at the hospital. Why didn't you send for me at once?"
"I wanted to," said Cynthia.
"Bless her good sense;" said the doctor; "she has more than you,
Wetherell. Why didn't you take her advice? If your father does not do as
I tell him, he will be a very sick man indeed. He must go into the
country and stay there."
"But I must live, Doctor," said William Wetherell.
The doctor looked at Cynthia.
"You will not live if you stay here," he replied.
"Then he will go," said Cynthia, so quietly that he gave her another
look, strange and tender and comprehending. He, sat and talked of many
things: of the great war that was agonizing the nation; of the strong man
who, harassed and suffering himself, was striving to guide it, likening
Lincoln unto a physician. So the doctor was wont to take the minds of
patients from themselves. And before he left he gave poor Wetherell a
fortnight to decide.
As he lay on his back in that room among the chimney tops trying vainly
to solve the problem of how he was to earn his salt in the country, a
visitor was climbing the last steep flight of stairs. That visitor was
none other than Sergeant Ephraim Prescott, son of Isaiah of the
pitch-pipe, and own cousin of Cynthia Ware's. Sergeant Ephraim was just
home from the war and still clad in blue, and he walked with a slight
limp by reason of a bullet he had got in the Wilderness, and he had such
an honest, genial face that little Cynthia was on his knee in a moment.
"How be you, Will? Kind of poorly, I callate. So Cynthy's b'en took," he
said sadly. "Always thought a sight of Cynthy. Little Cynthy favors her
some. Yes, thought I'd drop in and see how you be on my way home."
Sergeant Ephraim had much to say about the great war, and about Coniston.
True to the instincts of the blood of the Stark hero, he had left the
plough and the furrow' at the first call, forty years of age though he
was. But it had been otherwise with many in Coniston and Brampton and
Harwich. Some of these, when the drafting came, had fled in bands to the
mountain and defied capture. Mr. Dudley Worthington, now a mill owner,
had found a substitute; Heth Sutton of Clovelly had been drafted and had
driven over the mountain to implore Jethro Bass abjectly to get him out
of it. In short, many funny things had happened--funny things to Sergeant
Ephraim, but not at all to William Wetherell, who sympathized with Heth
in his panic.
"So Jethro Bass has become a great man," said Wetherell.
"Great!" Ephraim ejaculated. "Guess he's the biggest man in the state
to-day. Queer how he got his power began twenty-four years ago when I
wahn't but twenty. I call that town meetin' to mind as if 'twas yesterday
never was such an upset. Jethro's be'n first Selectman ever sense, though
he turned Republican in '60. Old folks don't fancy Jethro's kind of
politics much, but times change. Jethro saved my life, I guess."
"Saved your life!" exclaimed Wetherell.
"Got me a furlough," said Ephraim. "Guess I would have died in the
hospital if he hadn't got it so all-fired quick, and he druv down to
Brampton to fetch me back. You'd have thought I was General Grant the way
folks treated me."
"You went back to the war after your leg healed?" Wetherell asked, in
wondering admiration of the man's courage.
"Well," said Ephraim, simply, "the other boys was gettin' full of bullets
and dysentery, and it didn't seem just right. The leg troubles me some on
wet days, but not to amount to much. You hain't thinkin' of dyin'
yourself, be ye, William?"
William was thinking very seriously of it, but it was Cynthia who spoke,
and startled them both.
"The doctor says he will die if he doesn't go to the country."
"Somethin' like consumption, William?" asked Ephraim.
"So the doctor said."
"So I callated," said Ephraim. "Come back to Coniston with me; there
hain't a healthier place in New England."
"How could I support myself in Coniston?" Wetherell asked.
Ephraim ruminated. Suddenly he stuck his hand into the bosom of his blue
coat, and his face lighted and even gushed as he drew out a crumpled
letter.
"It don't take much gumption to run a store, does it, William? Guess you
could run a store, couldn't you?"
"I would try anything," said Wetherell.
"Well," said Ephraim' "there's the store at Coniston. With folks goin'
West, and all that, nobody seems to want it much." He looked at the
letter. "Lem Hallowell' says there hain't nobody to take it."
"Jonah Winch's!" exclaimed Wetherell.
"Jonah made it go, but that was before all this hullabaloo about
Temperance Cadets and what not. Jonah sold good rum, but now you can't
get nothin' in Coniston but hard cider and potato whiskey. Still, it's
the place for somebody without much get-up," and he eyed his cousin by
marriage. "Better come and try it, William."
So much for dreams! Instead of a successor to Irving and Emerson, William
Wetherell became a successor to Jonah Winch.
That journey to Coniston was full of wonder to Cynthia, and of wonder and
sadness to Wetherell, for it was the way his other Cynthia had come to
Boston. From the state capital the railroad followed the same deep valley
as the old coach road, but ended at Truro, and then they took stage over
Truro Pass for Brampton, where honest Ephraim awaited them and their
slender luggage with a team. Brampton, with its wide-shadowed green, and
terrace-steepled church; home once of the Social Library and Lucretia
Penniman, now famous; home now of Isaac Dudley Worthington, whose great
mills the stage driver had pointed out to them on Coniston Water as they
entered the town.
Then came a drive through the cool evening to Coniston, Ephraim showing
them landmarks. There was Deacon Lysander's house, where little Rias
Richardson lived now; and on that slope and hidden in its forest nook,
among the birches and briers, the little schoolhouse where Cynthia had
learned to spell; here, where the road made an aisle in the woods, she
had met Jethro. The choir of the birds was singing an evening anthem now
as then, to the lower notes of Coniston Water, and the moist, hothouse
fragrance of the ferns rose from the deep places.
At last they came suddenly upon the little hamlet of Coniston itself.
There was the flagpole and the triangular green, scene of many a muster;
Jonah Winch's store, with its horse block and checker-paned windows, just
as Jonah had left it; Nathan Bass's tannery shed, now weather-stained and
neglected, for Jethro lived on Thousand Acre Hill now; the Prescott
house, home of the Stark hero, where Ephraim lived, "innocent of paint"
(as one of Coniston's sons has put it), "innocent of paint as a Coniston
maiden's face"; the white meeting-house, where Priest Ware had
preached--and the parsonage. Cynthia and Wetherell loitered in front of
it, while the blue shadow of the mountain deepened into night, until Mr.
Satterlee, the minister, found them there, and they went in and stood
reverently in the little chamber on the right of the door, which had been
Cynthia's.
Long Wetherell lay awake that night, in his room at the gable-end over
the store, listening to the rustling of the great oak beside the windows,
to the whippoorwills calling across Coniston Water. But at last a peace
descended upon him, and he slept: yes, and awoke with the same sense of
peace at little Cynthia's touch, to go out into the cool morning, when
the mountain side was in myriad sheens of green under the rising sun.
Behind the store was an old-fashioned garden, set about by a neat stone
wall, hidden here and there by the masses of lilac and currant bushes,
and at the south of it was a great rose-covered boulder of granite. And
beyond, through the foliage of the willows and the low apple trees which
Jonah Winch had set out, Coniston Water gleamed and tumbled. Under an
arching elm near the house was the well, stone-rimmed, with its long pole
and crotch, and bucket all green with the damp moss which clung to it.
Ephraim Prescott had been right when he had declared that it did not take
much gumption to keep store in Coniston. William Wetherell merely assumed
certain obligations at the Brampton bank, and Lem Hallowell, Jock's son,
who now drove the Brampton stage, brought the goods to the door. Little
Rias Richardson was willing to come in, and help move the barrels, and on
such occasions wore carpet slippers to save his shoes. William still had
time for his books; in that Coniston air he began to feel stronger, and
to wonder whether he might not be a Washington Irving yet. And yet he had
one worry and one fear, and both of these concerned one man,--Jethro
Bass. Him, by her own confession, Cynthia Ware had loved to her dying
day, hating herself for it: and he, William Wetherell, had married this
woman whom Jethro had loved so violently, and must always love--so
Wetherell thought: that was the worry. How would Jethro treat him? that
was the fear. William Wetherell was not the most courageous man in the
world.
Jethro Bass had not been in Coniston since William's arrival. No need to
ask where he was. Jake Wheeler, Jethro's lieutenant in Coniston, gave
William a glowing account of that Throne Room in the Pelican Hotel at the
capital, from whence Jethro ruled the state during the sessions of the
General Court. This legislature sat to him as a sort of advisory
committee of three hundred and fifty: an expensive advisory committee to
the people, relic of an obsolete form of government. Many stories of the
now all-powerful Jethro William heard from the little coterie which made
their headquarters in his store--stories of how those methods of which we
have read were gradually spread over other towns and other counties. Not
that Jethro held mortgages in these towns and counties, but the local
lieutenants did, and bowed to him as an overlord. There were funny
stories, and grim stories of vengeance which William Wetherell heard and
trembled at. Might not Jethro wish to take vengeance upon him?
One story he did not hear, because no one in Coniston knew it. No one
knew that Cynthia Ware and Jethro Bass had ever loved each other.
At last, toward the end of June, it was noised about that the great man
was coming home for a few days. One beautiful afternoon William Wetherell
stood on the platform of the store, looking off at Coniston, talking to
Moses Hatch--young Moses, who is father of six children now and has
forgotten Cynthia Ware. Old Moses sleeps on the hillside, let us hope in
the peace of the orthodox and the righteous. A cloud of dust arose above
the road to the southward, and out of it came a country wagon drawn by a
fat horse, and in the wagon the strangest couple Wetherell had ever seen.
The little woman who sat retiringly at one end of the seat was all in
brilliant colors from bonnet to flounce, like a paroquet, red and green
predominating. The man, big in build, large-headed, wore an old-fashioned
blue swallow-tailed coat with brass buttons, a stock, and coonskin hat,
though it was summer, and the thumping of William Wetherell's heart told
him that this was Jethro Bass. He nodded briefly at Moses Hatch, who
greeted him with genial obsequiousness.
"Legislatur' through?" shouted Moses.
The great man shook his head and drove on.
"Has Jethro Bass ever been a member of the Legislature?" asked the
storekeeper, for the sake of something to say.
"Never would take any office but Chairman of the Selectmen," answered
Moses, who apparently bore no ill will for his father's sake. "Jethro
kind of fathers the Legislatur', I guess, though I don't take much stock
in politics. Goes down sessions to see that they don't get too gumptious
and kick off the swaddlin' clothes."
"And--was that his wife?" Wetherell asked, hesitatingly.
"Aunt Listy, they call her. Nobody ever knew how he come to marry her.
Jethro went up to Wisdom once, in the centre of the state, and come back
with her. Funny place to bring a wife from--Wisdom! Funnier place to
bring Listy from. He loads her down with them ribbons and gewgaws--all
the shades of the rainbow! Says he wants her to be the best-dressed woman
in the state. Callate she is," added Moses, with conviction. "Listy's a
fine woman, but all she knows is enough to say, 'Yes, Jethro,' and 'No,
Jethro.'--Guess that's all Jethro wants in a wife; but he certainly is
good to her."
"And why has he come back before the Legislature's over?" said Wetherell.
"Cuttin' of his farms. Always comes back hayin' time. That's the way
Jethro spends the money he makes in politics, and he hain't no more of a
farmer than--" Moses looked at Wetherell.
"Than I'm a storekeeper," said the latter, smiling.
"Than I'm a lawyer," said Moses, politely.
They were interrupted at this moment by the appearance of Jake Wheeler
and Sam Price, who came gaping out of the darkness of the store.
"Was that Jethro, Mose?" demanded Jake. "Guess we'll go along up and see
if there's any orders."
"I suppose the humblest of God's critturs has their uses," Moses remarked
contemplatively, as he watched the retreating figures of Sam and Jake.
"Leastwise that's Jethro's philosophy. When you come to know him, you'll
notice how much those fellers walk like him. Never seed a man who had so
many imitators. Some of,'em's took to talkie' like him, even to
stutterin'. Bijah Bixby, over to Clovelly, comes pretty nigh it, too."
Moses loaded his sugar and beans into his wagon, and drove off.
An air of suppressed excitement seemed to pervade those who came that
afternoon to the store to trade and talk--mostly to talk. After such
purchases as they could remember were made, they lingered on the barrels
and on the stoop, in the hope of seeing Jethro, whose habit; it was,
apparently, to come down and dispense such news as he thought fit for
circulation. That Wetherell shared this excitement, too, he could not
deny, but for a different cause. At last, when the shadows of the big
trees had crept across the green, he came, the customers flocking to the
porch to greet him, Wetherell standing curiously behind them in the door.
Heedless of the dust, he strode down the road with the awkward gait that
was all his own, kicking up his heels behind. And behind him, heels
kicking up likewise, followed Jake and Sam, Jethro apparently oblivious
of their presence. A modest silence was maintained from the stoop, broken
at length by Lem Hallowell, who (men said) was an exact reproduction of
Jock, the meeting-house builder. Lem alone was not abashed in the
presence of greatness.
"How be you, Jethro?" he said heartily. "Air the Legislatur' behavin'
themselves?"
"B-bout as common," said Jethro.
Surely nothing very profound in this remark, but received as though it
were Solomon's.
Be prepared for a change in Jethro, after the galloping years. He is now
fifty-seven, but he might be any age. He is still smooth-shaven, his skin
is clear, and his eye is bright, for he lives largely on bread and milk,
and eschews stimulants. But the lines in his face have deepened and his
big features seem to have grown bigger.
"Who be you thinkin' of for next governor, Jethro?" queries Rias
Richardson, timidly.
"They say Alvy Hopkins of Gosport is willin' to pay for it," said Chester
Perkins, sarcastically. Chester; we fear, is a born agitator, fated to
remain always in opposition. He is still a Democrat, and Jethro, as is
well known, has extended the mortgage so as to include Chester's farm.
"Wouldn't give a Red Brook Seedling for Alvy," ejaculated the nasal Mr.
Price.
"D-don't like Red Brook Seedlings, Sam? D-don't like 'em?" said Jethro.
He had parted his blue coat tails and seated himself on the stoop, his
long legs hanging over it.
"Never seed a man who had a good word to say for 'em," said Mr. Price,
with less conviction.
"Done well on mine," said Jethro, "d-done well. I was satisfied with my
Red Brook Seedlings."
Mr. Price's sallow face looked as if he would have contradicted another
man.
"How was that, Jethro?" piped up Jake Wheeler, voicing the general
desire.
Jethro looked off into the blue space beyond the mountain line.
"G-got mine when they first come round--seed cost me considerable. Raised
more than a hundred bushels L-Listy put some of 'em on the table--t-then
gave some to my old hoss Tom. Tom said: 'Hain't I always been a good
beast, Jethro? Hain't I carried you faithful, summer and winter, for a
good many years? And now you give me Red Brook Seedlings?'"
Here everybody laughed, and stopped abruptly, for Jethro still looked
contemplative.
"Give some of 'em to the hogs. W-wouldn't touch 'em. H-had over a hundred
bushels on hand--n-new variety. W-what's that feller's name down to Ayer,
Massachusetts, deals in all kinds of seeds? Ellett--that's it. Wrote to
Ellet, said I had a hundred bushels of Red Brooks to sell, as fine a
lookin' potato as I had in my cellar. Made up my mind to take what he
offered, if it was only five cents. He wrote back a dollar a bushel. I-I
was always satisfied with my Red Brook Seedlings, Sam. But I never raised
any more--n-never raised any more."
Uproarious laughter greeted the end of this story, and continued in fits
as some humorous point recurred to one or the other of the listeners.
William Wetherell perceived that the conversation, for the moment at
least, was safely away from politics, and in that dubious state where it
was difficult to reopen. This was perhaps what Jethro wanted. Even Jake
Wheeler was tongue-tied, and Jethro appeared to be lost in reflection.
At this instant a diversion occurred--a trifling diversion, so it seemed
at the time. Around the corner of the store, her cheeks flushed and her
dark hair flying, ran little Cynthia, her hands, browned already by the
Coniston sun, filled with wild strawberries.
"See what I've found, Daddy!" she cried, "see what I've found!"
Jethro Bass started, and flung back his head like a man who has heard a
voice from another world, and then he looked at the child with a kind of
stupefaction. The cry, died on Cynthia's lips, and she stopped, gazing up
at him with wonder in her eyes.
"F-found strawberries?" said Jethro, at last.
"Yes," she answered. She was very grave and serious now, as was her
manner in dealing with people.
"S-show 'em to me," said Jethro.
Cynthia went to him, without embarrassment, and put her hand on his knee.
Not once had he taken his eyes from her face. He put out his own hand
with an awkward, shy movement, picked a strawberry from her fingers, and
thrust it in his mouth.
"Mm," said Jethro, gravely. "Er--what's your name, little gal--what's
your name?"
"Cynthia."
There was a long pause.
"Er--er--Cynthia?" he said at length, "Cynthia?"
"Cynthia."
"Er-er, Cynthia--not Cynthy?"
"Cynthia," she said again.
He bent over her and lowered his voice.
"M-may I call you Cynthy--Cynthy?" he asked.
"Y-yes," answered Cynthia, looking up to her father and then glancing
shyly at Jethro.
His eyes were on the mountain, and he seemed to have forgotten her until
she reached out to him, timidly, another strawberry. He seized her little
hand instead and held it between his own--much to the astonishment of his
friends.
"Whose little gal be you?" he asked.
"Dad's."
"She's Will Wetherell's daughter," said Lem Hallowell. "He's took on the
store. Will," he added, turning to Wetherell, "let me make you acquainted
with Jethro Bass."
Jethro rose slowly, and towered above Wetherell on the stoop. There was
an inscrutable look in his black eyes, as of one who sees without being
seen. Did he know who William Wetherell was? If so, he gave no sign, and
took Wetherell's hand limply.
"Will's kinder hipped on book-l'arnin'," Lemuel continued kindly. "Come
here to keep store for his health. Guess you may have heerd, Jethro, that
Will married Cynthy Ware. You call Cynthy to mind, don't ye?"
Jethro Bass dropped Wetherell's hand, but answered nothing.