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CHIQUITA
[Illustration: CHIQUITA]
CHIQUITA
AN AMERICAN NOVEL
The Romance of a Ute Chief's Daughter
BY
MERRILL TILESTON
PUBLISHED BY
THE MERRILL COMPANY
CHICAGO, U. S. A.
MCMII.
Copyright 1902 by
H. M. Tileston
Chicago, U. S. A.
All rights reserved
CONTENTS.
Page
CHAPTER I. A Bozrah Bornin', 7
CHAPTER II. On the Firing Line of Civilization, 33
CHAPTER III. Cats, Traps and Indians, 50
CHAPTER IV. Old Joe Riggs, 71
CHAPTER V. The Camp in the Willows, 82
CHAPTER VI. The Ranch on the Troublesome, 110
CHAPTER VII. Chiquita Wooed by Antelope, 124
CHAPTER VIII. A Glimpse of Home, 134
CHAPTER IX. Ute Big Warrior--No Plow, 143
CHAPTER X. The Blazing Eye Mine, 171
CHAPTER XI. College Vacations, 180
CHAPTER XII. Jack Wedded, 192
CHAPTER XIII. Estes Park, 212
CHAPTER XIV. Chiquita Graduates, 256
CHAPTER XV. A Hospital and A Boarding House, 263
CHAPTER XVI. Galling Yokes of Civilization, 274
CHAPTER XVII. Whence Come My People? 293
ILLUSTRATIONS.
FRONTISPIECE, "Chiquita"
YAMANATZ, 52
THE CAMP IN THE WILLOWS, 103
ANTELOPE--THE WARRIOR, 1877, 132
ANTELOPE--THE CIVILIAN, 1902, 168
THE "KEYHOLE"--LONG'S PEAK, 212
"SHE LAY TO REST" ON HER BOULDER BED, 232
THE TEPEE ON THE GRAND RIVER, 303
CHIQUITA.
CHAPTER I.
A BOZRAH BORNIN'.
A tallow candle shed its sickly and flickering light in the front room
of an ancient farm house, as Jack Sheppard announced his arrival on
earth at four o'clock on a Friday morning. He arrived in a snowstorm,
and it was a very select gathering of some of old Bozrah's prominent
citizens who greeted his entry into the world. There was old Doctor
Pettingill, with square-rimmed, blue-glass spectacles; Grandma Paisley,
who didn't care for avoirdupois, just so it was a boy; Aunt Diantha,
with portentous air and red mittens, while in the kitchen, dozing by the
big fireplace, was Uncle Zebedee, who had driven over from Pudden Hollow
the evening before to learn the news and "set up" all night in order to
be of assistance in case of necessity.
The whole Deerfield valley was interested, and it made no difference if
the snow did play tag up and down the necks and on the faces of all
Bozrah as they brought paregoric, feather pillows, goody-goodies and all
the useful uselessnesses that each and every one had kept for years and
years awaiting a possible occasion. There was an old brass warming-pan
that Deacon Baxter used to warm the bed for Governor Winthrop, and a hot
water jug which Great-grandma Lathrop averred warmed the feet of every
one of her seventeen "darters and grand-darters." There was also a quilt
made of silk patches, each patch taken from a dress that some colonial
dame had worn when she danced the stately minuet at a great function in
Boston or Albany.
All these good people had a successful way of bringing up children in
the paths of self-reliance, respect, thrift, endurance and honesty which
made stalwart, orthodox patriots.
The Sheppards were an old English family who settled in New England late
in the seventeenth century--three brothers, one of which, according to
ye olden tyme records, planted the elm trees in front of the
meetyngehouse on Dorchester hill; these trees, at the age of sixty or
seventy years, being cut down by the British during the Revolutionary
War. The descendants of the three brothers were thrifty men, large of
physique and of great executive ability, the women the loveliest of the
colonies--families of sterling integrity, wealth and esteem.
"Thad" Sheppard, Jack's father, was in some respects an exception, he
being a man of the world, of the wild, dangerous class, handsome and
talented, but lacking the balance wheel which magnetic temperaments
usually require. He was admired by both men and women to the point of
the danger line, for his schemes wrecked many a fortune and family,
ultimately losing him the confidence of all. "Thad" loved one of the
beautiful daughters of the Deerfield valley, and, despite the
protestations of friends and relatives, she married him, claiming she
could do what none thus far had been able to accomplish--reform him.
"Thad's" habits had not been curbed. Life was too gay for thoughts of
the sombre hereafter, and the sedate, sober counsel of the old men was
scorned, but their predictions were to be most cruelly fulfilled. Yet
there was that confiding love, that desire to accomplish miracles, which
swayed the fair young girl of the Deerfield hills to sacrifice herself
in the hope of reform. Oh, what a waste of time for any woman! What
debauchery of intellect, what a prostitution of a fair and beautiful
life; utter folly, deliberate social suicide, with its months and years
of anguish and debasement for the mere gratification of an impulse! To
be sure, there are some moments, comprising even days or months, when
happiness reigns, but do these few hours, which grow farther apart,
shorter and shorter, as time wears away, compensate for the millions of
silent, expectant moments during which the uncomplaining wife watches
for that unerring expression which never deceives her? Is there any
excuse a mother can give her daughter, budding into womanhood, for
bringing her into the world to face disgrace, possibly crime? Does a
son, born of such parents, have that respect and confidence toward
father and mother that he should?
Sue Paisley lived on that beautiful farm where Jack was born. She was on
a visit while "Thad" attended important business in the great cotton
markets of the South. She loved the brook that gurgled and splashed
along its course. Nodding bluebells coquetted with the tiny wave crests,
while the grass along the bank waved little blades in defiance at the
roar of its voice. Each summer Sue sang its praises to the tinkle of the
whetstone as the farm hand sharpened his scythe, tink, tink, tinkety
tink. When she married, she left the long rows of maple trees, the great
red barn, the stuffy parlor, the spare room with its high feather bed
and Dutch clock; the big round dining table with tilting top, blue and
white chinaware, and the long well sweep, to become hostess in the more
pretentious surroundings of a small city on the Connecticut, living long
enough to realize how futile were her efforts to stay the temptations
which beset "Thad" on every hand. Misfortune overtook all his financial
investments, and, as one enterprise followed another in the maelstrom of
speculation, Sue's life ebbed away, leaving Jack and his sisters to be
cared for by a spinster aunt, who undertook the responsibility at the
earnest solicitation of "Thad."
The awakening from sin was that of genuine remorse and sorrow. With the
characteristic determination of those rugged ancestors, "Thad" broke off
all his former boon companionships, started on entirely new lines of
life and succeeded in living down the awful past. In a few years he
remarried, giving Jack a mother who learned to love her stepson as her
own. Jack was not the ever industrious boy in school, but he was quick
to learn both kinds of knowledge, useful and mischievous. That is the
reason why the old red school-house, at the top of the hill, held
pleasant recollections for him in after life. Of course, "J-A-C-K" was
carved into the top of every desk at which he sat and, as the first row
of desks was the "baby" or A, B, C row, the next one a little larger,
and so on, the four rows of "boxes" represented four classes, and Jack
managed to stay in each class long enough to carve his name where future
generations would find it.
"He's the most trying pupil in the school," was what the teacher told
everybody in the little village.
When the snow was deep, Jack took his dinner in a little basket, just
the same as the other scholars, and at the noon recess he was always in
the games in which the girls liked to have a few of the nice boys to
help out. Two chairs, facing each other, with a little gap between them,
then a ring of boys and girls holding hands to circle around between the
chairs, while a boy and a girl stood on the chairs, hands clasped across
the gap, all joining in singing the little couplet:
"The needle's eye that does supply
The thread that runs so true,
I've caught many a smiling lass,
And now I have caught you."
It was the boy's turn to choose the girl he wanted for a partner, and
she had to submit to the penalty of a kiss before she could mount the
chair. The desks were arranged in horseshoe form, and of course the
favorite seats were in the back row, farthest away from the teacher, but
Jack generally managed to be on a line with the first nail hole in the
horseshoe by the time the first third of the term was reached. This, so
the teacher could better keep her eye on him.
It was near the end of the summer term that a little event occurred
which made a lasting impression on Jack. His seat-mate was an ungainly
little urchin who had the faculty of being cunning without being smart.
His name was "Ted" Smith, but he was better known as "Ted Weaver," for
he had a habit of rocking to and fro from one hand to another while he
studied. Jack happened to be busy with lessons when some one shot a
paper wad at one of the scholars, which missed the scholar but hit the
teacher on the cheek.
Miss Freeman was spare and angular, with a pointed rose-colored nose,
hard, cold-gray eyes, and long neck circled with a severe white linen
collar, which lay flat over the prominent collar bones. The black waist
of her dress was severely plain, with, seemingly, a gross of buttons
made of wooden molds covered with the dress fabric. The skirt covered an
area of floor space that was in keeping with the period before the Civil
War, when hoop skirts ruled the fashion, and, as the "tilter" tilted, it
could be seen the school ma'am enumerated among her personal belongings
a pair of white hose and cloth gaiters. A head of luxurious hair was
parted exactly in the middle and divided into three portions, two side
and back strands, the side strands twisted to the temples, then the
smooth flat surface gracefully looped over the tops of the ears until
the curve of the hair reached the eyebrows; the ends of the strands were
then formed into a foundation, around which the back hair was wound,
after a sufficient quantity had been properly separated for curls--long
ones for the side, or short ones to dangle idly behind.
When the paper wad struck Miss Freeman a rap immediately brought the
school to order. With a searching gaze she tried to locate the evil
doer, and her well-trained eye rested on Jack, who innocently looked up
to see the cause of the unusual summons "to order." Jack knew who shot
the wad, for he had noticed the culprit shoot others earlier in the day,
a performance which had escaped the teacher's notice and cheek.
"Jack, did you throw that paper wad?" she asked, her voice as cold and
hard as that of the second mate of a three-masted brig.
"No, ma'am."
"Do you know who did throw it?"
Jack would not tell a lie about the wad, so he answered slowly, "Yes,
ma'am."
"Who did it?"
There was no reply.
"Who threw the wad?"
She had flushed to her hair at the commencement of the inquisition, but
now the color slowly receded and the lines in her severe face became
like those in stone.
"Unless you tell me who threw the wad I shall punish you."
Jack remained silent. His little bosom filled with wrath because the
culprit would not speak up; but his honor was so strong that he would
not be "telltale." The teacher reached for her switch and told Jack to
step forward. Like a little man he marched up to her desk and stood, not
defiant, but humble and submissive, awaiting his punishment. Miss
Freeman stepped down from the platform with switch in hand, and again
demanded the name of the guilty one.
"I'll never tell," said Jack in a whisper.
There was a swish in the air and a sharp cracking noise as the rod smote
Jack around the fleshy part of his legs.
"Will you tell now?" asked the teacher again.
Jack made no answer, but shook his head and stifled a sob. He knew if he
relaxed his firmly shut teeth he would cry, so he gritted them and
prepared to receive the following blows without flinching. Thoroughly
maddened, the school ma'am finally threw off all endeavor of restraint
and showered blow after blow upon poor Jack's arms, legs and bare feet,
for it was summer and Jack followed the custom of other boys. But, it is
needless to say, that was the last day he went barefooted. The switch
was broken, but not the spirit in the boy. He had given way to tears,
which gushed forth because of bodily pain. He sought to protect his feet
and grabbed the infuriated school ma'am's skirt, and as the blows
descended he swung under the protecting expanse of hoops. This piece of
strategy perplexed the teacher, and as she had broken all her switches
she had to suspend hostilities until a new supply was gathered. Leaving
Jack and the school room, she hastened to the willows, which grew in
abundance just back of the building, and brought in a stick as big as a
cane, just in time to see Jack disappearing through the window and his
sturdy little legs, all striped with red marks, making tracks for home.
Episodes of this character followed Jack all through his school life. He
had a stern father, who always punished his children if they were
punished at school, no matter what the excuse, and on this occasion
there was no exception, only in place of another "birching" the filial
duty was limited to sending the boy to bed without anything to eat, so
he could reflect upon the awful crime of disobedience to his teacher.
Nature has ever been prodigal in the distribution of her favors and
disfavors, limiting her generosity in the picturesque to certain
localities, and giving in abundance to the arid regions, as well as to
the fertile valleys. But in her selfish allotments no upheavals in the
vast chaos of creation furnished man an abiding place so compatible with
his Puritanical doctrines as the forbidding rock-walled coast of New
England and the everlasting hills extending back to the Hudson River,
with their beautiful slopes, sinuous streams and forest-scented dales.
And it was among these hills that Jack found, even in his younger days,
that pleasure and freedom which afterward was intensified by his
associations with the forest-born red man.
Old Bozrah, where he first saw the light of day, was the Mecca to which
his longing gaze was ever turned, even as he studied, worked or played,
and no greater treat was in store for him than the one looked forward to
when his father hitched up "Old Jerry" to drive that long twenty miles,
through villages and past cross-road stores, to the old farm house. "Old
Jerry" was known even better than "Thad" Sheppard. Every factory hand on
Mill River from where it emptied into the Connecticut to the great
reservoirs in the Goshen hills, and every farmer, merchant and preacher
knew "Thad" and "Old Jerry."
"Thad" was well aware of the danger that lurked in the old reservoirs
and knew the day would come when the torrent would burst forth and sweep
all the industries away, and Jack wondered why everybody looked so grave
and serious when the spring freshets made the brooks roily so he could
not fish. In after years when that animated devastating fortress of
trees, rocks and factory debris crushed its way down the valley,
receiving its propulsive force from the waters which broke forth from
bondage, Jack remembered those grave and serious faces.
But it was among the hills of the Deerfield valley that Jack loved best
to wander and to fish for trout, or to help Uncle Zebedee and Uncle John
in planting or haying or "salting" the cattle, or gathering apples on
hills so steep that the fruit rolled a rod sometimes after falling from
the trees.
In the old barn at milking time, when the cows were yoked to their feed
racks, Jack helped give them hay--nice new clover--and then waited and
watched Aunt Sally strain the warm fluid into the bright pans, fearing
the while she would forget the little cup, which he kept moving from one
place to another, and which she seemed never to see until almost the
last drop in the pail was reached. Churning day was always welcome to
Jack. The old yellow churn, which stood near the big water trough in the
wash room, had to be brought into the kitchen, and then he would turn
the paddle wheel round and round, listening to the patter of the blades
as they splashed into the cream, until finally he knew by the sound that
the butter had "come."
Jack did not like Saturday night very well, for at sundown on the last
day of the week those good orthodox folks commenced their Sunday.
Saturday afternoon was given to baking cake and other dainties and
getting the house in order for the Lord's Day. The men folks were shaved
clean and all the chores were done and supper ended before sundown. Then
the old black leather Bible was taken from the shelf and all gathered
around for family prayers. These devotions were held every night about
bedtime, but Saturday evening was the beginning of the Sabbath, and
services were held earlier and longer than on other days of the week.
The room, with its chintz-covered lounge, rag carpet, Dutch clock, and
chairs upholstered in haircloth, seemed more sacred on Saturday. The
Bible was read, a lesson given from the shorter catechism, and several
of Watts' hymns repeated by all together, or by volunteers, as the
spirit moved; a song or two, then all would kneel devoutly, while Uncle
John, in deep stentorian voice, prayed long and earnestly for the divine
grace, which sustains the righteous through the snares and temptations
of the wicked world; after which all retired.
On Sunday no work was done that could be avoided, and at an early hour
in solemn procession all filed out to the vehicles which conveyed them
to the village two and one-half miles away. The horses knew it was
Sunday and devoutly raised one leg at a time in covering the distance.
The minister knew it was Sunday and exhorted his hearers, with threats
of dire hell and damnation, to mend their ways. Sunday school
immediately after the morning service, then lunch at the wagons or on
the steps of the church or in the church, and again the minister
unrolled his sermons and renewed his valiant fight in redemption of
sinners. The choir stood up, the leader struck the key with his tuning
fork, and when the "pitch" was duly recognized the last hymn was sung,
followed by the doxology and benediction. All hearts seemed to begin
life anew when the final "Amen" was pronounced, and although the long
hill had to be ascended, it took less time than it had to descend in the
morning. It was dinner time when the farm was again reached and all were
hungry. After the meal the family gathered in the parlor, with its
fragrant odor of musty walls, varnished maps and stuffy ancientness
which pervaded everything. Here the conversation dwelt upon the goodness
of the Lord, misfortunes of the sick in the neighborhood, news of which
had been learned at church, or other topics not too worldly. As sundown
approached the men folks commenced to get ready for the week's work and
changed their clothes, while the women got out aprons and put away their
"Sunday duds." By sunset the wash barrel was brought forth and the
laundry work for Monday commenced.
In the wagon-shed Uncle John had his scythe ready to grind, and as Jack
turned the stone he said to himself, "Uncle John bears down harder on
Sunday night than he does any other night in the week."
These visits to the old farm were at frequent intervals, so Jack had
ample opportunity to see real country life under all the different
aspects of maple-sugar making, planting, haying, cutting wood for the
year, and building stone walls. Berrying was about the greatest
enjoyment, next to catching brook trout, and such an abundance of
blackberries in the pastures and woods where portions of the timber had
been cut out! But the visits came to an end, inasmuch as Jack's father
"moved west" to one of the great flour-milling cities, which flourished
at the close of the Civil War.
In the west Jack received his final education, at sixteen taking leave
of Latin, algebra and rhetoric, with one term in the high school. During
the grammar school incubation Jack learned the difference between a
village teacher and a city ward instructor; also that the western city
ward boy had to fight occasionally, while the good New England lad was
in mortal disgrace if he ever presumed to raise his hands against a
fellow schoolmate. Jack had been warned time and again by his father not
to fight, as it was wicked, and severe punishment awaited all
demonstrations of anything in the nature of a "scrap."
It was but natural that a boy who would not fight should become the
target for every pugnacious lad in the school, and Jack went home
regularly with a bloody nose or scratched face, as a result of some
misunderstanding. Not only would he get larruped by the bigger boys, but
little fellows half his size walloped him good and plenty. Then the
teacher had to make an example of him with the ruler, and finally his
father finished up the job in the barn or across his knee with the hair
brush. The hair brush was the handiest thing Jack ever encountered in
his "spare (not) the rod" career. One day he went home with a frightful
cut in his lip where some "bully" of the school had kicked him. His
father lost all patience and Jack pleaded for a hearing.
"Why do you tell me it is wicked to fight and punish me for getting
licked? I can lick any boy in the school, but have never raised my hand
yet, because you told me not to, and they pick on me all the time."
It was a revelation to the parent and he wondered at his own obtuseness.
One instruction, one little lesson to be a man, he gave Jack: "Do not
fight for the sake of showing off, or to be a 'bully,' but defend
yourself always."
Jack was all excitement, and forgot his swollen lip. His father
continued: "And when you find you have to defend yourself, strike
straight from the shoulder and hit between the eyes, downward, like
that," and the stern old man took a crack at the side of the barn and
ripped a board off, besides nearly breaking his knuckle. Jack went to
school that afternoon, and at recess, when a big, red-headed bully,
nicknamed "Cross-eyed Whittaker," commenced to tease and banter him,
Jack edged away as usual, but with eyes ablaze and fist clinched. He saw
that the "bully" was bent on showing off, and knew the time had come to
make the first stand for Jack. Whittaker was about the same height, but
much heavier in build than Jack. Finally, as the big one got nearer and
nearer and became more and more offensive, Jack stood his ground,
looking the "bully" over from head to foot, and suddenly said:
"You miserable coward, you have picked on me long enough. Now let me
alone or take the licking that you deserve."
The other boys, of course, jumped up and gathered in a ring. "Fight!
Fight!" was yelled by a hundred throats, as all rushed to where the now
angry combatants faced each other. Jack stood poised on one foot ready
for any emergency. All at once he spied the crony of the "bully"
sneaking through the crowd of boys to get behind his chum. When the
latter saw his "pal" his courage increased wonderfully, but ere he had
time to put into execution the thoughts uppermost in his mind, Jack made
a feint, a step back and then a lunge ahead with a right-hand smash just
as he had seen his father hit the board, and the "bully" lay at his feet
writhing and kicking in defeat.
Whittaker took the licking very much to heart, and he carried a scar on
his lip, caused by Jack's blow, to his grave. Jack heard occasionally
that the "bully" had sworn to "get even," but as time passed and their
pursuits carried them into opposing channels, Whittaker soon became a
school-day reminiscence and later was not even remembered by name.
Jack's school days came to an end and he went into his father's mill to
work, learning the various methods of flour manufacture and manner of
marketing the product. The business did not seem to take his fancy.
"Something wrong in the industry," he would often say to the boss
miller. "Here you work this mill day and night, turn out three hundred
barrels of flour every twenty-four hours, yet lose money on the product
half the time. Six months of the year is a loss, but none of the mill
owners can give the reason why."
"You're right, kid; but that ain't nothin' to me to figger out. I've
been dressin' mill stones an' cuttin' them burrs ever since I was your
age, an' it's allus been the same. Sometimes it's the wheat, sometimes
the weather, but in the end it's as you say. P'raps it's the farmer, who
asks too big a price."
"No, it's not any one of those causes," said Jack, meditatively. "It's
that big engine down there eating up coal and the carrying charge to get
the flour to market. That's what ails the business. Look, now; see that
farmer with a load of wheat on the scales. There's father out there
taking a handful out of one sack and a cupful out of another. (Look out,
dad, you may strike a nest of screenings shot into the middle of one of
those sacks with a stove pipe.) He's bought the load and now it's going
into the hopper, where it will in all probability be mixed with inferior
grades. Then people complain the flour is no good, and you grind up a
lot of corn meal and feed it back into the flour, or regrind with some
middlings, until one can't tell whether it is flour or hog feed, and
where are the profits? Now, let me tell you. I was listening the other
day to that little alderman over in the second ward. He was talking
politics and business, and when he was not roasting 'Bob' Ingersoll or
General Grant he was making fun of Illinois River millers. He said--and
you know what a big voice the little fellow has--he said this: 'There's
a town up by St. Anthony's Falls that will turn out more flour in a day
than we turn out in a week, and you know we are some pumpkins with our
flour barrels, ain't we?'"
"Say, kid, you're sure of what you just said?" asked the miller,
interestedly.
"Sure as I live," replied Jack; "why?"
"Well, I'm goin' up to see that bit of water near St. Paul."
"The nearest town is Minneapolis, a little suburb of St. Paul," answered
Jack, remembering his geography lessons.
Between oiling machinery, sacking bran, sewing flour sacks, heading
barrels, sweeping, and occasionally "learning his trade," as he called
it, over in the cooper shop, Jack got to be pretty well posted on the
manufacture of flour, but he did not like the business and finally gave
it up, deciding to take up the mercantile sphere and quit the field
wherein the foundations of the most gigantic fortunes were just ready
for the superstructure--flour, oil, harvest machinery and provisions, to
say nothing of the contributory railway and telegraph business. He went
to Boston, secured a position in a large wholesale establishment, lived
in one of the beautiful suburban cities which surround the "Hub" on
three sides, and there learned the lessons of prudence, sharp buying and
economical, labor-saving methods, which were in contrast with the
wastefulness and unsystematic methods prevalent in the great west. Not
long after Jack was well established his father packed up the family
belongings and moved where he could be with his son.
In a little country village fifty miles from Boston, on the Newburyport
branch of the B. & M. R. R., lived Hazel Hemmingway. When Jack Sheppard
was a pupil of Miss Freeman's in the old red school house back in the
hills of western Massachusetts, he divided his apple with Hazel, dragged
her white sled up hill in winter, and in summer made for her peachstone
baskets, which he whittled out with his "Barlow" knife. There was no
girl in all the world to Jack that compared with the brown-eyed,
brown-faced Hazel, and no boy in the school got so many cookies,
bon-bons and dainty notes slipped into arithmetic or grammar as did
Jack.
The parting when Jack's father moved to the west was full of tender
good-byes and promises to "write real often" on the part of
both--promises which each faithfully kept. As the years passed Mr.
Hemmingway became interested in a shoe factory in the eastern part of
the state and moved his family to the thriving little manufacturing
town. The correspondence continued between the twain, and when Jack
returned to Boston a girl to womanhood grown knew that a supplementary
reason caused the young man to select Boston, and that she was the
supplement. Of course no one else ever dreamed the truth.
It was not long after Jack was established in the "Hub" that he made the
first visit to Hazel in her new home, spending the Sabbath in the quaint
old place which was within the pale of influence spread by the historic
witchcraft of the ancients. The renewal of that childhood acquaintance
needed no flint and steel to ignite the tiny spark of smouldering fire
into a flame of enduring love. Jack sat dignified and martyr-like while
the minister preached upon the evils which beset the young and dangers
to the worldly-minded. "The vain glories of dress and fashion are an
abomination of the Lord," said the man of God. Jack moved uncomfortably
in his new suit of clothes, while Hazel from her choir seat telegraphed
her convictions that the dominie was right, just to plague Jack. And
when the admonition came, "He that loveth pleasure shall be a poor man,"
Jack said to himself, "A whip for a horse, a bridle for an ass and a rod
for a fool's back."
At last the "fourthly" came to an end and so did the church service for
the morning. Jack and Hazel wended their way to her home, where dinner
awaited them, after which followed a walk under the far spreading elms
that arched the roadway, and as they walked they talked of childhood
pastimes, joking each other of forgotten jealousies, or dwelling upon
indelibly impressed, attaching episodes, the remembrance of which were
souvenirs, non-negotiable and indestructible. They had left the little
village behind and reached a large pine grove where the Sunday-school
picnic was annually held. Seating themselves upon a rustic bench, Jack
told of his life in the far distant west, as the states bordering upon
the Mississippi River were then called, finishing with his return to the
east and plans for the future. Hazel was an attentive listener,
interrupting occasionally to inquire what Gertie Whitcomb looked like,
or if Eva Duncan was freckled, or Nellie Courtney a good skater, as Jack
included them in his biography of events.
"Not that it makes any difference, Jack, but I--er--er--just wanted to
know," said Hazel, with the least bit of suspicion in her manner.
As he told of fastening Nellie's skates for her and of the lovely ice,
the big crowds on the lake, and what a pretty girl Nellie was, Hazel
kept time with her dainty foot kicking her broad-brimmed leghorn, which
dangled by the string from her hand, finishing by poising the hat on her
toe while she disinterestedly remarked, "Those western girls have such
large feet; I suppose they have no trouble standing up on the ice," a
remark which pleased the young man immensely, although he essayed no
response.
When Jack reached his plans for the future Hazel became even more
inclined to worry the historian by a rapid fire of insinuations.
"I suppose you will have to go on the road and take long trips out west
to--sell goods? Shall you have the choice of territory when you get to
be a salesman?" "Do those western stores carry as fine a line of goods
as our folks do in the east?" "The styles out there are about two years
behind ours; don't the girls look old fashioned?" To all of which Jack
had one answer, "Yes."
"You can stop saying 'yes' all the time."
"I will, Hazel dear, on one condition--that you say 'yes.'"
"Yes," demurely answered Hazel.
Just then from a near-by hillside came the tattoo welcome of a cock
partridge "drumming" for his mate, the measured, gradually increasing
roar making the woods resound as Mr. Grouse beat the hollow log upon
which he strutted up and down until his coquettish spouse approached
within sight of her liege lord. She came, pecking negligently at snails
and bugs, missing them oftener than hitting them, but she didn't care.
She scratched at imaginary seeds, inattentively awaiting his pleasure.
As soon as the cock perceived his bride he spread his tail like a fan,
clucked a welcome and flew to her side.
"There, my dear," said Jack; "that is the way you must obey me when I am
lord and master. Be very meek and let me do the splurging."
"And don't I get a chance to say a teeny, weensy word? Have I just got
to listen, and watch the man of the house dry the dishes, get the
breakfast (if we can't have a domestic) and"--Hazel rolled her eyes
mockingly meek and with her hands "Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep" fashion,
continued, "match samples for me at the store?" Jack capitulated; his
grandeur collapsed "all at once and nothing first, just as bubbles do
when they burst." Two merry peals of laughter echoed through the
pine-scented woods.
"Sh! Jack, it is Sunday. I forgot all about it, and we must go home.
Papa will wonder where I am," and a little red spot burned on each cheek
as she surmized what "papa" would say when he found out that the young
man from Boston "proposed to splurge."
But Jack's splurging was all make-believe. In the shadowy recesses of
the great elms, as they retraced their steps toward the Hemmingway
mansion, a manly arm stole about the waist of the lithesome girl, whose
demure "yes" had to be sealed in order to make it real. Mr. Hemmingway
was in the library as they entered the house. Jack nudged Hazel at the
portentously contracted brows of papa and the stern look of inquiry
which followed. Hazel quickly stepped into the hall, leaving Jack alone.
"Papa, Jack--Mr. Sheppard--wants to speak to you a moment," then she
flew past the meekest man that ever tried to splurge.
"Mr. Hemmingway"-- Jack got that far and it seemed as though every
whisker in that stern face became a bristling bayonet. "I think you must
be able to guess my mission."
"What? No--no. Jack, you--why, you are but a boy, and Hazel"-- A softer,
kindlier expression crept slowly into the face of the man whose only
daughter he suddenly realized had become a woman. "Jack, I moved here to
keep my child--to get her away from the--from the--it is no use, though.
I guess you will be good to her. Let me see, you are the boy who got
such an awful whipping once because you would not be a tell-tale, and a
boy that has that kind of grit, I guess, is the right stuff to be my
son-in-law. Hazel"--
The stern old man went out upon the lawn as Hazel re-entered the
library. A noise as of some one vigorously using a handkerchief broke
the stillness, but even then the old man chuckled as he saw two figures
silhouetted upon the curtain. "Celebrating my consent, I guess," he
soliloquized.
"Hazel, you had better pull down the green shade." Then to himself,
"These children have no conception of the propriety of things."