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A FOREST HEARTH
[Illustration: Publishers symbol]
[Illustration: "HE PRODUCED A SMALL GOLD WATCH WITH THE WORD 'RITA'
ENGRAVED UPON THE CASE."]
A Forest Hearth
A ROMANCE OF INDIANA IN THE THIRTIES
BY
CHARLES MAJOR
AUTHOR OF "DOROTHY VERNON OF HADDON HALL," "THE BEARS OF BLUE RIVER,"
"WHEN KNIGHTHOOD WAS IN FLOWER," ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CLYDE O. DELAND_
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1903
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1903,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up, electrotyped, and published October, 1903.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
I. ON THE HEART OF THE HEARTH 11
II. THE BACHELOR HEART 27
III. THE SYCAMORE DIVAN 45
IV. THE DEBUTANTE 61
V. UNDER THE ELM CANOPY 87
VI. THE FIGHT BY THE RIVER SIDE 107
VII. THE TRIAL 133
VIII. A CHRISTMAS HEARTH LOG 153
IX. DIC LENDS MONEY GRATIS 179
X. THE TOURNAMENT 203
XI. A KISS AND A DUEL 225
XII. THE LOVE POWDER 259
XIII. THE DIMPLER 281
XIV. WISE MISS TOUSY 303
XV. THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 329
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"He produced a small gold watch with the word 'Rita'
engraved upon the case" _Frontispiece_
"She changed it many times" 31
"She flung at the worthy shepherd the opprobrious words, 'You
fool'" 81
"'I've come to get my kiss,' said Doug" 121
"Covering her face with her hands, she began to weep" 191
"'Kill him, Dic; kill him as you would a wolf'" 255
"Miss Tousy softly kissed her and said, ... 'There, don't cry,
sweet one'" 315
"'Here,' replied the girl" 349
ON THE HEART OF THE HEARTH
A Forest Hearth
CHAPTER I
ON THE HEART OF THE HEARTH
A strenuous sense of justice is the most disturbing of all virtues, and
those persons in whom it predominates are usually as disagreeable as
they are good. Any one who assumes the high plane of "justice to all,
and confusion to sinners," may easily gain a reputation for goodness
simply by doing nothing bad. Look wise and heavenward, frown severely
but regretfully upon others' faults, and the world will whisper, "Ah,
how good he is!" And you will be good--as the sinless, prickly pear. If
the virtues of omission constitute saintship, and from a study of the
calendar one might so conclude, seek your corona by the way of justice.
For myself, I would rather be a layman with a few active virtues and a
small sin or two, than a sternly just saint without a fault. Breed
virtue in others by giving them something to forgive. Conceive, if you
can, the unutterable horror of life in this world without a few blessed
human faults. He who sins not at all, cannot easily find reason to
forgive; and to forgive those who trespass against us, is one of the
sweetest benedictions of life. I have known many persons who built their
moral structure upon the single rock of justice; but they all bred
wretchedness among those who loved them, and made life harder because
they did not die young.
One woman of that sort, I knew,--Mrs. Margarita Bays. To her face, or in
the presence of those who might repeat my words, I of course called her
"Mrs. Bays"; but when I felt safe in so doing, I called her the "Chief
Justice"--a title conferred by my friend, Billy Little. Later happenings
in her life caused Little to christen her "my Lady Jeffreys," a
sobriquet bestowed upon her because of the manner in which she treated
her daughter, whose name was also Margarita.
The daughter, because she was as sweet as the wild rose, and as gentle
as the soft spring sun, received from her friends the affectionate
diminutive of Rita. And so I shall name her in this history.
Had not Rita been so gentle, yielding, and submissive, or had her
father, Tom Bays,--husband to the Chief Justice,--been more combative
and less amenable to the corroding influences of henpeck, I doubt if
Madam Bays would ever have attained a dignity beyond that of "Associate
Justice." That strong sense of domineering virtue which belongs to the
truly just must be fed, and it waxes fat on an easy-going husband and a
loving, tender daughter.
In the Bays home, the mother's righteous sense of justice and duty,
which applied itself relentlessly upon husband and daughter, became the
weakest sort of indulgence when dealing with the only son and heir.
Without being vicious, Tom, Jr., was what the negroes called "jes' clean
triflin'," and dominated his mother with an inherited club of inborn
selfishness. Before Tom's selfishness, Justice threw away her scales and
became maudlin sentiment.
I have been intimately acquainted with the Bays family ever since they
came to Blue River settlement from North Carolina, and I am going to
tell you the story of the sweetest, gentlest nature God has ever given
me to know--Rita Bays. I warn you there will be no heroics in this
history, no palaces, no grand people--nothing but human nature, the
forests, and a few very simple country folk indeed.
Rita was a babe in arms when her father, her mother, and her
six-year-old brother Tom moved from North Carolina in two great
"schooner" wagons, and in the year '20 or '21 settled upon Blue River,
near the centre of a wilderness that had just been christened "Indiana."
The father of Tom Bays had been a North Carolina planter of considerable
wealth and culture; but when the old gentleman died there were eight
sons and two daughters among whom his estate was to be divided, and some
of them had to choose between moving west and facing the terrors of
battle with nature in the wilderness, and remaining in North Carolina to
become "poor white trash." Tom Bays, Sr., had married Margarita,
daughter of a pompous North Carolinian, Judge Anselm Fisher. Whether he
was a real judge, or simply a "Kentucky judge," I cannot say; but he was
a man of good standing, and his daughter was not the woman to endure the
loss of caste at home. If compelled to step down from the social
position into which she had been born, the step must be taken among
strangers, that part at least of her humiliation might be avoided.
With a heart full of sorrow and determination, Madam Bays, who even then
had begun to manifest rare genius for leadership, loaded two "schooners"
with her household goods, her husband, her son, and her daughter, and
started northwest with the laudable purpose of losing herself in the
wilderness. They carried with them their inheritance, a small bag of gold,
and with it they purchased from the government a quarter-section--one
hundred and sixty acres--of land, at five shillings per acre. The land
on Blue was as rich and fertile as any the world could furnish; but for
miles upon miles it was covered with black forests, almost impenetrable to
man, and was infested by wild beasts and Indians. Here madam and her
husband began their long battle with the hardest of foes--nature; and
that battle, the terrors of which no one can know who has not fought it,
doubtless did much to harden the small portion of human tenderness with
which God had originally endowed her. They built their log-cabin on the
east bank of Blue River, one mile north of the town of the same name.
The river was spoken of simply as Blue.
Artistic beauty is not usually considered an attribute of log-cabins;
but I can testify to the beauty of many that stood upon the banks of
Blue,--among them the house of Bays. The main building consisted of two
ground-floor rooms, each with a front door and a half-story room above.
A clapboard-covered porch extended across the entire front of the house,
which faced westward toward Blue. Back of the main building was a
one-story kitchen, and adjoining each ground-floor room was a huge
chimney, built of small logs four to six inches in diameter. These
chimneys, thickly plastered on the inside with clay, were built with a
large opening at the top, and widened downward to the fireplace, which
was eight or ten feet square, and nearly as high as the low ceiling of
the room. The purpose of these generous dimensions was to prevent the
wooden chimney from burning. The fire, while the chimney was new, was
built in the centre of the enormous hearth that the flames might not
touch the walls, but after a time the heat burnt the clay to the
hardness of brick, and the fire was then built against the back wall. By
pointing up the cracks, and adding a coat of clay now and then, the
walls soon became entirely fireproof, and a fire might safely be kindled
that would defy Boreas in his bitterest zero mood. An open wood fire is
always cheering; so our humble folk of the wilderness, having little
else to cheer them during the long winter evenings, were mindful to be
prodigal in the matter of fuel, and often burned a cord of wood between
candle-light and bedtime on one of their enormous hearths. A cord of
wood is better than a play for cheerfulness, and a six-foot back-log
will make more mirth than Dan Rice himself ever created. Economy did not
enter into the question, for wood was nature's chief weapon against her
enemies, the settlers; and the question was not how to save, but how to
burn it.
To this place Rita first opened the eyes of her mind. The girl's
earliest memories were of the cozy log-cabin upon the banks of the
limpid, gurgling creek. Green in her memory, in each sense of the word,
was the soft blue-grass lawn, that sloped gently a hundred yards from
the cabin, built upon a little rise in the bottom land, down to the
water's edge. Often when she was a child, and I a man well toward middle
life, did I play with the enchanting little elf upon the blue-grass
lawn, and drink the waters of perennial youth at the fountain of her
sweet babyhood. Vividly I remember the white-skinned sycamores, the
gracefully drooping elms, and the sweet-scented honey-locust that grew
about the cabin and embowered it in leafy glory. Even at this long
distance of time, when June is abroad, if I catch the odor of locust
blossoms, my mind and heart travel back on the wings of a moment, and I
hear the buzzing of the wild bees, the song of the meadow-lark, the
whistle of bob-white, and the gurgling of the creek--all blended into
one sweet refrain like the mingling tones of a perfect orchestra by the
soft-voiced babble of my wee girl-baby friend. I close my eyes, and see
the house amid the hollyhocks and trees, a thin line of blue smoke
curling lazily from the kitchen chimney and floating away over the deep,
black forest to the north and east. I see the maples languidly turning
the white side of their leaves to catch the south wind's balmy breath,
and I see by my side a fate-charged, tiny tot, dabbling in the water,
mocking the songs of the birds, and ever turning her face, with its
great brown wistful eyes, to catch the breath of destiny and to hear the
sad dread hum of the future. But my old chum Billy Little was the
child's especial friend.
In those good times there was another child, a boy, Diccon Bright, who
often came down from his cabin home a mile up river to play with Rita on
the blue-grass lawn in summer, or to sit with her on the hearth log in
winter. In cold weather the hearth log was kept on one side of the
hearth, well within the fireplace itself, ready for use when needed. It
gloried in three names, all of which were redolent of home. It was
called the "hearth log" because it was kept upon the hearth; the
"waiting log" because it was waiting to take the place of the log that
was burning, and the "ciphering log" because the children sat upon it in
the evening firelight to do their "ciphering"--a general term used to
designate any sort of preparation for the morrow's lesson. In those
times arithmetic was the chief study, and from it the acquisition of all
branches of knowledge took the name of ciphering.
Diccon--where on earth his parents got the name, I cannot tell--was four
or five years older than Rita. He was a manly boy, and when my little
friend could hardly lisp his name she would run to him with the unerring
instinct of childhood and nestle in his arms or cling to his helpful
finger. The little fellow was so sturdy, strong, and brave, and his dark
gray eyes were so steadfast and true, that she feared no evil from him,
though ordinarily she was a timid child. She would sit by him on the
ciphering log during the long winter evenings, and the boy, the girl,
and the fire were the best of friends, and had glorious times together
on the heart of the cheery hearth. The north wind might blow, the snow
might snow, and the cold might freeze, Rita, Dic, and the fire cared not
a straw.
"I want no better mirror, my little sweetheart," he would say, "than
your brown eyes; no prettier color than your rosy cheeks and glossy
black hair, and no truer friend than your loving little heart." And the
fire crackled its entire approval.
"Very well, Dic," she would reply, laughing with delight, "if you really
want them, you may have them; they are all yours." And the fire smiled
rosily, beaming its benediction.
"But what will your father and mother say and Tom?" asked Dic.
"We'll not tell them," replied this tiny piece of Eve; and the fire
almost choked itself with spluttering laughter. So, with the fire as a
witness, the compact was made and remade many times, until she thought
she belonged to Dic and gloried in her little heart because of it.
Diccon and Rita's brother, Tom, even during their early childhood, when
they were hardly half so tall as the guns they carried, were companion
knights in the great wars waged by the settlers against the wild beasts
of the forests, and many a bear, wolf, wildcat, and deer fell before the
prowess of small Sir Diccon la Valorous and little Sir Thomas de
Triflin'. Out of their slaughter grew friendship, and for many years Sir
Thomas was a frequent guest upon the ciphering log of Sir Diccon, and
Sir Diccon spent many winter evenings on the hearth at Castle Bays.
As the long years of childhood passed, Dic began to visit the Bays home
more frequently than Tom visited the Brights'. I do not know whether
this change was owing to the increasing age of the boys, or--but Rita
was growing older and prettier every day, and you know that may have had
something to do with Dic's visits.
Dic had another boy friend--an old boy, of thirty-five or more--whose
name was William Little. He was known generally as Billy Little, and it
pleased the little fellow to be so called, "Because," said he, "persons
give the diminutive to fools and those whom they love; and I know I am
not a fool." The sweetest words in the German language are their home
diminutives. It is difficult to love a man whom one _must_ call Thomas.
Tom, Jack, and Billy are the chaps who come near to us.
Billy was an old bachelor and an Englishman. His family had intended him
for the church, and he was educated at Trinity with that end in view.
Although not an irreligious man, he had views on religion that were far
from orthodox.
"I found it impossible," he once remarked, "to induce the church to
change its views, and equally impossible to change my own; so the church
and I, each being unreasonably stubborn, agreed to disagree, and I threw
over the whole affair, quarrelled with my family, was in turn thrown
over by them, and here I am, in the wilderness, very much pleased."
He lived in the little town of Blue River, and was justice of the peace,
postmaster, storekeeper, and occasionally school-teacher. He was small
in stature, with a tendency to become rotund as he grew older. He took
pride in his dress and was as cleanly as an Englishman. He was
reasonably willing to do the duty that confronted him, and loved but
three forms of recreation,--to be with his two most intimate friends,
Rita and Dic, to wander in the trackless forests, and to play upon his
piano. His piano was his sweetheart, and often in the warm summer
evenings, when his neighbors were in bed, would the strains of his music
lull them to sleep, and float out into the surrounding forests,
awakening the whippoorwill to heart-rending cries of anguish that would
give a man the "blues" for a month. I believe many ignorant persons
thought that Billy was not exactly "right in the top," as they put it,
because he would often wander through the forests, night or day, singing
to himself, talking to the trees and birds, and clasping to his soul
fair nature in her virgin strength and sweetness. He often communed
with himself after this fashion: "I am a fortunate man in the things I
love, for I have them to my heart's content. Rita and Dic are children.
I give them knowledge. They give me youth. I touch my piano. It fills my
soul with peace. If it gives me a discordant note, the fault is mine. I
go to the forest, and sweet Nature takes me in her arms and lulls me to
ecstasy."
Billy Little and I had been college chums, and had emigrated on the same
ship. I studied law, entered the practice, married, and have a family.
While my wife and family did not mar the friendship between Little and
myself, it prevented frequency of intercourse, for a wife and family are
great absorbents. However, he and I remained friends, and from him I
have most of the facts constituting this story.
This friend of Dic's was a great help to the boy intellectually, and at
fourteen or fifteen years of age, when other boys considered their
education complete if they could spell phthisis and Constantinople, our
hero was reading Virgil and Shakespeare, and was learning to think for
himself. The knowledge obtained from Billy Little the boy tried to
impart to Rita. Tom held learning and books to be effeminate and
wasteful of time; but Rita drank in Dic's teaching, with now and then a
helpful draught from Billy Little, and the result soon began to show
upon the girl.
Thus it was that Dic often went to see Tom, but talked to Tom's sister.
Many an evening, long after Tom had unceremoniously climbed the rude
stairway to bed, would the brown-eyed maid, with her quaint, wistful
touch of womanhood, sit beside Dic on the ciphering log inside the
fireplace, listening to him read from one of Billy Little's books,
watching him trace continents, rivers, and mountains on a map, or
helping him to cipher a complicated problem in arithmetic. The girl by
no means understood all that Dic read, but she tried, and even though
she failed, she would clasp her hands and say, "Isn't it grand, Dic?"
And it was grand to her because Dic read it.
Lamps were unknown to our simple folk, so the light of the fireplace was
all they had to read by. It was, therefore, no uncommon sight in those
early cabin homes to see the whole family sitting upon the broad hearth,
shading their eyes with their hands, while some one--frequently the
local school-teacher--sat upon the hearth log and read by the fire that
furnished both light and heat. This reading was frequently Dic's task in
the Bays home.
One who has seen a large family thus gathered upon the spacious hearth
will easily understand the love for it that ages ago sprang up in the
hearts of men and crickets. At no place in all the earth, and at no time
in all its history, has the hearth done more in moulding human character
than it did in the wilderness on the north side of the lower Ohio when
the men who felled the forest and conquered nature offered their humble
devotions on its homely altar.
So it came to pass that Dic and Rita grew up together on the heart of
the hearth; and what wonder that their own hearts were welded by the
warmth and light of its cheery god. Thus the boy grew to manhood and the
girl to maidenhood, then to young womanhood, at which time, of course,
her troubles began.
Chief among the earlier troubles of our little maid was a growing
tenderness for Dic. Of that trouble she was not for many months aware.
She was unable to distinguish between the affection she had always given
him and the warming tenderness she was beginning to feel, save in her
disinclination to make it manifest. When with him she was under a
constraint as inexplicable to her as it was annoying. It brought grief
to her tender heart, since it led her into little acts of rudeness or
neglect, which in turn always led to tears. She often blamed Dic for the
altered condition, though it was all owing to the change in herself.
There was no change in him. He sought the girl's society as frankly as
when they were children, though at the time of which I write he had made
no effort to "keep company" with her. She, at fifteen, believing herself
to be a young lady, really wished for the advances she feared. Sukey
Yates, who was only fourteen, had "company" every Sunday evening, and
went to all the social frolics for miles around. Polly Kaster, not
sixteen, was soon to be married to Bantam Rhodes. Many young men had
looked longingly upon Rita, who was the most beautiful girl on Blue; but
the Chief Justice, with her daughter's hearty approval, drove all
suitors away. The girl was wholly satisfied with Dic, who was "less than
kin," but very much "more than kind." He came to see the family, herself
included; but when he went out to social functions, church socials,
corn-huskings, and dances he took Sukey Yates, or some other girl, and
upon such evenings our own little maiden went to bed dissatisfied with
the world at large, and herself in particular. Of course, she would not
have gone to dances, even with Dic. She had regard for the salvation of
her soul, and the Chief Justice, in whom the girl had unquestioning
faith, held dancing to be the devil's chief instrument of damnation.
Even the church socials were not suitable for young girls, as you will
agree if you read farther; and Mrs. Margarita, with a sense of propriety
inherited from better days, tried to hold her daughter aloof from the
country society, which entertained honest but questionable views on many
subjects.
Dic paid his informal visit to the Bays household in the evenings, and
at the time of the girl's growing inclination she would gaze longingly
up the river watching for him; while the sun, regretful to leave the
land, wherein her hero dwelt, sank slowly westward to shine upon those
poor waste places that knew no Diccon. When she would see him coming
she would run away for fear of herself, and seek her room in the loft,
where she would scrub her face and hands in a hopeless effort to remove
the sun-brown. Then she would scan her face in a mirror, for which Dic
had paid two beautiful bearskins, hoping to convince herself that she
was not altogether hideous.
"If I could only be half as pretty as Sukey Yates," she often thought,
little dreaming that Sukey, although a very pretty girl, was plain
compared with her own winsome self.
After the scrubbing she would take from a little box the solitary piece
of grandeur she possessed,--a ribbon of fiery red,--and with this around
her neck or woven through the waving floods of her black hair, she felt
she was bedecked like a veritable queen of hearts. But the ribbon could
not remove all doubts of herself, and with tears ready to start from her
eyes she would stamp her foot and cry out: "I hate myself. I am an ugly
fool." Then she would slowly climb down the rude stairway, and, as we
humble folk would say, "take out her spite" against herself on poor Dic.
She was not rude to him, but, despite her inclination, she failed to
repay his friendliness in kind as of yore.
Tom took great pleasure in teasing her, and chuckled with delight when
his indulgent mother would tell her visiting friends that he was a great
tease.
One evening when Rita had encountered more trouble than usual with the
sun-brown, and was more than ever before convinced that she was a fright
and a fool, she went downstairs, wearing her ribbon, to greet Dic, who
was sitting on the porch with father, mother, and Tom. When she emerged
from the front door, Tom, the teaser, said:--
"Oh, just look at her! She's put on her ribbon for Dic." Then, turning
to Dic, "She run to her room and spruced up when she saw you coming."
Dic laughed because it pleased him to think, at least to hope, that Tom
had spoken the truth. Poor Rita in the midst of her confusion
misunderstood Dic's laughter; and, smarting from the truth of Tom's
words, quickly retorted:--
"You're a fool to say such a thing, and if--if--if--Mr.--Mr. Bright
believes it, he is as great a fool as you."
"Mr. Bright!" cried de Triflin'. "My, but she's getting stylish!"
Rita looked at Dic after she spoke, and the pain he felt was so easily
discernible on his face that she would have given anything, even the
ribbon, to have had her words back, or to have been able to cry out, "I
didn't mean it, Dic; I didn't mean it."
But the words she had spoken would not come back, and those she wanted
to speak would not come forward, so tears came instead, and she ran to
her loft, to do penance in sobs greatly disproportionate to her sin.
Soon Dic left, and as he started up the forest path she tried by gazing
at him from her window to make him know the remorse she felt. She wanted
to call to him, but she dared not; then she thought to escape unseen
from the house and run after him. But darkness was rapidly falling, and
she feared the black, terrible forest.
We talk a great deal about the real things of after life; but the real
things of life, the keen joys and the keenest pains, come to a man
before his first vote, and to a woman before the days of her mature
womanhood.
THE BACHELOR HEART