The widow Smiley did not live on Clatsop Plains. Ever since the great
storm at Christmas, when her house was carried off its foundations by
the high tide, she had refused to go back to it. When the neighbors
heard of her husband's death, they took her over to Astoria to see him
buried, for there was no home to bring him to, and she had never
returned. Smiley, they say, was drowned where he fell, in the streets of
Astoria, that night of the high tide, being too intoxicated to get up.
But nobody told the widow that. They said to her that he stumbled off
the wharf, in the dark, and that the tide brought him ashore, and that
was enough for her to know.
She was staying with the family at the landing when the news came, two
days after his death. Joe Chillis brought her things down to the
landing, and had them sent over to Astoria, where she decided to stay;
and afterward she sold the farm and bought a small house in town, where,
after two or three months, she opened a school for young children. And
the women of the place had all taken to making much of Joe Chillis, in
consideration of his conduct during that memorable time, and of his
sufferings in consequence; for he was laid up a long while afterward
with that hurt in his shoulder, and the consequences of his exposure.
Mrs. Smiley always treated him with the highest respect, and did not
conceal that she had a great regard for him, if he _was_ nothing but an
old mountain man, who had had a squaw wife; which regard, under the
circumstances, was not to be wondered at.
Widow Smiley was young, and pretty, and _smart_; and Captain Rumway, the
pilot, was dreadfully taken up with her, and nobody would blame her for
taking a second husband, who was able and willing to provide well for
her. If it was to be a match, nobody would speak a word against it. It
was said that he had left off drinking on her account, and was building
a fine house up on the hill, on one of the prettiest lots in town. Such
was the gossip about Mrs. Smiley, a year and a half after the night of
the high tide.
It was the afternoon of a July day, in Astoria; and, since we have given
the reader so dismal a picture of December, let us, in justice, say a
word about this July day. All day long the air had been as bright and
clear as crystal, and the sun had sparkled on the blue waters of the
noblest of rivers without blinding the eyes with glare, or sickening the
senses with heat. Along either shore rose lofty highlands, crowned with
cool-looking forests of dark-green firs. Far to the east, like a cloud
on the horizon, the snowy cone of St. Helen's mountain stood up above
the wooded heights of the Cascade Range, with Mount Adams peeping over
its shoulder. Quite near, and partly closing off the view up the river,
was picturesque Tongue Point--a lovely island of green--connected with
the shore only by a low and narrow isthmus. From this promontory to the
point below the town, the bank of the river was curtained and garlanded
with blossoming shrubs--mock-orange, honeysuckle, spirea, _aerifolia_,
crimson roses, and clusters of elder-berries, lavender, scarlet, and
orange--everywhere, except where men had torn them away to make room for
their improvements.
Looking seaward, there was the long line of white surf which marks where
sea and river meet, miles away; with the cape and light-house tower
standing out in sharp relief against the expanse of ocean beyond, and
sailing vessels lying off the bar waiting for Rumway and his associates
to come off and show them the entrance between the sand-spits. And
nearer, all about on the surface of the sparkling river, snowy sails
were glancing in the sun, like the wings of birds that skim beside them.
It is hard, in July, to believe it has ever been December.
Perhaps Mrs. Smiley was thinking so, as from her rose-embowered
cottage-porch on the hill, not far from Captain Rumway's new house, she
watched the sun sinking in a golden glory behind the light-house and the
cape. Her school dismissed for the week, and her household tasks
completed, she was taking her repose in a great sleepy-hollow of a
chair, near enough to the roses to catch their delicate fragrance. Her
white dress looked fresh and dainty, with a rose-colored ribbon at the
throat, and a bunch of spirea; sea-foam, Willie called it, in her
gleaming, braided hair. Her great gray eyes, neither sad nor bright, but
sweetly serious, harmonized the delicate pure tones that made up her
person and her dress, leaving nothing to be desired, except, perhaps, a
suggestion of color in the clear, white oval of her cheeks. And that an
accident supplied.
For, while the sun yet sent lances of gold up out of the sea, the garden
gate clicked, and Captain Rumway came up the walk. He was a handsome
man, of fine figure, with a bronzed complexion, dark eyes, and hair
always becomingly tossed up, owing to a slight wave in it, and a springy
quality it had of its own. The sun and sea-air, while they had bronzed
his face, had imparted to his cheeks that rich glow which is often the
only thing lacking to make a dark face beautiful. Looking at him, one
could hardly help catching something of his glow, if only through
admiration of it. Mrs. Smiley's sudden color was possibly to be
accounted for on this ground.
"Good evening, Mrs. Smiley," he said, lifting his hat gracefully. "I
have come to ask you to walk over and look at my house. No, thank you; I
will not come in, if you are ready for the walk. I will stop here and
smell these roses while you get your hat."
"Is your house so nearly completed, then?" she asked, as they went down
the walk together.
"So nearly, that I require a woman's opinion upon the inside
arrangements; and there is no one whose judgment upon such matters I
value more than yours."
"I suppose you mean to imply that I am a good housekeeper? But there is
great diversity of taste among good housekeepers, Mr. Rumway."
"Your taste will suit me--that I am sure of. I did not see Willie at
home; is he gone away?" he asked, to cover a sudden embarrassing
consciousness.
"I let him go home with Mr. Chillis, last evening, but I expect him home
to-night."
"Poor old Joe! He takes a great deal of comfort with the boy. And no
wonder!--he is a charming child, worthy such parentage,"--glancing at
his companion's face.
"I am glad when anything of mine gives Mr. Chillis pleasure," returned
Mrs. Smiley, looking straight ahead. "I teach Willie to have a great
respect and love for him. It is the least we can do."
Rumway noticed the inclusive _we_, and winced. "He is a strange man," he
said, by way of answer.
"A hero!" cried Mrs. Smiley firmly.
"And never more so then when in whisky," added Rumway, ungenerously.
"Younger and more fortunate men have had that fault," she returned,
thinking of Eben.
"And conquered it," he added, thinking of himself.
"Here we are. Just step in this door-way a bit and look at the view.
Glorious, isn't it? I have sent for a lot of very choice shrubs and
trees for the grounds, and mean to make this the prettiest place in
town."
"It must be very pretty, with this view," replied Mrs. Smiley, drinking
in the beauty of the scene with genuine delight.
"Please to step inside. Now, it is about the arrangement of the doors,
windows, closets, and all that, I wanted advice. I am told that ladies
claim to understand these things better than men."
"They ought, I am sure, since the house is alone their realm. What a
charming room! So light, so airy, with such a view! and the doors and
windows in the right places, too. And this cunning little porch towards
the west! I'm glad you have that porch, Mr. Rumway. I have always said
every house should have a sunset porch. I enjoy mine so much these
lovely summer evenings."
And so they went through the house: she delighted with it, in the main,
but making little suggestions, here and there; he palpitating with her
praises, as if they had been bestowed on himself. And, indeed, was not
this house a part of himself, having so many of his sweetest hopes built
into it? For what higher proof does a man give of a worthy love then in
constructing a bright and cheerful shelter for the object of it--than in
making sure of a fitting home?
"It will lack nothing," she said, as they stood together again on the
"sunset porch," talking of so grouping the shrubbery as not to intercept
the view.
"Except a mistress," he added, turning his eyes upon her face, full of
intense meaning. "With the right woman in it, it will seem perfect to
me, without her, it is nothing but a monument of my folly. There is but
one woman I ever want to see in it. Can you guess who it is? Will you
come?"
Mrs. Smiley looked up into the glowing face bent over her, searching the
passionate dark eyes with her clear, cool gaze; while slowly the
delicate color crept over face and neck, as her eyes fell before his
ardent looks, and she drew in her breath quickly.
"I, I do not know; there are so many things to think of."
"What things? Let me help you consider them. If you mean--"
"O, mamma, mamma!" shouted Willie, from the street. "Here we are, and
I've had such a splendid time. We've got some fish for you, too. Are you
coming right home?" And there, on the sidewalk, was Chillis, carrying a
basket, with his hat stuck full of flowers, and as regardless as a child
of the drollery of his appearance.
Mrs. Smiley started a little as she caught the expression of his face,
thinking it did not comport with the holiday appearance of his
habiliments, and hastened at once to obey its silent appeal. Rumway
walked beside her to the gate.
"Have you no answer for me?" he asked, hurriedly.
"Give me a week," she returned, and slipped away from him, taking the
basket from Chillis, and ordering Willie to carry it, while she walked
by the old man's side.
"You have been lookin' at your new house?" he remarked. "You need not
try to hide your secret from me. I see it in your face;" and he looked
long and wistfully upon the rosy record.
"If you see something in _my_ face, I see something in yours. You have a
trouble, a new pain of some kind. Yesterday you looked forty, and
radiant; this evening your face is white and drawn by suffering."
"You do observe the old man's face sometimes, then? That other has not
quite blotted it out? O, my lovely lady! How sweet an' dainty you look,
in that white dress. It does my old eyes good to look at you."
"You are never too ill or sad to make me pretty compliments, Mr.
Chillis. Do you know, I think I have grown quite vain since I have had
you to flatter me. We constitute a mutual admiration society, I'm sure."
Then she led him into the rose-covered porch, and seated him in the
"sleepy-hollow;" brought him a dish of strawberries, and told him to
rest while she got ready his supper.
"Rest!" he answered; "_I'm_ not tired. Willie an' I cooked our own
supper, too. So you jest put Willie to bed--he's tired enough, I
guess--an' then come an' talk to me. That's all I want to-night--is jest
to hear the White Rose talk."
While Mrs. Smiley was occupied with Willie--his wants and his
prattle--her guest sat motionless, his head on his hand, his elbow
resting on the arm of the chair. He had that rare repose of bearing
which is understood to be a sign of high breeding, but in him was
temperament, or a quietude caught from nature and solitude. It gave a
positive charm to his manner, whether animated or depressed; a
dignified, introspective, self-possessed carriage, that suited with his
powerfully built, symmetrical frame, and regular cast of features. Yet,
self-contained as his usual expression was, his face was capable of
vivid illuminations, and striking changes of aspect, under the influence
of feelings either pleasant or painful. In the shadow of the rose-vines,
and the gathering twilight, it would have been impossible to discern, by
any change of feature, what his meditations might be now.
"The moon is full to-night," said Mrs. Smiley, bringing out her low
rocker and placing it near her friend. "It will be glorious on the
river, and all the 'young folks' will be out, I suppose."
"Did not Rumway ask you to go? Don't let me keep you at home, ef he
did."
"No; I am not counted among young folks any longer," returned she, with
a little sigh, that might mean something or nothing. Then a silence fell
between them for several minutes. It was the fashion of these friends to
wait for the spirit to move them to converse, and not unfrequently a
silence longer than that which was in heaven came between their
sentences; but to-night there was thunder in their spiritual atmosphere,
and the stillness was oppressive. Mrs. Smiley beat a tattoo with her
slipper.
"Rumway asked you to marry him, did he?" began Chillis, at last, in a
low and measured tone.
"Yes."
"An' you accepted him?"
"Not yet"--in a quavering adagio.
"But you will?"
"Perhaps so. I do not know"--in a firmer voice.
"Rumway is doin' well, an' he is a pretty good fellow, as men go. But he
is not half the man that I was at his age--or, rather, that I might have
been, ef I had had sech a motive for bein' a man as he has."
"It is not difficult to believe that, Mr. Chillis. There is heroic
material in you, and, I fear, none in Mr. Rumway." She spoke naturally
and cheerfully now, as if she had no sentiment too sacred to be revealed
about the person in question. "But why was there no motive?"
"Why? It was my fate; there was none--that's all. I had gone off to the
mountains when a lad, an' couldn't git back--couldn't even git letters
from home. The fur companies didn't allow o' correspondence--it made
their men homesick. When I came to be a man, I did as the other men did,
took an Indian wife, an' became the father o' half-breed children. I
never expected to live any other way than jest as we lived then--roamin'
about the mountains, exposed to dangers continually, an' reckless
because it was no use to think. But, after I had been a savage for a
dozen years--long enough to ruin any man--the fur companies began to
break up. The beaver were all hunted out o' the mountains. The men were
ashamed to go home--Indians as we all were--an' so drifted off down
here, where it was possible to git somethin' to eat, an' where there was
quite a settlement o' retired trappers, missionaries, deserted sailors,
and such-like Whites."
"You brought your families with you?"
"Of course. We could not leave them in the mountains, with the children,
to starve. Besides, we loved our children. They were not to blame for
bein' half-Indian; an' we could not separate them from their mothers, ef
we had a-wished. We did the only thing we could do, under the
circumstances--married the mothers by White men's laws, to make the
children legitimate. Even the heads of the Hudson's Bay Company were
forced to comply with the sentiment of the White settlers; an' their
descendants are among the first families of Oregon. But they had money
an' position; the trappers had neither, though there were some splendid
men among them--so our families were looked down upon. O, White Rose!
didn't I use to have some bitter thoughts in those days? for my blood
was high blood, in the State where I was raised."
"I can imagine it, very easily," said Mrs. Smiley, softly.
"But I never let on. I was wild and devil-may-care. To hide my
mortification, I faced it out, as well as I could; but I wasn't made, in
the beginnin', for that kind o' life, an' it took away my manhood. After
the country began to settle up, an' families--real White families--began
to move in, I used to be nearly crazy, sometimes. Many's the day that
I've rode through the woods, or over the prairies, tryin' to git away
from myself; but I never said a cross word to the squaw wife. Why should
I?--it was not her fault. Sometimes she fretted at me (the Indian women
are great scolds); but I did not answer her back. I displeased her with
my vagabond ways, very likely--her White husband, to whom she looked for
better things. I couldn't work; I didn't take no interest in work, like
other men."
"O, Mr. Chillis! was not that a great mistake? Would not some kind of
ambition have helped to fill up the blank in your life?"
"I didn't have any--I couldn't have any, with that old Indian woman
sittin' there, in the corner o' my hearth. When the crazy fit came on, I
jest turned my back on home, an' mounted my horse for a long, lonely
ride, or went to town and drank whisky till I was past rememberin' my
trouble. But I never complained. The men I associated with expected me
to amuse them, an' I generally did, with all manner o' wild freaks an'
incredible stories--some o' which were truer than they believed, for I
had had plenty of adventures in the mountains. White Rose, do you
imagine I ever loved that squaw wife o' mine?"
"I remember asking myself such a question, that night of the storm, as
you stood by the fire, so still and strange. I was speculating about
your history, and starting these very queries you have answered
to-night."
"But you have never asked me."
"No; how could I? But I am glad to know. Now I understand the great
patience--the tender, pathetic patience--which I have often remarked in
you. Only those who have suffered long and silently can ever attain to
it."
"An' so people say, 'Poor old Joe!' an' they don't know what they mean,
when they say it. They think I am a man without the ambitions an'
passions of other men; a simple, good fellow, without too much brain,
an' only the heart of a fool. But they don't know me--they don't know
me!"
"How could they, without hearing what you have just told me, or without
knowing you as I know you?"
"They never will know. I don't want to be pitied for my mistakes. 'Poor
old Joe' is proud, as well as poor."
Mrs. Smiley sat silent, gazing at the river's silver ripples. Her
shapely hands were folded in her lap; her whole attitude quiet,
absorbed. Whether she was thinking of what she had heard, or whether she
had forgotten it, no one could have guessed from her manner; and Chillis
could not wait to know. The fountains of the deep had been stirred until
they would not rest.
"Was there no other question you asked yourself about the old mountain
man which he can answer? Did you never wonder whether he ever had loved
at all?"
"You have made me wonder, to-night, whether, at some period of your
life, you have not loved some woman of your own race and color. You must
have had some opportunities of knowing white women."
"Very few. An' my pride was agin seekin' what I knew was not for me; for
the woman I fancied to myself was no common white woman. White Rose, I
carried a young man's heart in my bosom until I was near sixty, _an'
then I lost it_." He put out a hand and touched one of hers, ever so
lightly. "I need not tell you any more."
A silence that made their pulses seem audible followed this confession.
A heavy shadow descended upon both hearts, and a sudden dreary sense of
an unutterable and unalterable sorrow burdened their spirits.
After a little, "Mr. Chillis! Mr. Chillis!" wailed the woman's pathetic
voice; and "O, my lovely lady!" sighed the man's.
"What shall I do? what shall I do? I am so sorry. What shall I do?"
"Tell me to go. I knew it would have to end so. I knew that Rumway would
drive me to say what I ought not to say; for he is not worthy of you--no
man that I know of is. Ef I was as young as he, an' had his chance, I
would _make_ myself worthy o' you, or die. But it is too late. Old Joe
Chillis may starve his heart, as he has many a time starved his body in
the desert. But I did love you so! O, my sweet White Rose, I did love
you so! always, from the first time I saw you."
"What is that you say?" said Mrs. Smiley, in a shocked voice.
"Always, I said, from the first time I saw you. My love was true; it did
not harm you. I said, '_There_ is such a woman as God designed for me.
But it is too late to have her now. I will jest worship her humbly, a
great ways off, an' say "God bless her!" when she passes; an' think o'
her sweet ways when I am ridin' through the woods, or polin' my
huntin'-boat up the sloughs, among the willows an' pond-lilies. She
would hardly blame me, ef she knew I loved her that way.'
"But it grew harder afterwards, White Rose, when you were grateful to
me, in your pretty, womanly way, an' treated me so kindly before all the
world, an' let your little boy love me, an' loved me yourself--I knew
it--in a gentle, friendly fashion. O, but it was sweet!--but not sweet
enough, sometimes. Ef I have been crazed for the lack o' love in my
younger days, I have been crazed with love since then. There have been
days when I could neither work nor eat, nights when I could not sleep,
for thinkin' o' what might have been, but never could be; times when I
have been tempted to upset my boat in the bay, an' never try to right
it. But when I had almost conquered my madness, that you might never
know, then comes this Rumway, with his fine looks, an' his fine house,
an' his fine professions, an' blots me out entirely; for what will old
Joe be worth to Madame Rumway, or to Madame Rumway's fine husband?"
Mrs. Smiley sat thoughtful and silent a long time after this declaration
of love, that gave all and required so little. She was sorry for it; but
since it was so, and she must know it, she was glad that she had heard
it that night. She could place it in the balance with that other
declaration, and decide upon their relative value to her; for she saw,
as he did, that the two were incompatible--one must be given up.
"It is late," she said, rising. "You will come up and take breakfast
with Willie and me, before you go home? My strawberries are in their
prime."
"I thought you would a-told me to go, an' never come back," he said,
stepping out into the moonlight with the elastic tread of twenty-five.
He stopped and looked back at her, with a beaming countenance, like a
boy's.
She was standing on the step above him, looking down at him with a
pleasant but serious expression. "I am going to trust you never to
repeat to me what you have said to-night. I know I can trust you."
"So be it, White Rose," he returned, with so rapid and involuntary a
change of attitude, voice, and expression, that the pang of his hurt
pierced her heart also. "But I know I can trust you," she repeated, as
if she had not seen that shrinking from the blow. "And I am going to try
to make your life a little pleasanter, and more like other people's.
When you are dressed up, and ordered to behave properly, and made to
look as handsome as you can, so that ladies shall take notice of you and
flatter you with their eyes and tongues, and you come to have the same
interest in the world that other men have--and why shouldn't you?--then
your imagination will not be running away with you, or making angels out
of common little persons like myself--how dreadfully prosy and
commonplace you have no idea! And I forbid you to allow Willie to stick
your hat full of flowers, when you go fishing together; and order you to
make that young impudence respectful to you on all occasions--asserting
your authority, if necessary. And, lastly, I prefer you should not call
me Madame Rumway until I have a certified and legal claim to the title.
Good-night."
He stood bareheaded, his face drooping and half-concealed, pulling the
withered flowers out of his hat. Slowly he raised it, made a military
salute, and placed it on his head. "It is for you to command and me to
obey," he said.
"Breakfast at seven o'clock precisely," called out the tuneful voice of
Mrs. Smiley after him, as he went down the garden-path with bent head,
walking more like an old man than she had ever seen him. Then she went
into the house, closed it carefully, after the manner of lone women, and
went up to her room. But deliciously cool and fragrant as was the tiny
chamber, Mrs. Smiley could not sleep that night. Nor did Chillis come to
breakfast next morning.
A month passed away. Work was suspended on Mr. Rumway's house, the doors
and windows boarded up, and the gate locked. Everybody knew it could
mean but one thing--that Mrs. Smiley had refused the owner. But the
handsome captain put a serene face upon it, and kept about his business
industriously and like a gentleman. The fact that he did not return to
his wild courses was remarked upon as something hardly to be credited,
but greatly to his honor; for it was universally conceded, that such a
disappointment as his was enough to drive almost any man to drink who
had indulged in it previously; such is the generally admitted frailty of
man's moral constitution.
Toward the last of August, Mrs. Smiley received a visit from Chillis. He
was dressed with more than his customary regard to appearances, and
looked a little paler and thinner than usual. Otherwise, he was just the
same as ever; and, with no questions asked or answered on either side,
their old relations were re-established, and Willie was rapturously
excited with the prospect of more Saturday excursions. Yet there was
this difference in their manner toward each other--that he now seldom
addressed her as "White Rose," and never as "my lovely lady;" while it
was she who made graceful little compliments to him, and was always gay
and bright in his company, and constantly watchful of his comfort or
pleasure. She prevailed upon him, too, to make calls with her upon other
ladies; and gave him frequent commissions that would bring him in
contact with a variety of persons. But she could not help seeing, that
it was only in obedience to her wishes that he made calls, or mingled
with the town-people; and when, one evening, returning together from a
visit where he had been very much patronized, he had remarked, with a
shrug and smile of self-contempt, "It is no use, Mrs. Smiley--oil an'
water won't mix," she had given it up, and never more interfered with
his old habits.
So the summer passed, and winter came again, with its long rains, dark
days, and sad associations. Although Mrs. Smiley was not at all a
"weakly woman," constant effort and care, and the absence of anything
very flattering in her future, or inspiring in her present, wore upon
her, exhausting her vitality too rapidly for perfect health, as the
constantly increasing delicacy of her appearance testified. In truth,
when the spring opened, she found herself so languid and depressed as to
be hardly able to teach, in addition to her house-work. Then it was that
the gossips took up her case once more, and declared, with considerable
unanimity, that Mrs. Smiley was pining for the handsome Captain, after
all, and, if ever she had refused him, was sorry for it--thus revenging
themselves upon a woman audacious enough to refuse a man many others
would have thought "good enough for them," and "too good for" so
unappreciative a person.
With the first bright and warm weather, Willie went to spend a week with
his friend, and Mrs. Smiley felt forced to take a vacation. A
yachting-party were going over to the cape, and Captain Rumway was to
take them out over the bar. Rumway himself sent an invitation to Mrs.
Smiley--this being the first offer of amity he had felt able to make
since the previous July. She laughed a little, to herself, when the note
came (for she was not ignorant of the town-tattle--what school-teacher
ever is?) and sent an acceptance. If Captain Rumway were half as
courageous as she, the chatterers would be confounded, she promised
herself, as she made her toilet for the occasion--not too nice for
sea-water, but bright and pretty, and becoming, as her toilets always
were.
So she sailed over to the cape with the "young folks," and, as widows
can--particularly widows who have gossip to avenge--was more charming
than any girl of them all, to others beside Captain Rumway. The officers
of the garrison vied with each other in showing her attentions; and the
light-house keeper, in exhibiting the wonders and beauties of the place,
always, if unconsciously, appealed to Mrs. Smiley for admiration and
appreciation. Yet she wore her honors modestly, contriving to share this
homage with some other, and never accepting it as all meant for herself.
And toward Captain Rumway her manner was as absolutely free from either
coquetry or awkwardness as that of the most indifferent acquaintance.
Nobody, seeing her perfectly frank yet quiet and cool deportment with
her former suitor, could say, without falsehood, that she in any way
concerned herself about him; and if he had heard that she was pining for
him, he was probably undeceived during that excursion. Thus she came
home feeling that she had vindicated herself, and with a pretty color in
her face that made her look as girlish as any young lady of them all.
But, if Captain Rumway had reopened an acquaintance with Mrs. Smiley out
of compassion for any woes she might be suffering on his account, or out
of a design to show how completely he was master of himself, or, in
short, for any motive whatever, he was taken in his own devices, and
compelled to surrender unconditionally. Like the man in Scripture, out
of whom the devils were cast only to return, his last estate was worse
than the first, as he was soon compelled to acknowledge; and one of the
first signs of this relapse into fatuity was the resumption of work on
the unfinished house, and the ornamentation of the neglected grounds.
"I will make it such a place as she cannot refuse," he said to himself,
more or less hopefully. "She will have to accept the house and grounds,
with me thrown in. And whatever she is pining for, she _is_ pining,
_that_ I can see. It may be for outdoor air and recreation, and the care
which a husband only can give her. If it be that she can take them along
with me."
Thus it was, that when Chillis brought Willie home from his long visit
to the woods and streams, he saw the workmen busy on the Captain's
house. He heard, too, about the excursion to the cape, and the
inevitable comments upon Rumway's proceedings. But he said nothing about
it to Mrs. Smiley, though he spent the evening in the snug little
parlor, and they talked together of many things personally interesting
to both; especially about Willie's education and profession in life.
"He ought to go to college," said his mother. "I wish him to be a
scholarly man, whatever profession he decides upon afterward. I could
not bear that he should not have a liberal education."
"Yes, Willie must be a gentleman," said Chillis; "for his mother's sake
he must be that."
"But how to provide the means to furnish such an education as he ought
to have, is what puzzles me," continued Mrs. Smiley, pausing in her
needle-work to study that problem more closely, and gazing absently at
the face of her guest. "Will ten years more of school-teaching do it, I
wonder?"
"Ten years o' school-teachin', an' house-work, an' sewin'!" cried he.
"Yes, long before that you will be under the sod o' the grave-yard!
_You_ cannot send the boy to college."
"Who, then?"--smiling at his vehemence.
"_I_ will."
"You, Mr. Chillis? I thought...." She checked herself, fearing to hurt
his pride.
"You thought I was poor, an' so I am, for I never tried to make money.
_I_ don't want money. But there is land belongin' to me out in the
valley--five or six hundred acres--an' land is growin' more valuable
every year. Ten years from now I reckon mine would pay a boy's
schoolin'. So you needn't work yourself to death for that, Mrs. Smiley."
The tears sprang to the gray eyes which were turned upon him with such
eloquent looks. "It is like you," she said, in a broken voice, "and I
have nothing to say."
"You are welcome to my land, White Rose, an' there is nothin' _to_ be
said."
Then she bent her head over her sewing, feeling, indeed, that there was
little use for words.
"Do you know," he asked, breaking a protracted silence, "that you have
got to give up teachin'?"
"And do what? I might take to gardening. That would be better, perhaps;
I have thought about it."
"Let me see your hands. They look like gardenin': two rose-leaves! Don't
it make me wish to be back in my prime? Work for you! Wouldn't I love to
work for you?"
"And do you not, in every way you can? Am I to have no pride about
accepting so much service? What a poor creature you must take me for,
Mr. Chillis."
"There is nothin' else in the world that I think of; nothin' else that I
live for; an' after all it is so little, that I cannot save you from
spoilin' your pretty looks with care. An' you have troubled yourself
about me, too; don't think I haven't seen it. You fret your lovely soul
about the old man's trouble, when you can't help it--you, nor nobody.
An', after all, what does it matter about _me_? _I_ am nothin', and you
are everything. I want you to remember that, and do everything for your
own happiness without wastin' a thought on me. I am content to keep my
distance, ef I only see you happy and well off. Do you understand me?"
Mrs. Smiley looked up with a suffused face. "Mr. Chillis," she answered,
"you make me ashamed of myself and my selfishness. Let us never refer to
this subject again. Work don't hurt me; and since you have offered to
provide for Willie's education, you have lifted half my burden. Why
should you stand at a distance to see me happier than I am, when I am so
happy as to have such a friend as you? How am I to be happier by your
being at a distance, who have been the kindest of friends? You are out
of spirits this evening, and you talk just a little--nonsense." And she
smiled at him in a sweetly apologetic fashion for the word.
"That is like enough," he returned gravely; "but I want you to remember
my words, foolish or not. Don't let me stand in your light--not for one
minute; and don't forgit this: that Joe Chillis is happy when he sees
the White Rose bloomin' and bright."
Contrary to his command, Mrs. Smiley did endeavor to forget these words
in the weeks following, when the old mountain-man came no more to her
rose-embowered cottage, and when Captain Rumway invented many ingenious
schemes for getting the pale school-teacher to take more recreation and
fresh air. She endeavored to forget them, but she could not, though her
resolve to ignore them was as strong as it ever had been when her
burdens had seemed lighter! But in spite of her resolve, and in spite of
the fact that it could not be said that any encouragement had been given
to repeat his addresses, Rumway continued to work at his house and
grounds steadily, and, to all appearance, hopefully. And although he
never consulted Mrs. Smiley now concerning the arrangement of either, he
showed that he remembered her suggestions of the year before, by
following them out without deviation.
Thus quietly, without incident, the June days slipped away, and the
perfect July weather returned once more, when there was always a chair
or two out on the sunset porch at evening. At last Chillis re-appeared,
and took a seat in one of them, quite in the usual way. He had been
away, he said, attending to some business.
"An' I have fixed that matter all right about the boy's schoolin'," he
added. "The papers are made out in the clerk's office, an' will be sent
to you as soon as they are recorded. There are five hundred and forty
acres, which you will know how to manage better than I can tell you. You
can sell by and by, ef you can't yet the money out of it any other way.
The taxes won't be much, the land being unimproved."
"You do not mean that you have _deeded_ all your land to Willie?" asked
Mrs. Smiley. "I protest against it: he must not have it! Would you let
us rob you," she asked wonderingly. "What are _you_ to do, by and by, as
you say?"
"Me? I shall do well enough. Money is o' no use to me. But ef I should
want a meal or a blanket that I couldn't get, the boy wouldn't see me
want them long. Ef he forgot old Joe Chillis, his mother wouldn't, I
reckon."
"You pay too high a price for our remembrance, Mr. Chillis; we are not
worth it. But why do you talk of forgetting? You are not going away from
us?"
"Yes; I am goin' to start to-morrow for my old stampin' ground, east o'
the mountains. My only livin' son is over there, somewhar. He don't
amount to much--the Indian in him is too strong; but, like enough, he
will be glad to see his father afore I die. An' I want to git away from
here."
"You will come back? Promise me you will come back?" For something in
his voice, and his settled expression of melancholy and renunciation,
made her fear he was taking this step for a reason that could not be
named between them.
"It is likely," he said; "but ef I come or no, don't fret about me. Just
remember this that I am tellin' you now. The day I first saw you was the
most fortunate day of my life. Ef I hadn't a-met you, I should have died
as I had lived--like a creature without a soul. An' now I have a soul,
in you. An' when I come to die, as I shall before many years, I shall
die happy, thinkin' how my old hands had served the sweetest woman under
heaven, and how they had been touched by hers so kindly, many a time,
when she condescended to serve _me_."
What could she say to a charge like this? Yet say something she must,
and so she answered, that he thought too highly of her, who was no
better than other women; but, that, since in his great singleness of
heart, he did her this honor, to set her above all the world, she could
only be humbly grateful, and wish really to be what in his vivid
imagination she seemed to him. Then she turned the talk upon less
personal topics, and Willie was called and informed of the loss he was
about to sustain; upon which there was a great deal of childish
questioning, and boyish regret for the good times no more to be that
summer.
"I should like to take care of your boat," said he--"your hunting-boat,
I mean. If I had it over here, I would take mamma down to it every
Saturday, and she could sew and do everything there, just as she does at
home; and it would be gay, now, wouldn't it?"
"The old boat is sold, my boy; that an' the row-boat, and the pony, too.
You'll have to wait till I come back for huntin', and fishin', and
ridin'."
Then Mrs. Smiley knew almost certainly that this visit was the last she
would ever receive from Joe Chillis, and, though she tried hard to seem
unaffected by the parting, and to talk of his return hopefully, the
effort proved abortive, and conversation flagged. Still he sat there
silent and nearly motionless through the whole evening, thinking what
thoughts she guessed only too well. With a great sigh, at last he rose
to go.
"You will be sure to write at the end of your journey, and let us know
how you find things there, and when you are coming back?"
"I will write," said he; "an' I want you to write back and tell me that
you remember what I advised you some time ago." He took her hands,
folded them in his own, kissed them reverently, and turned away.
Mrs. Smiley watched him going down the garden-walk, as she had watched
him a year before, and noted how slow and uncertain his steps had grown
since then. At the gate he turned and waved his hand, and she in turn
fluttered her little white handkerchief. Then she sat down with the
handkerchief over her head, and sobbed for full five minutes.
"There are things in life one cannot comprehend," she muttered to
herself, "things we cannot dare to meddle with or try to alter;
Providences, I suppose, they are. If God had made a man like that for
me, of my own age, and given him opportunities suited to his capacities,
and he had loved me as this man loves, what a life ours would have
been!"
The summer weather and bracing north-west breezes from the ocean
renewed, in a measure, Mrs. Smiley's health, and restored her cheerful
spirits; and, if she missed her old friend, she kept silent about it, as
she did about most things that concerned herself. To Willie's
questioning she gave those evasive replies children are used to receive;
but she frequently told him, in talks about his future, that Mr. Chillis
had promised to send him to college, and that as long as he lived he
must love and respect so generous a friend. "And, Willie," she never
failed to add, "if ever you see an old man who is in need of anything;
food, or clothes, or shelter; be very sure that you furnish them, as far
as you are able." She was teaching him to pay his debt: "for, inasmuch
as ye have done it unto the least of these," he had done it unto his
benefactor.
September came, and yet no news had arrived from beyond the mountains.
Captain Rumway's house was finished up to the last touch of varnish. The
lawn, and the shrubbery, and fence were all just as they should be; yet,
so far as anybody knew, no mistress had been provided for them, when,
one warm and hazy afternoon, Mrs. Smiley received an invitation to look
at the completed mansion, and pass her judgment upon it.
"I am going to furnish it in good style," said its master, rather
vauntingly, Mrs. Smiley thought, "and I hoped you would be so good as to
give me your assistance in making out a list of the articles required to
fit the house up perfectly, from parlor to kitchen."
"Any lady can furnish a list of articles for each room, Mr. Rumway, more
or less costly, as you may order; but only the lady who is to live in
the house can tell you what will please _her_;" and she smiled the very
shadow of a superior smile.
Mr. Rumway had foolishly thought to get his house furnished according to
Mrs. Smiley's taste, and now found he should have to consult Mrs.
Rumway's, present or prospective, and the discovery annoyed him. Yet,
why should he be annoyed? Was not the very opportunity presented that he
had desired, of renewing his proposal to her to take the establishment
in charge? So, although it compelled him to change his programme, he
accepted the situation, and seized the tide at flood.
"It is that lady--the one I entreat to come and live in it--whose wishes
I now consult. Once more will you come?"
Mrs. Smiley, though persistently looking aside, had caught the eloquent
glance of the Captain's dark eyes, and something of the warmth of his
face was reflected in her own. But she remained silent, looking at the
distant highlands, without seeing them.
"You must have seen," he continued, "that notwithstanding your former
answer, I have been bold enough to hope you might change your mind; for,
in everything I have done here, I have tried to follow your expressed
wishes. I should in all else strive to make you as happy as by accepting
this home you would make me. You do not answer; shall I say it is
'yes?'" He bent so close that his dark, half-curling mop of hair just
brushed her golden braids, and gave her a little shock like electricity,
making her start away with a blush.
"Will you give me time to decide upon my answer, Mr. Rumway?"
"You asked for time before," he replied, in an agitated voice, "and,
after making me suffer a week of suspense, refused me."
"I know it," she said simply, "and I was sorry I had asked it; but my
reasons are even more imperative than they were then for wishing to
delay. I want to decide right, at last," she added, with a faint attempt
at a smile.
"That will be right which accords with your feelings, and certainly you
can tell me now what they are--whether you find me the least bit lovable
or not."
The gray eyes flashed a look up into the dark eyes, half of mirth and
half of real inquiry. "I think one might learn to endure you, Mr.
Rumway," she answered, demurely. "But"--changing her manner--"I can not
tell you whether or not I can marry you, until--until--well," she
concluded desperately--"it may be a day, or a week, or a month. There is
something to be decided, and until it is decided, I can not give an
answer."
Captain Rumway looked very rebellious.
"I do not ask you to wait, Mr. Rumway," said Mrs. Smiley, tormentingly.
"Your house need not be long without a mistress."
"Of course, I must wait, if you give me the least ground of hope. This
place was made for you, and no other woman shall ever come into it as my
wife--that I swear. If you will not have me, I will sell it, and live a
bachelor."
Mrs. Smiley laughed softly and tunefully. "Perhaps you would prefer to
limit your endurance, and tell me how long you _will_ allow me to
deliberate before you sell and retire to bachelorhood?"
"You know very well," he returned, ruefully, "that I shall always be
hoping against all reason that the wished-for answer was coming at
last."
"Then we will say no more about it at present."
"And I may come occasionally to learn whether that 'something' has been
decided?"
"Yes, if you have the patience for it. But, I warn you, there is a
chance of my having to say 'No.'"
"If there is only a chance of your having to say 'No,' I think I may
incur the risk," said Rumway, with a sudden accession of hopefulness;
and, as they walked home together once more, the gossips pronounced it
an engagement. The Captain himself felt that it was, although, when he
reviewed the conversation, he discovered that he founded his impression
upon that one glance of the gray eyes, rather than upon anything that
had been said. And Mrs. Smiley put the matter out of mind as much as
possible, and waited.
One day, about the last of the month, a letter came to her from over the
mountains. It ran in this wise:
"MY LOVELY LADY: I am once more among the familyar seanes of 40
year ago. My son is hear, an' about as I expected. I had rather
be back at Clatsop, with the old bote; but, owin' to circumstances
I can't controll, think it better to end my dais on this side ov
the mountains. You need not look for me to come back, but I send
you an' the boy my best love, an' hope you hav done as I advised.
"Yours, faithfully, til deth,
"JOE CHILLIS."
Soon after the receipt of this letter, Captain Rumway called to inquire
concerning the settlement of the matter on which his marriage depended.
That evening he stayed later than usual, and, in a long confidential
talk which he had with Mrs. Smiley, learned that there was a condition
attached to the consummation of his wishes, which required his
recognition of the claims of "poor old Joe" to be considered a friend of
the family. To do him justice, he yielded the point more gracefully
than, from his consciousness of his own position, could have been
expected.
The next day, Mrs. Smiley wrote as follows:
"DEAR MR. CHILLIS: I shall move into the new house about the
last of October, _according to your advice_. We--that is, myself,
and Willie, and the present owner of the house--shall be delighted
if you will come and stay with us. But if you decide to remain
with your son, believe that we think of you very often and very
affectionately, and wish you every possible happiness. R. agrees
with me that the land ought to be deeded back to you; and _I_
think you had best return and get the benefit of it. It would
make you very comfortable for life, properly managed, and about
that we might help you. Please write and let us know what to do
about it.
"Yours affectionately,
"ANNIE SMILEY."
No reply ever came to this letter; and, as it was written ten years ago,
Mrs. Rumway has ceased to expect any. Willie is about to enter College.