The light of the just-risen moon shone upon the black letters of the
guide-post which said that it was one mile to Clear Lake Settlement, and
illuminated as lonely a region as could be found in the whole world. On
one side of the snowy road a deep pine wood rose tall and dark against
the evening sky. On the other were stretches of field and marsh-land,
which, even when warm and green with summer, had a desolate aspect, with
their background of low, monotonous hills, and both before and behind
were more lonesome hills, more dreary fields, and black masses of
woodland. Not one homely roof was visible in the hard, white moonlight,
nor the glimmer of a lamp, nor a waft of chimney-smoke; not even the
tinkle of a sleigh-bell or a foot-step was to be heard. The silence
seemed whispering to the hills. One star glimmered in the orange
after-glow of sunset.
It had been an unusually warm day for late December, and the faint,
delicate scent of melting snow was still in the air, though it was
growing crisp and cold and icicles were forming on the branches of the
trees.
Two paths which diverged widely as they trailed through the woods came
almost together as they reached the road, and presently from one of
these paths emerged the dark figure of a man carrying a lighted lantern.
Stepping into the road, he paused for a moment at the opening of the
other path, and, hearing footsteps and a slow, grave voice humming an
old love-song, leaned against the creaking guide-post and waited for the
singer to approach. He was young, apparently not over twenty-eight or
nine years, was dressed like a lumberman, and was of somewhat broad and
clumsy build. But in his face, which was clearly revealed by the
flickering flame of the lantern, though he stood in deep shadow, there
was no coarse rusticity. The full but finely-formed features had a most
gentle and amiable cast, resembling those of one of Raphael's cherubs in
their halo of yellow hair. A grave smile lingered in his sea-blue eyes.
As he listened to the voice, however, a look, half amusement, half
annoyance, crossed his mild countenance, and his smiling eyes became
steel-colored and flashed with something like anger; but it was only for
an instant.
"Halloo! that you out o' the woods, John Barker?" he called, in a
smooth, pleasant tone.
"'Pears tew be; 'n' yeou, Reube Wetherbee,--it seems yeou're eout er the
woods, tew."
"Of course I am; but then I don't hev ter travel twelve or fifteen miles
ter git ter the settlement. How about the dance to-morrow night? Your
camp goin' ter turn out?"
"Some o' the hands catilate ter go, I b'lieve."
"But a sober feller like you don't care for such kind er jollifications
much, I reckon."
"I was thinkin' o' goin'."
"Ah! 'n' that accounts for your journey to the settlement to-night.
Goin' to the tavern, of course. I say, man, we're bound there on the
same arrand. What's goin' to be done about it?"
"What do you mean, Reube Wetherbee?" exclaimed Barker, with a deep frown
upon his rugged features, which looked almost grotesque in the delicate
moonlight.
"Oh, you know what I mean, well enough, John, and you may as well take
it calmly. When two men take a farncy to the same woman there's likely
to be some sarse between 'em; but that's no use. Now, we're both got to
the same point on our way ter ask Drusy to go ter the dance. Your legs
may be a little longer'n mine, 'n' if we should try a race you might
reach the tavern a minute before me, 'n' you might not, for I'm pretty
nimble 'n' all-fired long-winded. So I say, let's have things fair 'n'
square. I've got a pack of cards in my pocket, 'n' I'm fur goin' into
Jones's old camp--it's only a few steps beyond here, in the edge of the
woods, you know--'n' playin' it out."
"I guess I kin resk it 'n' take my chances as they come," said Barker,
in a voice which sounded husky and strange. And he took great strides
along the crisp white road.
"Your chances! Why, you know, man, if I should get there first you
wouldn't have the ghost of a chance, 'n' if we should get there at the
same time do you s'pose she'd say yes to you 'n' no to me? To speak up
frank, she don't seem to set great store by neither of us, but she
favors me full as much as she does any other feller, that's certain. I
doubt whether she'd go to the dance even with me, though. There's
something the matter. Hang it if I don't sometimes think she's got
another feller down-river where she come from. Still, she's been to
Jones's pritty near a year now, 'n' he ain't put in an appearance, 'n'
she never gets a letter from anybody, Mrs. Jones says."
"What is it to yeou, enyhow?" blazed Barker. "Keep yer suspicionin', as
well as yer blarsted consate, ter yerself. I don't want ter hear yeou
talk about her. Where's Henrietty Blaisdell? What right hev yeou ter
take a farncy ter another woman, when yeou've been a-keepin' company
with her for a year 'n' more? 'N' yeou pryin' raound ter see if Drusy
gits letters--"
"Nonsense, John! As I said before, sarse won't set things straight, 'n'
I've just as good a right as you or any other man ter make up to Drusy.
I ain't bound to Henrietta."
"Rights seem diffrunt to diffrunt folks, I catilate. Enyhow, I hain't
a-goin' ter listen ter eny more ov your tongue. I'm a-goin' along, 'n'
you kin go ahead or foller as it suits you."
"Well, now, it seems ter me that we're in a kind ov embarrassin' fix,
'n' the cards would be a consolin' way to git out of it. If--"
"Come along, then, but quit chinnin' about Drusy."
And the two men turned back into the woods, in whose weird darkness the
light of Reube's lantern was no more than that of a firefly. The
moonlight stole into little openings, outlined the trees upon the
glittering sward, and hovered like a ghost on the path before them. The
camp was a somewhat ruinous affair, but had lately been occupied by a
party of surveyors. With the blaze of a great fire its interior might
have been cheerful, but, as it was, it seemed a ghostly, haunted place,
filled with mysterious sounds and shadows. One feeble moon-ray struggled
through the foliage of a tall pine-tree, and, reaching down the wide
smoke-hole overhead, searched the ashes on the hearthstone with a pallid
finger. The wind rustled among some dead vines which reached through the
chinks between the logs, and made a creeping sound like footfalls over
the snow-covered plank floor.
Wetherbee placed his lantern upon the creaking old shelf which served
for a table, and, seating themselves upon a bench, the two men commenced
their game with deep earnestness. Barker's features were white and set;
his strong arm trembled as he handled the cards, and his breath came
quick and hard.
It was as if he were staking his life upon the play, as if his whole
fate were to be decided by it.
"Great Jupiter, man! don't look like that," said Wetherbee, regarding
him for the first time as the game proceeded.
"I've been feelin' as if 'twas a case of life 'n' death myself, 'n', by
George, it's no wonder, this place is so all-fired uncanny. They used
ter say the camp was haunted; 'n' I b'lieve it."
A great gray owl, which had flown from his abiding-place in a hollow
tree near by and perched upon the roof just on the edge of the
smoke-hole, gave utterance to something which sounded like a mocking
peal of laughter.
Both men started violently.
"Blarst the owl!" said Wetherbee angrily, throwing a piece of wood
through the hole to frighten it away.
Then the play proceeded silently until finally Wetherbee, who had been
steadily winning from the first, made the last deal and threw upon the
table the lucky cards which decided him to be the victor.
"I knowed how 'twould be from the fust," said Barker; "but p'r'aps
'twon't make no great diff'rence, after all."
And the men left the camp and walked silently together to the
settlement.
Jones's Tavern, as it was called, a large white house with a piazza in
front and a long, low ell, stood in the midst of the primitive little
settlement, and was a favorite retreat of the lumbermen whenever they
had the good fortune to get out of the woods, as well as the
stopping-place of the overseers and the men with supply-teams on their
way to and from the camps.
"Here's two more fellers for the darnse," said the landlord, who was
pouring out a glass of spiced cider for a sturdy young backwoodsman who
had evidently just arrived. "A darnse is about equil to Fourth o' July,
'n' brings the boys out thicker 'n bees in a berry-pastur'. Haul up ter
the fire 'n' hev somethin' warmin'. Soft weather fur lumberin', hain't
it?"
With a nod and regretful glance at a handsome young woman who was wiping
teacups at the other end of the room, which was extremely long and had a
fireplace at one end and a cooking-stove at the other, Barker accepted
the invitation. But Wetherbee, after exchanging greetings with the
landlord and his companion, went over to speak to the young woman, and
remained talking with her in an undertone for some time.
"The kitchen eend seems ter be the most 'tractable ter the fellers, in
spite of hot cider," remarked the landlord, with a laugh. "'N' what's
the mahter with yaou, John? Yaou 'pear ter be kinder daown 't the maouth
'n' absent-minded. Must ha' been pickin' up a gal. Well, a feller that's
courtin' hain't no stranger tew affliction, thet's a fact. I wuz a
bachelder once myself."
A deep crimson overspread Barker's honest countenance, but he did not
open his mouth.
"Git eout, square!" said the other lumberman, roaring. "I b'lieve yeou
was born a-jokin'."
The handsome young woman disappeared into the pantry. Wetherbee strode
toward the group by the fireplace with an air of forced unconcern.
"Well, good-night, folks: I'm off," said he. "I'm a-goin' to help trim
up the hall fur the dance, 'n' have got ter step pretty lively." And he
made signs to Barker to follow him out of doors.
"She won't go with me, John," he said, as soon as they were alone. "As I
said before, there's something the matter. But I ruther guess I shan't
be obliged to go without company, anyhow."
Barker's face lighted up with a look of relief, and as he watched
Wetherbee's retreating figure a little gleam of hope awoke in his
breast. He stopped out under the stars a few moments for reflection, and
the hope soon vanished.
"No; 'tain't no use," he said to himself. "She likes Reube better'n she
does me, 'n' she wouldn't go with him. It stan's ter reason she should
like him better. He's boss o' the gang, looks as smooth 'n' slick 's a
parson, 'n' he's been a schoolmaster, tew. Then he's got sich kinder
silky ways 'n' smiles. Not that I b'lieve in 'em much, but the
wimmen-folks do. Still, 'twon't do no harm ter ask her, 'n' I reckon
I'll do it, whuther er no."
When he entered the house again, the object of these reflections was
still in the pantry, mixing bread which was to be set to rise for
breakfast. She was a tall, rather slender young woman. A heavy mass of
jet-black hair crowned her small, well-set head. Her eyes, to quote one
of her backwoods admirers, were "jest the color o' swamp blue-berries,
and hed the same sort o' shiny mist in them." Her skin was dark, almost
swarthy, but a perpetual fire burned on her smooth, oval cheeks,
deepening and fading according to her moods. She wore the usual
every-day attire of the women of the region,--mistresses as well as
"hired girls,"--a dark-print gown, but, like Ophelia's rue, "it was worn
with a difference," fitting her lithe, graceful figure to perfection,
and set off by a dainty band of white and knot of ribbon at the throat.
Barker entered the pantry, and stood watching her at her work with
bashful admiration.
"Well, what is it, John?" said she, after an interval, looking up with a
smile which disclosed unexpected dimples about her mouth.
"Drusy," said he, coloring to the roots of his stiff, reddish hair, "I
don't s'pose it's of no use ter ask ye ter go ter the dance 'long o' me,
seein' as you've refused Reube, that is so much likelier lookin' 'n'
appearin' than I be; but I've footed it twelve mild out er the woods ter
ask fur yer company, 'n' neow I hain't goin' back without hearin' yeour
say abeout it, et least. I--"
"Oh, no, John; 'tain't the least use," said she, laughing and shaking
her head, "I ain't going with any man. As I told Reube, I engaged more'n
a week ago to be a beau for Mrs. Jones. The squire won't go, 'n' Tom
ain't old enough to be much protection, you know, though he's going to
drive down with us. P'r'aps, if I dance at all, I'll give you a dance
when we get there."
"I hain't no gre't fist at dancin', 'n' I hain't sure o' goin' ef you
won't go 'long o' me. Drusy, 'tain't none o' my business, 'n' I don't
want ter meddle, but it 'pears as some folks have been a-sayin' thet you
hev got a--a feller down-river. 'N' you're a-doin' jest right. Don't go
back on him, Drusy, fur no man that you ever liked could stan'
that,--never in the world. I don't catilate 'tis so 'coz you won't go
'long o' me, but--"
"What right have folks to say or think any such thing?" she asked
indignantly, a painful crimson overspreading her whole face, her throat,
and the tips of her small ears.
But the man's face was so white, so expressive of pain, that the look
of anger melted into one of surprised pity.
"Drusy, we've got to git dinner fur twenty-five to-morrow. I'm afeard we
shan't be very nimble fur the dance," said Mrs. Jones, appearing at that
moment.
Barker disappeared, and a few moments later was walking swiftly back
again to the camp, twelve miles through the lonely woods.
Contrary to prediction, the next morning was fair and bright, flushed
with pink and warmed with sunshine to its golden heart. It was
acknowledged to be the "beatinest" winter weather that ever was
known,--a thaw that was not enough of a thaw to make the roads
impassable, and without rain. The rude little settlement was alive long
before the sun was up. Candles and lanterns flitted to and fro. The
people were all eager and alert. Even the dogs and roosters seemed to
feel the unusual excitement in the air, and gave vent to their most
prolonged and jubilant utterances. The storekeeper opened his
establishment at six o'clock, and found customers already waiting on the
steps. Sledges and sleighs came tinkling in from the woods and remote
clearings. One young girl, wearing moccasins and a jaunty bear-skin
jacket, had walked five miles to borrow a white petticoat to wear to the
dance. Another travelled ten, by way of an ox-team, to obtain a pair of
open-work stockings from a friend who was asthmatic and could not go.
Even dresses were lent for the occasion; and during his ten years'
sojourn at the settlement the storekeeper had never reaped such a
harvest as he did on that day.
Toward night the air grew crisper and colder, as it had done on the day
before. The sledge-runners crunched over the snow, and there was a
little frosty tinkle to the bells, which woke every wood-track with its
cheery melody, floated down the ice-bound river, echoed across the lake
and along the well-trodden main road. The hall at the Forks where the
dance was to be held--a bare, unfinished apartment, built for the use
of, but not yet taken possession of by, the town--was decorated in the
most elaborate manner, but chiefly with small flags and strips of cloth
in red, white, and blue, as if for some patriotic occasion. A stuffed
eagle nestled in a bower of evergreen, holding a banner emblazoned with
the stars and stripes in his huge bill. The clock was encircled in a
wreath of paper roses, as was also the picture of Daniel Webster, which,
having an oval frame, caused the great statesman to look as if he were
masquerading for a May queen.
Barker arrived at the festive scene just in time to assist Mrs. Jones
and Drusy from their sleigh. Dancing had already commenced, though it
was not yet eight o'clock. And what a motley crowd it was which moved to
the lively measures of "Money Musk"! Several of the ladies as well as
the men were tripping the "light fantastic toe" in moccasins. Girls in
calico gowns wore wreaths of artificial flowers upon their heads.
Henrietta Blaisdell, a fat, shapeless girl with a freckled face, whose
father owned more pine timber than any other man in the county, wore
black silk, and was regarded with something like awe by the less
fortunate ones in calico and homespun. Drusy was handsomer than ever, in
a soft woollen gown of dull blue, with a red rose in the masses of her
black hair and another at her throat. The schoolmistress, a pretty
blonde, who was also a belle, wore white muslin, with a gay ribbon about
her waist. Nearly all the men wore red shirts, but the tie of their
cravats betokened careful study. Barker sported a gorgeous waistcoat,
ornamented with brilliant flowers of all the colors in the rainbow,
which he had purchased for the occasion from the cook at the camp, who
had inherited it from an uncle that had died twenty years before. And
from this same youth, who was too bashful to go to the dance himself, he
obtained the loan of a pair of embroidered slippers which had been sent
to him by a sister in the Far West. Wetherbee wore an ordinary cloth
suit, made by a city tailor, and was by far the best-dressed and most
gentlemanly-looking man in the room.
When Drusy appeared upon the scene he was dancing the first dance with
Henrietta Blaisdell. He tossed her one of his pleasant smiles as he
whirled breathlessly past, and her eyes followed him with a look which
poor Barker would have given worlds to interpret as he stood sad and
humble in all his unwonted magnificence by her side. The fiddler, who
was a tin-peddler and a poet and the teacher of a "cipherin'-school," as
well as a musician, played with great gusto, and was continually calling
upon the dancers to "warm up 'n' shake their heels more lively."
"Here, you Joe, you're quick enough at figgers, but you don't handle
them moggersons o' yourn in no kind er time," he shouted to a clumsy
lumberman, whose partner, a stout, energetic young woman, was scarlet in
the face with her exertions to drag him about to the fierce time of the
music.
Drusy laughed. "I don't care about that kind of dancing," said she.
"It's a reg'lar whirlwind."
"I was a-goin' ter ask ye ter dance 'long o' me, Drusy, only I was 'most
afeard tew, fur I knowed I shouldn't keep step," said Barker timidly.
"Reube seems ter be a-keepin' his balance fust-rate, but I hain't built
so genteel es he is, nor hed the experiunce, neither." And he sighed
deeply.
"I ain't going to dance at all, John. I'd much rather look on. I think
it's real fun to see 'em scramble about."
He brightened at this, but soon became a prey to melancholy again, for
as soon as the dance was over a crowd of men pressed to Drusy's side.
Not even Henrietta Blaisdell or the pretty schoolmistress received half
as much attention. The fact of her being a "hired girl" at the "tahvern"
rather added to than detracted from her social importance, and there was
a charm about her gay, gracious manner and bright beauty which was
irresistible.
"Reube seems ter be tryin' tew make up with Henrietty ag'in," whispered
one of the lumbermen to his sweetheart. "He's been kinder strayin' off
in the direction of the tahvern lately; but pine timber's more takin'
then good looks tew some folks."
"Likely ez not Drusy won't hev nothin' tew say tew him," said the girl.
"That gawky-lookin' John Barker 'pears tew be hangin' raound her
consid'able. 'Twould be kind er funny ef she should like him better."
And she laughed scornfully.
Barker overheard this, and the girl's words, and, above all, her
laughter, stung him to the quick. He leaned against the patriotic wall
and meditated bitterly.
Reube came over and stood by Drusy's side, and they talked in a low,
interested tone. She never talked to him in that way, never listened to
what he had to say with such half-shy, half-coquettish attention. But
she would not dance, even with Reube.
The sleigh-bells of some late-comers came tinkling up to the door.
"Why, Sam, what's kept ye so? It's 'most nine o'clock," exclaimed one of
the lumbermen to a red-shirted comrade who came hurrying into their
midst.
"Sick man at the camp. The doctor from the Mills hez jest been ter see
him, but said he couldn't do nothin' fur him; reckoned he'd be a goner
before mornin'."
"Sho! Who is it?"
"A feller by the name o' Seth Hardin'; boss in some lumber-consarn
daown-river; stopped ter the camp over-night on his way up ter Grand
Falls, 'n' was took with fever 'n' ravin' like a muskeeter 'fore
mornin'."
Drusy's face, which was rosy and smiling as she stood watching the
movements of a contra-dance, suddenly blanched, and she grasped a wooden
pillar as if for support. Her very lips were white.
"What's the matter, Drusy?" said Wetherbee, in a tone of gentle
solicitude.
She beckoned him aside.
"Reube," said she, the color surging into her cheeks again, "I must go
out to Fernald's camp. I must go at once. Oh, Reube! could you take me
there? Tom's gone over to the Point after his aunt Harriet with our
team, and there's no knowing when he'll get back. I _can't_ wait! I
_must_ go, this moment!" She clasped her hands tightly together and
looked pleadingly up into his face. "Don't hesitate, Reube. That dying
man is my husband."
"Your husband!" he exclaimed, with a strange flash in his mild blue
eyes, and with a pallor which almost equalled her own overspreading his
face for an instant. "I don't think you'd better set out for Fernald's
camp to-night, Drusy, 'Tis fifteen miles at the shortest, over the worst
road in the county. But if you think you must" (he glanced at Henrietta
Blaisdell, who was looking reproachfully at him, in all her bravery of
black silk), "I--I might find somebody to take you. Maybe the boy over
to Scott's stable, he'd know the way."
Drusy gave him a look which he did not soon forget. Was there not more
in it than baffled endeavor, than disappointed trust? Poor John Barker
saw it, and it lingered in his mind also. It was continually flashing
before his vision for years.
"Drusy," said John, "I hadn't no notion o' spyin' on yeou, but I was
a-standin' where I couldn't help overhearin' what yeou said. Yeou looked
kinder faint, 'n'-- Lemme take yeou ter Fernald's camp. I hain't got
nothin' to stop here fur, 'n' I kin git my hoss harnessed in a jiffy.
Some o' the fellers from eour camp rid in weth me, but they kin git a
chance on other teams,--'n' if not, they kin walk. I hain't got nothin'
but a hoss-sled to offer ye, but I guess I kin make it comfortable."
"Don't speak of that, John: I shan't forget your kindness in a hurry,"
said Drusy, with trembling lip.
The dance went on with jocund carelessness. Wetherbee disappeared with a
flushed and frowning countenance.
The horse-sled glided swiftly along over the crisp white road. The hills
were showing their barren beauty to the last look of the moon, which was
sinking slowly out of sight. Sudden gleams of silver by the wayside
betrayed the abiding-place of frozen streams. A tall maple-tree lifted
its bare branches to the sky, like skeleton fingers clutching a star.
Drusy sat silent and motionless in the bottom of the sled, while Barker
stood, tall and grim, beside her, holding the reins with a careful hand.
It was necessary for him to stand, that he might be able to see the
cradle-holes and humps in the road ahead of them, he said. The moon had
disappeared when they entered the woods, and the dense darkness was only
broken by an occasional star-gleam overhead and the red light of the
lantern which hung on one of the stakes of the sled.
"Drusy, did you care fur thet man thet's sick out ter the
camp--your--husban'?" said Barker, breaking the silence in a hesitating
tone.
"Oh, I did once, John, but he treated me badly; he--" Her voice broke in
a great sob; and after that neither spoke until they reached the camp,
though it was nearly an hour later.
The way was long and rough, and the night was growing intensely cold.
Once or twice he bent down and tucked the robes more closely about her.
But she did not heed the cold: she was lost in her own thoughts.
The camp, which they reached just before midnight, made a bright spot in
the darkness of the woods. The fire-light shone through every chink in
its dark logs, making red bars upon the snow.
The sick man was sleeping, and by his side sat the cook, who was acting
as nurse, an old man who had been a sailor and wore gold rings in his
ears. He was sleeping also, and from two bunks on the opposite side of
the camp came the audible evidence that others were in a like condition.
"Oh, he can't be so very bad: he can't be dying," said Drusy, seating
herself on the deacon-seat at the foot of the sick man's bed and peering
anxiously into his pinched and pallid face, which was illuminated by the
rays of the great fire.
"'Pears ter be more comfortable; the fever's kind er left him; but the
doctor says he's goin' fast. Sleeps 'most all the time now, but he's
mostly out of his head yit, pore feller! I hain't seen him ser quiet's
he is now fur days," said the old man drowsily.
Barker, having put up his horse, seated himself beside the cook, who
speedily relapsed into slumber again, his grizzly head drooping upon his
breast. Drusy crept on to the edge of the bunk and softly wiped away the
heavy moisture from the dying man's brow. He tossed uneasily upon his
bed of hemlock boughs, but did not waken: his breathing was a perpetual
moan, his fingers picked restlessly at the bedclothing.
The wind rose and stirred about the camp like the rustle of mysterious
garments, and blew fitfully the varied pipes in the pine boughs. The
great logs on the fire were dropping to scarlet coals, but Barker
hastened to pile on more fuel, though there was still sufficient warmth
from the huge pile. And so the night wore on. Toward morning the sick
man opened his eyes and fixed them steadily upon Drusy's face.
"Do you know me, Seth?" she asked, taking his hand within her own.
"Drusy, I ain't treated you well,--but you'll forgive me?" He spoke
slowly and painfully, making the most of his feeble breath. "It's all
over now, 'n' there's a little property left fur you. Squire Carter,
down home, 'll tell you about it. It's in his hands."
"Oh, Seth," sobbed Drusy, "I have been wrong too. I wasn't half so
patient 'n' forbearing as I ought to have been. I laid up things against
you that I ought to have forgot. Forgive me."
He smiled, holding her hand with a faint pressure, then closed his eyes
wearily and seemed to be sleeping.
Drusy choked down her sobs and watched him almost breathlessly. His
breath grew fainter and fainter; he was quiet now, and seemed at peace.
The wind died away. The dawn marched, like some still procession,
carrying flickering torches, into the woods. Tiny shafts of flame shot
through the dark pine branches. There was a bustle and rustle as of
light, hurrying feet. The clear clarion of the cocks sounded from
distant clearings. And with the first rays of the sun the soul of the
sick man departed into the Unknown.
"Ain't there nothin' I kin do fur ye 'baout the funeril, Drusy, or
kerryin' news tew the mourners?" said Barker, as he was about to leave
her at the door of the "tahvern," toward noon of the same day.
"No, thank ye, John; you're as kind as a brother; but his folks will
attend to all these things. The doctor's notified them already. His
father and two brothers are living down to Greenbush."
"Then I'll bid you good-by. I don't know when I shell see ye ag'in,
Drusy."
Hastening back to his own camp, he told the overseer that he must find
another man to take his place in the gang; and, another being at hand
who was ready to take it, he started the very next morning on his way
down the frozen Penobscot.
"I must put a good many more'n fifteen miles between us, or I can't
stan' it," he said to himself. "She'll merry Reube in a year er tew, 'n'
I won't never see her face ag'in. I warn't never superstitioned afore,
but when we was a-playin' them cards in that blarsted old camp I felt
how 'twas all a-goin' tew turn eout; as plain as A B C."
* * * * *
Four years passed away. Lake and river were unlocked by the spring rains
and sunshine, and then locked again by the winter frosts. Axes rang in
the pine woods, great logs went floating down the stream. Life at the
settlement jogged on in the same old fashion. The lumbermen came out of
the woods and flirted and frolicked with the girls and sat about the
"tahvern" fire in the long evenings. The few festivals were carried on
with the same old zest.
It was a bright afternoon. Drusy, who was still the hired girl at the
tavern, in spite of the "little property" her husband had left her, was
all alone in the kitchen, sitting pensively before the glowing stove.
She was little changed, save for a shade more of sadness in her eyes and
a somewhat fainter and more flickering fire upon her cheek.
Lost in thought, she did not heed the sleigh-bells which came tinkling
up to the door, and a tall man, very much muffled in furs, had entered
the house unawares and stood beside her chair.
"Oh, John, how glad I am that you have come!" she exclaimed, meeting his
honest, ugly smile. And she sprang from her seat with both hands
outstretched toward him, a glad light overspreading her whole face.
"Where have you been all this time?"
"Daown-river, keepin' store. 'N' I shouldn't never 'a' come back, Drusy,
only I heard haow you wouldn't hev Reube, 'n' he'd gone back 'n' merried
Henrietty. When I heard that I says tew myself, 'Naow I'll go up 'n' try
my hand, though 'tain't likely she'll hev enything favorable tew say tew
a gre't, rough, hulkin' feller like me.' Tell me, Drusy, could yeou ever
think o' hevin' me?"
"Could I ever? Why, I would have had you before, John, if you'd taken
the trouble to come up 'n' ask me."
"Great Jupiter! tew hear yeou say thet!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms
about her in a perfect rapture of joy.
And just then whom should fate send upon the scene but Reube Wetherbee!
He came in unobserved by the absorbed lovers, and stood gazing upon them
with a white face and flashing eyes.
"Reube, four years ago, as p'r'aps you'll remember, I played a game, 'n'
lost. Now I've been a-tryin' my hand ag'in, 'n' won," said John, who
turned suddenly and saw him there.
"So I should suppose," said Reube, with a great effort to be hearty and
friendly as well as unconcerned. "And I reckon 'twill be a wedding this
time instead of a dance."