through the water as a swallow might cut its surface, and in a moment I
was made happy by the sight of my father upholding the form of my dear
mother. At this I called to them, but they returned no answer to my
anxious cry; and at last, when we had reached the spot, I should still
have lost them except for the great strength of my companion, who,
stooping, lifted first my mother and then my father into the boat, and
they were safe.
Embracing them, with tears of joy, I stripped off my jacket and wrapped
it about my mother's form, and for this she gave me a gentle smile, but
speech or motion seemed gone from her forever. At the sight, my father,
who did not appear much the worse for his adventure, fell to chafing her
hands and limbs, I helping, and this with such vigor that in a little
while she was able to move and speak. Now, after some further respite,
my father turned about and thanked our rescuer with every show of love
and gratitude for what he had done. To this, however, the other made no
response, nor indeed appeared to have heard what was said to him. His
eyes, turned toward the shore, were fixed on the dark forest we were
fast approaching, and this as if there was naught else on earth.
Thinking he had not heard, my father thanked him again, and now more
earnestly. To this the chief at last responded, but without lowering
his gaze or manifesting any interest whatever in those about him.
"Thank La Reine! It is she, the soft-hearted, who has saved you, not
I."
"You, too, surely; and we can never thank you enough," my mother
answered, turning to him.
"Yes, and we shall treasure your memory as long as we live, for we owe
you our lives, and shall be ever grateful for it," my father again spoke
up.
"Speak not to me of gratitude, for it has no meaning in the mouths of
such as you. The voice of your race is ever thus soft-spoken, but only
that it may the better hide its treachery," the chief answered, but
absently and without passion, as if addressing an invisible spirit.
"Now and here, and to those we love and to whom we owe our lives, it is
true and as we say," my father answered, surprised out of himself at
what the other said.
"It is ever the same, and has no spark of life in it, more than the mist
above yonder troubled waters," the other answered, without lowering his
gaze. "It was with such speech that your race crept into my country,
and like a tide that rises in the night overcame and destroyed my
people, while they yet trusted and believed, and so it has always been."
"Surely that cannot be laid to us, for we have never injured your people
in any way. Tell us who you are, your name only, if you will, so that
we may treasure it as long as we live, and our children afterward," my
father cried in desperation, as if determined not to be thus put off.
"I have no name nor place in life," the chief answered, sorrowfully,
raising his eyes to the clouds that flew across the darkened sky. "In
my youth I trusted your race, and thought to live with it in peace,
dreaming of great and noble things for my people. In the end I have
done nothing, and dying shall leave no trace, more than the wind that
sweeps the tops of yonder trees, or the leaves that fall bitten by the
winter's frost. As soon seek to follow the flight of the bird that has
been snared or the path of the fish in the tumbling waters, for I have
done nothing, and have no home nor place among men. A king and the son
of kings, I dare not whisper my name lest the air betray it to my
enemies and I suffer unjustly! Coming among us, your race divided my
children, as the clouds are parted or the lightning cleaves the towering
cottonwood. Scattered, where are they? Ask the Great Spirit, for only
he can tell! Living in concord, you brought division; loving their
king, you sowed distrust; loyal, you planted treason; sober, you made
them drunk that you might buy their lands for a song. Now driven from
their birthplace, they seek in a strange land the home of those who have
no country; and I, coming back like a thief to visit the forests and
streams of my youth, dare not speak my name aloud. Thank me not, for it
is the act of the doe, the gentle-hearted La Reine, not I."
Ceasing, he raised his hand as if to forbid further speech, and giving
the paddle a deeper and longer sweep, quickly brought the boat into the
cove from whence we came. Securing the little craft, the chief took my
mother in his arms and carried her to the cabin, where a great fire now
welcomed our coming. Placing her upon a bed of furs, he spoke some
words to La Reine in her own tongue, and then taking the rifle from its
place, opened the door and went away. Nor did he return; and to all our
inquiries La Reine answered only, and sadly, that we should see him no
more. Nor would she tell his name, nor aught of his history save that
he was a chief whose people had been divided and scattered, yielding
their homes to the whites. Thus to their dying day my father and mother
knew not that it was Black Hawk, the Sac chief, who had saved their
lives. Nor I for many years, and then only by chance was I made
acquainted with it.
*CHAPTER V*
*THE SWATH OF THE HURRICANE*
When at last I saw my mother resting on the soft couch of furs in the
glow of the cheerful fire, my strength left me, and I fell forward on
her body as one dead. Such weakness, you must know, ever afflicted me
in my youth, though I sought to overcome it, as indicating the absence
of control that strong people have, but without any success until I was
near a man grown. When I returned to consciousness, my mother was
bending over me murmuring prayers and entreaties with the vain efforts
they were making to bring me back to life.
"My child, my sweet child, come back to me! Speak to your mother! Open
your eyes and smile, sweet one! O God, he does not breathe; he's dead,
my darling boy!" she cried at last, relaxing her efforts in a paroxysm
of grief; but I, regaining my senses as quickly as I had lost them,
clasped her about the neck and kissed her, crying out:
"I am not dead, mother, though I thought I'd lost you and pap, I was so
long away and the water was so cold."
"Oh, my sweet child!" was all the answer she could make, as she buried
her face in the soft pillow beside my own.
"Did you think I'd never come?" I asked caressing her hair and face.
"We heard you call back that you would bring us help, but we could see
no way, and were given over to despair and death when at last you
reached us. Oh, you were brave, my darling, to have planned as you did.
Surely God must have guided you."
"He did, dear mother, and except for your prayer I'd never have reached
the shore or known what to do once I got there"; and this, her prayer to
the good Lord to protect her son, has been a legacy of love and
tenderness to me to this day. For throughout all my life the sweet
vision has not faded, nor will to the end, nor afterward, I must
believe.
My father, now that the danger was past, appeared much cast down, and so
sat silent and despondent beside the pallet on which I lay. Seeing him,
I cried:
"Oh, pap, you looked so brave and grand as you struggled in the water!
and when I saw you with mother clinging about your neck I never loved
you half so much"; and reaching up I pulled him down and kissed him, and
doing so, my face was wet as with rain with his tears.
"Except for you, my son, our struggle had been in vain; for in a few
minutes we should have been drawn into the rapids, and that would have
been the end. I am glad you have shown yourself so strong, my child,
for your mother will soon need your young arms, I fear, for strength and
life seem forever dead within me," he answered, in a voice so full of
lugubrious forebodings that I cried out as if some great misfortune hung
over us. My mother, too, burying her face in my bosom, also began to
weep, and thus, despite our being saved, we all mourned as if some
dreadful mishap threatened.
"Oh, pap," I answered at last, "I'm too small to do more than love you
and come to you for everything I want, but we've got ourselves, and what
more is there? When I'm a man I'll give you all I have, and we will
make mother love us more and more every day."
To this he made no response, save a sob and the pressure of his hand,
which was icy cold. Nor did he ever afterward speak to me in the old
way, for from that time a dreadful melancholy seized him, which never
departed nor lightened, but grew steadily darker each day until the end.
For our present comfort there was not one thing lacking, the good Indian
woman nursing us as if we were her own children, so that in a little
while we were well and strong as before. As soon as my father had
rested, he set out in search of our companions, not returning till the
evening of the following day. Of those he sought, however, there was no
trace. All were lost, and with them the heaped-up wealth they had in
charge. Comforting my mother and refreshing himself, he started again,
but without result, save to recover the bodies of some of our companions
as they came to the surface far down the river. Of the treasure there
was no sign; the great rapids had sucked it down and so tossed and
dispersed it about that no trace of it could be discovered.
After many days' fruitless effort in this way my father gave up the
search; and now determining to return home, my little pony was brought
to the door for my mother to mount. Then as we were about to take our
departure, looking on our benefactress, we all with one accord burst
into tears at the remembrance of her kindness and the unhappy fate of
our late companions. At this the good La Reine, putting her arms about
my neck, kissed me, calling me her son, adding some words in her own
tongue that I did not understand. Then turning, she embraced and kissed
my mother, tears trickling down her sad face as she did so. Of money or
other valuables we had none to leave in remembrance of her kindness,
until my mother, bethinking her, loosened a great chain from about her
throat--my father's gift--and reaching down, clasped it about the neck
of our benefactress.
"We shall never forget you, dear mother," she said, tears running down
her face; "you have been our good angel, and may God bless you for your
love and kindness to us."
"The Great Spirit is good, and will keep all his children," La Reine
answered, sadly and in farewell.
Thus we took our departure, my father supporting my mother on one side
and I clasping the stirrup on the other. Looking back as we turned to
ascend the stream, we saw La Reine as we had left her before the little
hut, her eyes fixed on ours, a melancholy picture of gentleness and
lonely abandonment.
Our sad journey occupied many days, and oftentimes as we marched along
my mother would reach down, and lifting me up, fold me in her arms,
saying, "Let me hold you a minute, you little waif." Or maybe she would
place me behind her, "just to give your tired legs a little rest," she
would say, with an attempt at cheerfulness. Throughout the journey was
one of sorrow and dark forebodings, my father's melancholy growing
greater as the days went by. In such mood he would stride ahead like
one crazed, waving his hand fretfully back and forth before his eyes, as
if to shut out some horrible vision; or from being silent for a long
time, would suddenly cry out: "Oh, God, Jesus of Nazareth, are they all
gone, every one?" and at the remembrance great tears, like blots of ink,
would start in his weary eyes, and his face would flush as if the pain
of it was something too great to bear. Sweet mother! Angel of mercy!
How lovingly you watched over him during that long and weary journey,
and afterward. This as if he were an ailing child, and by love and
endearing words could be brought back to his former self; but vainly,
for no cheerful smile, nor trace of one, ever again showed itself in his
sad and haggard face.
When at last we reached home, the good people from far and near flocked
to our house to show their sorrow and mingle their tears with ours; and
of those who had lost the part or the whole of their fortune, no hint
was given that they in any way mourned. All alike were tender and
solicitous to lessen, if they might, the melancholy of my father, or
lighten the burden of my sorrowing mother. He, moving about as if
asleep or dead, mingled with the guests, saying nothing, gazing with
melancholy sweetness upon those who came to proffer aid, but accepting
naught. When at last they had gone their way and we were once more
alone, he straightway bestirred himself as in former times. Collecting
all his belongings, he forced them to sale for what they would bring,
dividing the proceeds among those who had suffered, giving most to the
families of those who were lost. Many sought to refuse, but he received
their overtures with such savage displeasure that no one was able,
finally, to decline what he offered. In this way we lost all we had,
and with it our home, which my mother had named Wild Plum, because of a
pretty grove of trees of this kind that grew near by. In its transfer
reservations were made which were much talked about at the time as in
some way likely to lessen the grief of my father; but vainly, for he
gave no thought to anything save to divide what he had among those who
had suffered.
Alas, if this had been all, or the end! But when there was nothing more
to give, the strain relaxing, he broke down, and this to his complete
undoing. The struggle in the river and the death of his followers, and
the losses of those who had suffered through him, brought on a fever of
the head, from which he had no sooner recovered than he was stricken
afresh. This last, passing away under my mother's care, was followed by
a more dreadful and final attack. Thus his life was wrecked, and with
it that of my mother, for the days of anxiety and the passing away of
her husband broke her heart. Awhile she struggled against the doom that
closed about her, but only feebly, and on account of her child. For she
had no desire to live, and so feeling, died, her last words being a
prayer for the welfare of her son.
Thus our little family, detached from its moorings by an untoward event,
floated for a while like driftwood on the turbulent stream, only at last
to be dispersed and lost. Saddest of days were these to me, for doubly
unfortunate is the child bereft of a mother's love. All the warmth and
sweet juices of life that make childhood a vision of love are lodged in
her breast, and with her gone the gates of heaven are as if closed
forever. In this way, and as I have described, there passed out of the
world's busy life two youthful and loving hearts that only a little
while before had fondly looked forward to a life of companionship and
sweet contentment.
*CHAPTER VI*
*LOVE'S IDEALS*
All men, and more especially those of a sympathetic nature, have in
their youth not one divinity only, but many, toward which their minds
turn with love and fond entreaty. Afterward, when these romantic
attachments have given place to other and more serious things, our lives
are still colored by them, and to our lasting benefit. For such
attachments, however evanescent, shape the destinies of men and sweeten
their lives as with the gentle fragrance of a flower.
Nor are we less sincere in youth because the glass that reflects the
image of our love to-day shadows forth another picture quite as
attractive on the morrow. All are real, and add to the attractiveness
of men's lives, as does every comforting or ennobling thought. The
opening prospect of youth ever mirrors the present to the exclusion of
the future, for which it has no thought; and, similarly, the newness of
the world and its constant changes crowd out the imagery of yesterday
with the expectations of to-day. For that which is past there is, for
the present, no retrospective glance. Its attachments and delusions,
however, are none the less real, and though seemingly without purpose,
serve to enrich the heart and build up a love of life's graces that
sweetens and softens the character of men forever afterward. Lacking
such food, the mind and heart are deficient in the things that make men
something more than animals. For the imagery of life, be it good or
bad, has its growth in youth, but its pictures pass so quickly, one upon
the other, that only in after years do they recur to charm our lives
with their reflected glow or darken it with their somber shadows.
These thoughts, however trite they may be, recur to me now when I recall
the memory of my mother. So long as she lived she possessed my
tenderest affection, and nowhere except in her could I discern all that
was good and beautiful in woman. While, however, I set her thus apart,
a being to revere and worship, other imaginings of which I was not
conscious were already beginning to light the fires of love along the
pathway of my opening life. Looking back now over the fast-fading years
of my youth, I cannot recall any period that did not thus have its
imagery of love--its reflection of a youthful face set about with some
sweet femininity that attracted and held me, but unobtrusively as a lily
might take my fancy or the green of a meadow bordered about with trees
and flowers. Such impressions have no consciousness at the time, and
are doubly tender and lasting because thus expressionless; for woven in
with the little things of life, they form the ideals of our youth and
the tender strands that expand the heart and make mature existence
tolerable.
In my mother I saw perfection, and if I found in another some sweet
intrusion of character or line of beauty, it was but a reflection of
something more perfect in her. Because of this great love, I have ever
esteemed it the most happy circumstance of my being that at the time of
losing her there should have come into my life one who was like her in
gentleness and sweetness of character. So that while I ever cherished
her memory with tenderest affection, I could never afterward picture her
as different in any way from the sweet being who now came to take her
place in all the dreams and longings of my life.
Such was Constance Seymour, of whom I speak; and it being true that we
were both motherless and in a measure forlorn in the world, we
straightway came to love each other, and in that sweet solace of life
found the contentment and happiness our hearts so greatly craved; and it
was wholly due to her love and gentle nature that I did not lose
interest in the soft amenities of life after my mother's death or cease
to make some effort to fulfill the aims to which she had so hopefully
looked forward. Thus buoyed and cheered in my new life, and with my
heart overflowing with love for the sweet creature, and desire above all
things for her good opinion, I was able to look upon the mishaps that
befell me as things not worth considering in comparison with the
happiness of being thought well of by her.
*CHAPTER VII*
*GILBERT'S FLIGHT*
Thus, in the way I have described, my life passed without any great
shock from the old to the new, and now, some time having elapsed and
Constance being with me, I passed my last day at Wild Plum happily, if
not in forgetfulness of what had gone before. Together we visited the
little brook and the red-leaved plum-trees and the great forest beyond,
on the edge of which we had passed so many happy hours. Every place
about the old home we visited, my leave-taking of each sweet belonging
being so filled with her dear companionship that its melancholy was for
the moment quite lost upon me. This, however, was always the way, her
presence causing me to forget what was sorrowful in life in the delight
of being near her.
When at last the sun was well down in the west, and the shadows of the
forest ran far into the unkempt prairie, giving its grasses a darker
hue, Constance's father came to take her home in the way it had been
planned. I was to go to my Aunt Jane's, my father's sister, to become
her ward, and henceforth to make my home with her. This disposition of
my life occasioned me much unhappiness, for she was in all things a most
unlovable woman, her unsympathetic nature and icy heart showing all too
plainly in her formal manner and cold, impassive face. She was now in
middle life, alert and active, and with eyes of steely blue that chilled
those on whom they rested like shadows from off a bank of snow. For all
this, it is proper to say she was held in high esteem by her neighbors,
and in such awe, too, that mothers in their far-off, lonely farmhouses
conjured her name at night to quiet their unruly children. This as it
was told me, but whether truly or not I do not know. Of my father's
mishap it was said she cautioned him beforehand against risking all he
had, and on his return sought to put new hope and courage in his heart,
but unavailingly. After the disaster, she came more frequently to our
house than had been her wont, my father and she being often closeted
together for hours at a time. Of the nature of their conference we knew
nothing, save much anger and loud talk upon her part at times, but from
him not a word. It was not known how much she lost by his failure, but
it did not seem to depress her in any way, for now she carried on her
farm and other enterprises with greater spirit than before, and soon--so
it was talked among our neighbors--she had more than made good her
losses in the new ventures she had undertaken. Certain it is that she
began again to dicker and trade as when my father acted for her, and now
not less to her advantage than before.
It was this energetic lady that had arranged for me to come and live
with her, and who was there to dispute anything she had set her heart
upon? Certainly no one in Little Sandy or thereabout; and to me, being
but a youth and of little account, she had never even mentioned the
subject. Nor did she notice me any more now than before, save one day
she drew me to her knee and stroked my hair and made as if she would say
some pleasant thing, but whether because of the expression of my face or
its resemblance to my mother's I know not, she put me to one side
without vouchsafing so much as a word. Because of these things I had
come to fear and hate her, and now looked forward to living under her
roof with gloomy discontent; but so it must be, and I neither thought
nor planned otherwise. This she well knew, and being a woman regardful
of outlay, had said it was a needless expense to take legal steps to
acquire possession of my body; for who was there that would question her
right to such possession? In this it was thought she acted with her
usual prudence, for no one so much as hinted at any other arrangement.
Mr. Job Throckmorton, my mother's brother and my only relative save Aunt
Jane, had come post-haste across the country on hearing of my mother's
death, and to him I had looked with some hopefulness, but vainly, it
appeared, for he made no sign. Nor ought I to have thought it likely,
for he was only a young man, and had his way to make in the world, and
so could not be expected to encumber himself with so helpless a burden
as I. In this way, and as I say, it fell out that I was now to go to my
Aunt Jane's as her ward and to make her house my home.
When Mr. Seymour drove up, Constance and I took a sad farewell of each
other, for henceforth my life was to be circumscribed, no one could tell
how much. Mr. Seymour, however, took no notice of us as we stood beside
the wagon peering into each other's faces, but busied himself arranging
and rearranging the robes as if much depended upon what he was doing.
When at last they were fixed to his liking and Constance was seated
beside him, he looked down upon me, and cried out in a cheerful voice:
"Now, my gay young spark, have you decided to go with us or stay here
and await your aunt?"
"I'd like to go with you if I could," I answered, after a while, not
understanding what he meant.
"Well, climb up, then, and we will show her a transformation scene she
will remember all her bright and sunny life."
Not comprehending him in any way, I stood still, staring upward into his
smiling face.
"Come, come, my son, be quick! We are losing time, and every moment is
precious," he went on, when he saw I did not stir.
"I don't know what you mean," I answered. "I thought Aunt Jane was to
come for me at sunset and that I was to go with her."
"She was, and if you are that way inclined, all right. I will not
interfere; but Mr. Throckmorton thought you were greatly averse to going
to her home."
"I am; but what else can I do, unless I run away?" I asked.