Job had told you about his plans?"
"No; but will you help me?" I asked, excited at the prospect of thus
escaping my aunt.
"Yes; and it is for that partly that I am here. So climb up and I will
smuggle you into town, and once there, hide you where even your Aunt
Jane's bright eyes can never find you. Afterward, if we need talk about
that now, you are to go away with your Uncle Job." The hope thus held
out so unexpectedly filled me with a happiness I cannot describe, but
still I did not move, so greatly was I stirred by what he said. "We have
planned to do this from the start, Gilbert," Mr. Seymour went on, seeing
me hesitate. "There was no other way, you must know, for your aunt
would have fought us through all the courts in the state if we had
openly defied her. So be quick if you like the plan, and we will be off
before it is too late."
I did like the plan, and so climbed into the wagon without further loss
of time. When we had gone some little way on the road, seeing Aunt Jane
coming toward us, Mr. Seymour pushed me down into the bed of the wagon,
drawing the blanket tightly above my head. In a moment, however, and as
if in comfort of my seclusion, Constance's hand crept beneath the robe,
and feeling about, rested at last warm and loving against my cheek.
Pressing it to my lips, I was content, nor wished, if I could, to stir
from where I knelt.
"Now, Gilbert, hold your breath, for here is your loving aunt," Mr.
Seymour exclaimed a moment afterward, pulling up his horses.
"Good evening, Miss Holmes," he spoke up, politely, as she stopped
beside our wagon; "I hope you are quite well and that nothing has
occurred to mar the happiness of your life."
"Thank you, I am very well," my aunt answered, but as if not desiring to
prolong the interview.
"I have just been over to Wild Plum after Constance, who has been
spending the day with your nephew," he went on. "A wild lad that, Miss
Holmes."
"Indeed, it was very kind of Constance," my aunt answered, but not as if
at all pleased with his familiarity.
"I suppose you are on your way to get the young scape-grace. He told us
you thought to come after him," Mr. Seymour continued, appearing not to
notice her manner.
"Yes, I am on my way to bring my nephew home," she answered, coldly.
"Well, I hope you will find him all you desire, but I fear he will not
be much comfort to you."
"I know of no reason why you should speak in that way," she replied,
with some heat.
"Perhaps, madam; but take my advice, and look well to him, for if I ever
saw a roving vagabond he is one. There, there, Constance, keep still,
will you? The lad's slippery, Miss Holmes, slippery, and upon my soul I
believe he had it in his mind to decamp when we came away. I never saw
anything stamped in a lad's face more plainly," Mr. Seymour answered,
soberly.
"You are too severe, Mr. Seymour," Aunt Jane replied. "He has been
allowed to do as he pleased since his father's mishap; but he is not
bad, and will make a good man, you may be sure."
"I am sure you will make a man of him if it is possible, madam, although
you have not had much experience with children," Mr. Seymour answered,
dryly. "They are a troublesome set, Miss Holmes," he went on, "or at
least I have found it so, and that makes it the more surprising to me
that you should want to undertake so difficult a task."
"Thank you; but my brother's child is mine, and I will do by him as he
would have done had he lived; but I will not detain you longer, Mr.
Seymour. Good night," Aunt Jane answered, curtly, cutting short the
interview.
"The evening is likely to be chilly, madam," Mr. Seymour replied,
pleasantly; "can't you make use of this robe? We have another in the
bottom of the wagon"; and he laid his hand on the blanket that hid me,
as if he would gladly give it up, but my aunt answered back that she
would do very well with the one she had, and so drove away. "A
determined woman that, Constance, and with a wonderful head for affairs.
There is not a man in the county half as smart," he went on, as the
sound of my aunt's vehicle was lost in the distance.
When we were again on our way, Constance chided her father for speaking
so badly of me and for saying I looked as if I intended to run away; but
to this he only laughed, and putting his horses to their topmost speed,
we soon reached Constance's home. On the way, Mr. Seymour would by no
means allow the blanket to be removed from about my head, lest, he said,
I should be seen by some passer-by and word conveyed to my aunt. When
at last I was free, I found myself in the stable-yard of the Dragon, the
tavern kept by Mr. Seymour in the town of Little Sandy. Getting down,
Constance took my hand and led me into the house, and here, ascending to
the floor above, she opened a door, and when we had entered, closed it
and drew the bolt. Screening the windows, she presently lighted a
candle, and doing so, stood revealed to me beside the table, a smile,
half mirthful, half sad, showing in her beautiful eyes.
Thus we regarded each other, I thankful for my escape, and she showing
plainly how happy she was to have in some way aided it. As we thus
contemplated each other a strange thing happened, for from her young
face, as I looked, the timid dependence of youth faded away, and in its
place there came the look and presence of a woman; this as plainly as
the dawn is merged in the light of day. Nor could I ever afterward
think of her otherwise. There was a change in me, too, no less real.
For as I stood watching her, every boyish feeling fell from me as if it
had never been, and from that time on I thought and felt as men feel.
Thus quickly and surely do sorrow and loneliness of life rob our youth
of its sweet prerogative. Whether she was conscious of any change or
not I do not know, but henceforth she was different, as I say. In that
moment, too, as we looked into each other's eyes, the true and
unquestioning love that we ever afterward bore each other stood
revealed. This I know for myself, though the truth of it as regards her
I was not conscious of at the time, not being wise in such matters; but
while we stood thus, her eyes fell before mine and her face flushed, and
all at once she became possessed of a shyness not like her at all. So
that instead of coming to me as she had done before, she busied herself
about the room, lighting first one candle and then another, until the
whole apartment was ablaze. This, too, with such show of embarrassment
that I stood gazing in wonder, not understanding the one nor the other.
When there were no more candles to light and she had regained some
control of herself, she turned to me, saying simply:
"This is your room, Gilbert."
"It's a fine one, and I hope it will be a long time before I shall have
to give it up," I answered, the thought of leaving sending a chill to my
heart.
"Maybe you will not have to go at all; or if you do, not far," she
answered, with a reassuring smile.
"Uncle Job lives a great way off, if I'm to go with him," I answered,
not much comforted.
"Perhaps your aunt will give you up, now she sees you do not care to
live with her; then you can go and come as you please," she replied, her
face lighting up as if she thought it might be so.
"No, Constance, aunt will never do that. She never gave up anything on
which she had set her heart," I answered; but even as I spoke my
feelings changed, and so I went on without stopping: "I'll not go with
Uncle Job, but will stay here. Why not? Aunt Jane's never harmed me";
and on the moment all my fear and hatred of her vanished, so averse was
I to being separated from the dear girl before me. Hearing me,
Constance smiled her approval, as if she too thought that the best way,
and presently, looking about, asked:
"How do you like your room, Gilbert? I hope it will please you."
"I never saw anything half so fine before," I answered, staring about
me.
"Your father and mother always occupied it when in town, and your mother
never tired of the pictures and the laces about the windows and bed."
"They're beautiful, but where did all these things come from?" I asked,
examining the furniture of the room more carefully.
"Papa and mamma brought them from England when they came to this
country," she answered.
I recall all this now, and vividly, because of the part the room and its
furnishings afterward played in my life, and this under circumstances so
peculiar that each article became at last fixed in my mind as if its
image were engraven there.
Of the many things the apartment contained, not the least wonderful was
the high canopied bedstead, with its rare lace, about which Constance
had spoken. Scattered about the room were many chairs, some upright,
some reclining, but all curiously carved and odd and of old fashion. In
the center of the apartment a great table stood, and from its fat sides
and legs lions and tigers looked out as if ready to spring upon you, so
real were they in every particular. At one end of the room brass
andirons, with tops like tigers' heads, adorned the fireplace, and at
the side a shovel and tongs of similar pattern. The walls of the room
were tinted, and on these pictures hung, and among them one of George
III. Above this, and as if in guardianship, there was a portrait of the
younger Pitt, but who he was I did not then know, any more than of the
other. The room was called the Treasury, and in it and nowhere else, I
afterward came to know, Mr. Seymour lived again the life of his youth.
Here he preserved all the mementos of his young wife and of the land and
home they had left beyond the sea. Here, after her death, it was said
he would shut himself up for days together, from all save Constance,
until, the mood passing, he would emerge again, the quiet, unobtrusive
man the world knew.
Why Mr. Seymour left England was not known, but Constance thought it had
in some way to do with his marriage to her mother, a delicate woman, who
proved not strong enough to withstand the hardships of the new country,
and so sickened and died. Nor was it known why Mr. Seymour had chosen
to keep a tavern in preference to some calling of greater dignity,
unless, all occupations being alike to him, he had believed this not so
difficult as the others. Whatever may have been the reason, certain it
was he spared no effort to do acceptably what he had undertaken, and
thus it came about that his hostelry was held in high esteem throughout
the country by all who had occasion to patronize places of this
character. He called the tavern--for so such places were designated in
the new country--the Dragon, but whether from some early association or
because he in secret reprobated the place, I do not know. The Dragon's
sign hung in the open street, and had for its background a delicate
peacock green, designed to convey the idea of a soft, voluptuous sea. On
the edge of this expanse a fierce dragon stood upreared with open mouth
and protruding tongue. Of St. George, however, there was neither sign
nor hint. This strange omission, which the knowing had discerned, it
was whispered was intentional on Mr. Seymour's part and out of regard
for the sentiment of the country, which at that time was by no means
friendly to Great Britain or her patron saint.
Mr. Seymour had many ways out of the ordinary, and among them an odd
habit, it was thought, of taking Constance to the woods on pleasant
days, where they would wander about, hand in hand, gathering leaves and
flowers. Or if a shrub pleased them, they would pluck it up by the
roots and transplant it to the little garden she tended in the yard
beside the Dragon. This fondness of Mr. Seymour for immaterial things,
and the time he gave them, was much commented upon by the busy community
in and about Little Sandy, and was thought by many to seriously cripple
his business, if not foretell its final ruin.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*GILBERT'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE TIMBER-WOLF*
When we had examined all the beautiful things the room contained, or
made pretense of doing so--for I was ever interested in Constance to the
exclusion of other matters--she pointed with a show of pride to the
battered head of an animal fastened above the door by which we had
entered, exclaiming:
"See, Gilbert, where papa's put the horrid thing! I can never look at
it without a shudder."
"It's ugly enough, I'm sure," I answered; "but what is it?"
"Surely you ought to know, if any one," she answered, taking hold of my
hand and leading me close to the object.
"It's so cut up one can't tell whether it's the head of a pig or a
panther," I answered.
"It's neither; but you're only making believe, Gilbert?"
"No; but I never saw anything half so ugly."
"Oh, fie! how stupid you are, or make out to be."
"Well, what is it? I can't guess," I answered, but in no hurry to have
her tell me, so sweet was her voice and so entrancing her contention.
"Well, I've a good mind not to tell you, but it's the head of the wolf
you killed. Papa had it mounted just as it was brought from Wild Plum;
and it grows more ugly every day, I think," she answered, scowling at
the hideous thing.
"I'd never have known it, it's so shrunken and wrinkled," I answered,
gazing at the object with new interest.
"Then you remember, do you?" she asked, coming close to my side, as if
it were still alive.
Yes, I remembered the wolf well enough, but most because it concerned
Constance, and had, besides, so much to do with her father's kindness to
me then and always. On this account it is proper I should tell you the
story; and though it may seem out of the ordinary and improbable now, it
was not so regarded at the time. For you must know that in the early
days the panther and bear and many other savage animals made their homes
undisturbed in the depths of the great forests of Illinois, and among
the first recollections of my childhood were the cries, sometimes
fierce, but more often doleful, of the wolves about our home. Our
situation indeed in respect to such visits was peculiar, for from the
plain that lay on one side there came the gray or prairie wolf, and from
the forest opposite, his fierce brother, the black or timber wolf. The
first was a cowardly brute, hardly above a chicken in courage, and given
to pilfering about the stables and hen-houses, though sometimes
venturing as far as the kitchen if there was anything it could steal.
The timber-wolf was larger, and when hungry would attack animals ten
times its size. Indeed, when famished, it did not fear man, and in this
way numbers of the early settlers lost their lives. In the summer and
fall, when food was plentiful, it rarely visited us, but in the late
winter its cries at night were so common as hardly to attract attention.
Thus it was one day in the early spring, when the grasses were fairly
started and the trees beginning to sprout, or only the laggards slept,
as loth to waken now as they were quick to go to sleep in the early
autumn. The day being warm and fair, Constance and I had ventured into
the great forest, not far, indeed, but apart, the foliage shutting us
off from view. At such times the thing that delighted her most was to
run in and out among the trees, as children from the city always take
pleasure in doing when visiting the country. In this way we had become
separated for a moment, when suddenly there came to me from out the
still woods a quick and agonizing cry. It was Constance's voice, and
something to chill one's blood. Nor has a long life sufficed to still
its vibrations, and often in the night it awakens me now, with the same
dread as when I heard it in that afternoon in my far-off youth.
Starting up in affright, I let fall the basket I carried, but retained
in some unconscious way the small ax I had in my hand, my father's gift,
and this fortunately, as it afterward turned out. Listening, and the cry
being repeated, I hastened in the direction whence it came, but as I
advanced it receded, faster and faster, until after a little while it
came to me only plaintively, and then not at all. Hurrying forward, I
after a time reached an opening in the forest, and doing so beheld on
the opposite side a huge wolf, gaunt with hunger, carrying Constance in
his mouth, with high uplifted head, as if her weight were nothing. Nor
was it much to speak of, for she was but a child, and delicate as the
lilies that bobbed and curtsied in the black pond on the edge of the
great woods. At sight of the wolf I stopped, so benumbed with fear that
I could neither move nor cry aloud, and thus I stood with open mouth,
without any sense whatever, doing nothing. What could I do? The house
was now far away, and only women there, and if I sought them it would be
too late. While thus unable to think or act, I caught sight of the
weapon I held, and with it courage returned to my heart--not much, to be
sure, but enough. Something might be done with so good a weapon, and
with the thought I hastened across the opening and plunged into the
forest, following the direction the wolf had taken. After running some
distance without response to my cries or finding any clew to guide me, I
stopped again, filled anew with fear and dreadful forebodings. Surely
she was lost, and her life a prey to the savage beast that bore her
away. At the thought, taking fresh courage, I plunged ahead, and now
into the very heart of the forest, thinking this the direction the
animal would be most like to take. Thus minutes like hours passed, as I
struggled forward through the dense undergrowth, but neither hearing nor
seeing aught of her I sought. Worn out at last, I sank down in despair,
tears blinding my eyes. Beyond, the great forest stretched away
unbroken to the far west, receding ever to lower and lower levels, there
to meet noiseless, half-hidden creeks or black, impassable swamps.
Throughout its great expanse, and as a cover for the wild beasts that
frequented its depths, dense undergrowth grew, and resplendent as in a
garden. So much I knew from my father, who had penetrated its vast
solitudes, and at another time I should have been stirred by its solemn
splendor; but now it had neither beauty nor variety, revealing only
darkness and terror, wherein a hideous tragedy lay concealed. Such were
my thoughts as, after some moments' resting to gain new breath, I
struggled to my feet and started afresh, but now without any purpose
other than to follow aimlessly on. Going forward in this way, I came at
last upon an opening in the trees, and there, a few feet off, and in the
interval of the forest, I beheld the wolf, with tongue outstretched and
bloodshot eyes, standing at bay. As I came into the cleared space, the
animal raised himself erect and turned his fierce countenance on me as
if inviting attack. This I did not think to offer, but losing all
consciousness, I rushed forward, crying, "Constance! Constance!" Thus
I reached the animal, and it not moving, I raised my weapon and struck
it full in the face. The blow was not hard, for I was weak and dead
with fear; but the brute not attacking me in return, and blood following
the stroke, I struck again and again, sometimes missing altogether, but
more often hitting my mark. Whether the animal was exhausted by its
long flight, or surprised into fear by my quick attack, I do not know,
but that it was dazed I must believe, for it made no effort to attack
me, but stood sullenly before Constance's body, neither advancing nor
receding. Finally, my blows growing weak, and the animal making as if
it would spring upon me, I struck it again, and now with the strength of
both my arms, full in the face. At this, as if grievously hurt, or else
losing all courage, it gave a mournful cry, and turning, darted into the
forest. Seeing this, and my strength being gone and my heart numb with
fear, I fell forward unconscious beside Constance's prostrate body.
When I came to, my head was pillowed in her lap and she was stroking my
hair, kissing me the while as if to bring back the color to my face,
calling, now in a fever of fright and then again plaintively and
coaxingly:
"Gilbert! Gilbert! My Gilbert!"
Feeling her soft breath on my face, I feigned unconsciousness, loth to
move; and thus I lay for a while, not stirring, nor conscious of any
reason why I should. Then the thought of the wolf came back to me, and
I sprang up, terror-stricken lest the animal should return, alone or
with its fellows, as these fierce brutes were sometimes known to do when
crazed with hunger.
"Quick, Constance! We must be off before the brute returns," I cried,
taking hold of both her hands. To my appeal, however, she returned no
answer, but sat still, her face, torn and bleeding, turned imploringly
toward mine. "You're hurt!" I exclaimed, filled with fear; "but come! I
can carry you, and it's not far"; and stooping I raised her in my arms
as easily as I would a child.
"No, I'm not hurt, Gilbert," she answered, trembling and clinging about
my neck; "but I thought you were dead, and your springing up frightened
me as much as the presence of the wolf."
"Are you sure you're not hurt in any way?" I asked, looking at her
scared face and torn garments, not believing she could have got off so
easily.
"Yes--and you?" she answered, peering into my face.
"I'm all right; but how could you have escaped so easily?" I asked, in
wonder.
"I don't know, for I knew nothing after the first moment till I found
you lying beside me," she answered, disengaging herself from my arms.
"See where the brute held you," I answered, pointing with a shaking hand
to the marks of its teeth in the heavy woolen frock she wore.
"If my dress had been lighter, he might not have been able to carry me
off at all," she answered. "But where is the beast, Gilbert? And see,
you are covered with blood, too!"
"Come! We must leave here as quickly as we can. The wolf didn't have
any more courage than a sheep, and ran away; but he may come back with
the pack, if they're near by," I answered, looking about uneasily.
"How can you find the way, Gilbert? No one has ever been so far as this
before, I know," she replied, scanning the dark trees as we hurried
forward.
"It's no great distance, and I could find my way blindfolded," I
answered, confidently; and so, guided by the sun, and this happily, we
at last reached the edge of the forest just as the night was coming on.
Here my mother, who had become alarmed at our long absence, was awaiting
us, and as we came into view, she ran forward, crying:
"My children! My children! How could you frighten me so!" When,
however, she had come near to where we were, and saw the blood on my
garments, she stopped and came nigh to falling, but recovering herself,
hurried forward and clasped me in her arms, exclaiming: "My son! my son!
What dreadful thing has happened to you?"
Nor would she move or release me till we had told her the story from
beginning to end. Then, kissing us, she put her arms about our bodies
and led us to the house, and there kept us by her side until my father
came home and heard the story. He, more used to danger, embraced us
tenderly, and not waiting for a fresh horse to be saddled, mounted the
one he had, and taking Constance in his arms, carried her to her home in
town. The next day Mr. Seymour came out to Wild Plum with Constance,
and together we all visited the spot where the encounter had taken
place; but my father, following the animal's trail by its blood,
presently gave a cry, and we, running forward, found him standing over
the wolf, which lay dead on the ground.
That is the story, and it was the battered head of the animal, that Mr.
Seymour because of some sentiment had preserved, that now stared at us
from above the chamber door.