for some reason, that the story of the timber-wolf should be omitted;
but to this Mrs. Holmes would by no means listen, treasuring every word
as if it were Gilbert himself and a part of her life. Because of this I
have included it as it was told me, and partly, too, because it explains
Mr. Seymour's love for Gilbert as a youth and the great confidence he
had in him always. It also illustrates Gilbert's courage, which was so
simple and found expression so naturally when anything called it forth
that he was never conscious he possessed it, but always spoke of the
fear that oppressed him in the emergencies of life, though it was not
fear at all, it was apparent, but merely the agitation of a sensitive
nature. For of all men, none ever lived who were more brave than he;
and it was said of him, and truly, as a general of cavalry in our great
war, that no leader pressed forward with such ardor in the charge, and
similarly it was told, none gazed upon the empty saddles after the
conflict was over with so sorrowful and pitying a heart.--THE AUTHOR.
*CHAPTER IX*
*DRIFTWOOD FROM THE THAMES BATTLEFIELD*
While Constance and I stood with clasped hands gazing at the wolf's
head, Mr. Seymour entered the room, followed by Uncle Job. At sight of
the latter my heart went out to him with tender emotion, and I ran and
embraced him as I would a dear friend.
"I hope you find yourself in good spirits, and none the worse for what
has happened?" he inquired, affectionately, taking my hands in his and
kissing me.
"Gilbert's in fine spirits," Constance spoke up, looking at me as a
mother might on a petted child.
"Yes, and I can't thank you enough for what you've done, uncle," I
answered.
"Don't talk that way, child, for you owe me nothing," he replied. "I
was sorry to leave you in doubt so long, but there was no other way."
"It didn't matter; but I'm afraid I'll be a great burden to you," I
answered, remembering what I had thought in regard to this.
"Nonsense! Only I'm not sure but you would be better with your Aunt
Jane than with me; but your mother would approve what I am doing if she
were alive, and that is what governs me," he answered.
"I'm sure she would," I replied, feeling that he spoke the truth.
"Then you are pleased?" he asked, smiling, as if comforted by my answer.
"Yes, but I fear Aunt Jane will be very unhappy when she finds I have
gone without money or clothing. Wouldn't it be right to send her word
that no harm will come to me?" I asked, a feeling of remorse coming over
me that I had shown her so little respect.
"She will not fret nor lose an hour's sleep over you, my boy," Uncle Job
replied. "Her heart will close up like an oyster when she finds you are
gone; but when we are well out of the country we will let her know. She
will never forgive you, but it doesn't matter, for she was never
friendly to our family, anyway."
"Mother used to say we didn't understand her," I answered, remembering
her words.
"Your mother found excuses for every one, so tender was her heart; and
your Aunt Jane is not to be blamed if she is ice instead of flesh and
blood," he replied.
"Please, Job, leave Aunt Jane in the quietude of her farm for a while.
The die is cast, and nothing can change it now," Mr. Seymour broke in,
good-naturedly. "Come, Constance, let us have dinner served here, where
we can have the evening to ourselves--and make haste, for we are
starving," he added, putting his arm about her as she turned to leave
the room.
At the dinner which followed, it was my great good fortune to make a new
acquaintance, and one I had occasion to prize more and more as the years
went by. This in the person of Constance's companion and teacher,
Setti, a young person who had lately come to make one of Mr. Seymour's
family; and strangely enough for such companionship, and improbable you
will say, she was of pure Indian blood. No one, however, would have
known this, for except that her hair and eyes were black and her
complexion olive rather than dark, she was in no wise different from
those about her. She was above medium height, with graceful figure, and
soft, shy manners that were truly captivating, and in regard to this
last there was no difference of opinion. Her history, while it would be
strange now and romantic in the extreme, was not thought peculiar at the
time of which I speak. For you must know she was found when a child,
playing beside the body of her dead mother on the Thames battlefield,
where Tecumseh fell, a little way across the Canadian border. The
officer who thus discovered her took her to his home and educated her,
treating her in all things as his child. This until some months back,
when, his family being broken up by one of the dreadful scourges of
sickness common in the new country, Mr. Seymour had asked her to become
the companion and instructor of Constance.
While nothing was known of Setti's parentage, it was thought she was the
daughter of some great chief, from the ornaments clasped about her neck,
and which she still wore. Of these, one was a cross of mixed gold and
silver, sunk in an oval frame of copper and lead, the handiwork of some
Indian craftsman, who, it was apparent, had only rude tools and molten
metals with which to work. Another ornament, and one that struck you
strangely, was a serpent, hammered out of pure iron and inlaid with
silver; but of its significance nothing was known. Afterward, when I
came to know this sweet creature as one does a sister or cherished
friend, I could never discover anything to indicate her savage ancestry,
save, perhaps, a reticence of speech unusual in attractive women--if I
except, perhaps, a startled look she sometimes wore when coming suddenly
upon any new or remarkable experience in life. This peculiarity,
however, we see in people of our own blood, and so it should not have
been thought strange in her. In all other respects there was nothing
about her to mark the abrupt step from savagery to civilized life, for
her intelligence was in all things of the order and delicacy that
characterizes refined women. Her beauty and sweetness of disposition,
too, were such as to confirm the romantic notions I have ever held
respecting the Indian character; and it was no doubt due to her and
other kindly influences that I was first led to believe our treatment of
the Indian tribes had been somewhat lacking in wisdom and humanity. Mr.
Seymour was also of this opinion, and never lost an opportunity to
express his views on the subject, and with considerable abruptness.
"Setti's affectionate nature and sweetness of temper," he was in the
habit of saying to his friends when the subject was brought up, "are
natural to her--God's gifts; and had a wiser and more tolerant course
been followed by our government, all the Indian tribes of America would
have been led to accept civilization, as she has been--not grudgingly,
but with their whole heart and soul. Either that, or they should have
been left apart to follow the processes every race has passed through in
its progress from savagery. Instead, we have the sad sight of great
Indian nations debauched and hunted down and destroyed, as if they were
a plague upon the earth. Surely they were worthy of something better,
and should have been preserved to mark for all time the magnificent men
and women who made up our native Indian population. To do this we would
have had to recognize their right to live and multiply unmolested, as we
do others more fortunate in color and birth; or failing in that, have
subjected them to gentle treatment and wise laws. Surely they were
worthy such care and consideration. Homer's Greeks, to make a point of
it, were no better, nor scarcely more civilized, than the Sacs and Foxes
we have but just driven like wolves beyond the confines of civilization
after robbing them of their lands and villages."
Mr. Seymour's views, and others like them, however noble and humane,
were not regarded by the community as meriting attention except in a
sentimental way, one and all being animated by a desire to dispossess
the Indians of their lands as quickly as possible, and without reference
to their rights or any feeling of humanity whatever. However, he was
not the less strenuous in giving them utterance, even to the extent of
offending his friends and patrons.
"Bad faith and cruel harassment of the Indian tribes on their lonely
reservations," he would say, "have characterized our government's policy
from the first, and forms, indeed, so gross a crime that coming ages
will reprobate it wherever men love justice and hate swinish greed. It
will not in any way excuse us that we are hungry for the property of our
neighbors, and because of this agree to treat the Indian as an inferior
being. He is nothing of the kind, for God never made more perfect men
physically, and the mind conforms in all things to the body. It is
nature's law. Nor does it excuse our acts, however much our passions
may be aroused, that the Indian in his savage state kills and mutilates
his enemy. Achilles, the ideal Greek, circling the walls of ancient Troy
with Hector's body chained to his chariot, has never been surpassed in
cruelty and ignoble pride in Indian annals. The comparison is still
more odious when we think of the hecatombs of harmless men the Homeric
Greeks sacrificed to the manes of their honored dead. The Indian's
heaven is lighted by no such baleful fires. Nor have we any reason to
suppose the red man more backward than the Greek, for he is greater in
courage and much superior to him in physical strength and patient
endurance."
"If Achilles lived in our day," Uncle Job once answered, "we would not
lose an hour in appropriating his incomparable horses and sending him to
the wilds of Iowa to join that other savage, Black Hawk, saying to
ourselves the while that we were well rid of a nuisance and disturber of
the peace. Too much can't be expected, though, of our young country,
Henry. It is too full of the bumptious exuberance of animal life.
Children in experience make very poor governors; they are too headstrong
and intolerant; but we will do better later on. Only mature nations,
like mature men, know how to govern well. It's a pity, but so it is,
and will be always, and the weak and dependent must suffer whenever
contrary conditions exist."
Thus tender-hearted men declaimed in the years that are gone, but
fruitlessly. These thoughts, however out of place, recur to me now and
struggle for utterance when my mind reverts to the gentle being who came
into my life that evening, and who afterward, and so long as she lived,
did so much to add to the happiness and well-being of those with whom
she was brought in contact.
When at last we were seated about the table, Mr. Seymour asked grace,
and this with such show of reverence that I was awed by it as something
new and strange. For such a thing was not usual, you must know, in the
new country. Not that men were lacking in respect for religious
observances; on the contrary, but time pressed, and, moreover, it was
thought that such delicate matters should be left to those trained, so
to speak, in things of that nature. On occasion, to be sure, the more
venturesome would, if asked, raise their voices openly; but such
practices were cause rather of wonder at the courage they evinced than
desire to emulate them on the part of the more timid of the community.
Mr. Seymour's custom, however, seemed to me to be so good and reverent
that I determined if I ever grew to man's estate to do the same; but
such resolves, however commendable, are rarely followed, for when I came
to have a home of my own, and children sat about the table, I put it
off, as weak men ever do in cases of this nature. For a long time the
dinner promised to be without speech, all seeming to be oppressed at the
step that had been taken--a step that would, for good or bad, color
forever the life of at least one of their number. At last Mr. Seymour,
looking across to where I sat, said, with an encouraging smile:
"I hope, Gilbert, you don't feel any regret at what has been done?"
"No, sir," I answered; "why should I?"
"Nor have any disposition to turn back?"
"It would be too late for that, I'm afraid, even if I wanted to," I
answered. "Aunt Jane would never forgive me so great an offense."
"No, not too late, if you regret the step. The blame for what has been
done is all ours, and no part of it would rest on your head," he
answered, kindly.
"I don't regret it, but I'm sorry for Aunt Jane," I answered; for,
however loth I was to live with her, she was entitled to my respect, if
not my love. So much, I thought, I owed my father's memory.
"Well, you may be sorry," Mr. Seymour answered. "We all admire your
aunt, and if she would unbend a little and let her face relax into a
smile on occasion, she would be a most attractive and lovable woman; but
immersed in her thoughts, and formal of manner because of it, she is
like the icebergs one sometimes meets in midocean, she is so cold and
inaccessible."
"It's her way, and doesn't mean anything, mother always said," I
answered.
"Perhaps so; but age does not change or soften her way, as it does most
people. Your Uncle Job may not prove as watchful a guardian as she
would have been, Gilbert, but your heart will be the warmer and your
figure the more supple for the freedom," Mr. Seymour went on.
"I'm sure I shall be content," I answered, looking at Constance, not
finding it in my heart to say I could be happy with any one away from
her.
"He will never have any other company save yours, nor desire for any.
So you are likely to see a good deal of him, and always to your
betterment, I am sure," Mr. Seymour answered.
"Why do you say that, Henry?" Uncle Job asked, looking up in surprise.
"Because you are destined to be an old bachelor, Job," Mr. Seymour
answered, "and of this I am sure. Charles, Gilbert's father, used to
say the same. You lack time and inclination to find a mate, and more's
the pity. In such company, Gilbert," he went on, "your craft must hug
the shore or sail into the open, as fate decides; but wherever wind and
tide may take you, here is hoping you may have a prosperous voyage," and
Mr. Seymour raised a glass of wine to his lips, and much to my
astonishment, bowed to me as if I were a man grown. He was, however,
always surprising those about him in some such pleasant way. Indeed, I
thought his bearing so fine that for him to single out any one for
notice was a distinction to be remembered and be proud of ever
afterward. Thus strongly does kindliness and courtesy of speech ever
impress the young or inexperienced in life.
"We all want to join in that toast, Henry," Uncle Job broke in, reaching
for a goblet of water that stood beside his plate.
"Won't you join me in a glass of wine, Job?" Mr. Seymour went on,
observing his action. "You will sleep the better for it. No? Well, I
won't urge you; but you will excuse me, I know, if I say it has always
seemed strange to me that in this new country, where all save the pious
tipple, and even they indulge sometimes behind the door, you should so
rigidly abstain."
"It looks odd, I suppose," Uncle Job answered, "but you know it doesn't
grow out of any assumption on my part. I simply don't care for liquor,
and can't cultivate it, for the same reason you give for my not
marrying; I haven't the time."
"Well, that is a clever way to put it," Mr. Seymour responded. "You are
all the better, though, for being free. I have been used to the custom
since a boy, and so it would seem odd to dine without wine of some kind.
It is all a matter of habit, however, and in this new country, where any
kind of good liquor is hard to get, it is better to eschew it
altogether, as you do, if one can. Many reprobate the use of wine, I
know, but that is an extreme way to look at it, for it is as old as man,
and so not to be criticised as if the fashion were new."
"Custom never makes a bad practice the better, though it may excuse it,"
Uncle Job answered, good-naturedly.
"No, but it is the excesses of those who use liquor that should be
condemned; but there doesn't seem to be any middle course in most
cases."
"That is not the only thing that is carried to excess in our new
country," Uncle Job answered. "The habit of chewing tobacco is quite as
harmful, and one that ought to be frowned upon by all men with the
beating of drums and tom-toms. This for sanitary reasons, if for no
other."
"That is as men think," Mr. Seymour, who was sometimes disposed to be
very democratic, replied. "The custom is not nice, but it will die out
when men live nearer each other and have leisure to observe the habits
of their neighbors. Our people are not more peculiar in this than in
giving up the pipe for the cigar."
"That was bad taste, for a pipe is every way superior to a cigar. It is
more cleanly and costs less and is not so harmful," Uncle Job replied,
with animation; for however abstemious he might be in regard to the use
of liquor, he was seldom without a pipe or cigar in his mouth.
"The pipe will come into fashion again when men have more leisure," Mr.
Seymour answered. "Now they have scarce time to bite off the end of a
cigar or say 'Lord forgive me!' ere they die, so busy are they in
bringing the new world into subjection. However, to talk about
something of more interest to these children, what are you going to do
next? What are your plans, Job, if I may ask?"
This reference to the future caused both Constance and me to stop our
chatter and lean forward not to lose a word of what was said, but little
comfort did we derive from Uncle Job's reply.
"I have a plan, and it is to leave for home to-morrow morning," he
answered, abruptly, looking across the table to where I sat, as if to
see how I took it.
"Why so much haste?" Mr. Seymour expostulated.
"Well, the more promptly we act, the less trouble we are likely to have.
No one ever caught Miss Holmes napping before, and while we may have
misled her up to this time, it is not possible to do so long. The
safest way for us, then, is to hurry away."
"Surely, Uncle Job, there's no such hurry," I broke in, my heart ceasing
to beat at the thought of going so soon.
"I would like to stay longer, but why take the risk of delay, my son?
There is nothing to detain us, and the sooner we are off the less likely
we are to be interfered with. So let us start in the morning--and that
reminds me, I ought to go and procure the things you need for the
journey, Gilbert, if you will excuse me, Henry," he asked, turning to
Mr. Seymour.
"A day or two wouldn't make any difference, I should think, Mr.
Throckmorton," Constance interposed. "No one will look for Gilbert in
this room, and he has not thought of going so soon."
"Keep still, you little puss, and don't meddle in such serious
business," Mr. Seymour interposed, half seriously, half in mirth at her
earnestness.
"Well, I don't see any reason for such haste," Constance answered, as if
that ought to settle it.
"Nor I," I added, shutting my jaws tight, so greatly was I wrought up
over the prospect.
"There is no other safe way. Miss Holmes would be down on us like a
hawk before noon to-morrow if she doesn't put in an appearance to-night.
Indeed, it would not surprise me to see her enter this room any minute,"
Uncle Job answered, in a decided way, at which we all turned and glanced
toward the door, as if expecting to see her enter, as he said.
This disposition of the matter I thought worse than going to Aunt
Jane's, and when Uncle Job and Mr. Seymour presently left us to get
things in readiness for the morrow, I turned and clasped Constance in my
arms in an agony of grief at the thought of parting from her so soon.
Thus for a long time we mingled our tears, our hearts too full for
speech; but after a while, regaining our composure, we fell to talking
of the future, and what we would do, and how we would meet, and this
with so much earnestness that we quite forgot our present troubles in
the contemplation of what was to come. Thus it is ever with the young;
the illusions of life dry their tears and cheer them on when older
people sink down in despair and die.
*CHAPTER X*
*AN AWAKENING*
When at last Constance left me for the night, I threw myself across the
bed without removing my garments, that I might the sooner lose my
sorrows in the forgetfulness of sleep. Without avail, however, till the
night was far spent, and then only for a moment; for awakening, I found
Aunt Jane bending over me grim and determined, a cruel smile lighting up
her cold, impassive face. Yes, it was as Uncle Job had said. She could
not be misled, and spying out my hiding-place, had bribed the
attendants, and so gained access to my room--and I was lost. Stifling
my cries, she beckoned her servants to her side, and they, taking me in
their arms, bore me through the silent house to the carriage that stood
waiting before the door. Thrusting me within, they drove away, muffling
my voice till we were far beyond the town. Then releasing me, as if in
mockery, I beat my head against the sides of the vehicle, screaming
aloud for help, but vainly, for no answer was returned to my angry
cries. This till my strength was gone and I sank back exhausted in my
seat.
Thus we reached her home in the gray of the morning, but not to enter,
for turning into a vacant field, she hid me in a house half buried in
the ground, apart and far from the traveled road. Here they left me,
but returning in the evening, covered my prison deep with dirt, so that
it resembled a gigantic grave. In this loathsome cell I remained for
many weeks, mold gathering on my garments and fever racking my worn
frame. Nor was this all, for from out the sides of my prison snakes and
lizards peered at me with lack-luster eyes as I sat brooding the day
through, and at night monstrous field-rats, gaining entrance, ran to and
fro across my body, or warmed themselves beneath my jacket. Here in the
early morning or late at night my aunt came to visit me, striking the
door of my prison with her staff as she called my name. Grieved and
incensed, I for a long time refused to answer, but at last, rising to my
feet in rage to upbraid her for her cruelty, I awoke, trembling and
covered with sweat, to find Setti rapping on my door and calling my
name:
"Gilbert! Gilbert!"
Springing up, I ran to her, crying:
"Here! here! Save me, save me, Setti!" clasping my arms about her body
as I spoke.
Startled by my action and wild speech, she sought to disengage herself,
but observing my distraught air, bent down and kissed me, saying
soothingly:
"What is the matter, Gilbert? What has frightened you? You tremble, and
your face is as pale as death."
"It's the cold and damp," I answered, scarce knowing what I said, only
that I sought to cling to her the tighter.
"That is not it, Gilbert, for the morning is soft and warm," she
answered, peering into my face. "You are ill or hiding something from
me. What is it?"
"Oh, I've had a dream, a dreadful dream--or it was true, I don't know
which. I thought Aunt Jane came and took me to her home and hid me in a
cave where no one could find me or hear my cries."
"Oh you poor boy! It was only a dream, for see, this is the Dragon, and
your uncle is downstairs, and Constance will be here in a moment with
your breakfast."
"Let's go to her; it's better than staying here," I answered, looking
back into the room, unable to command my voice or trembling limbs.
"No, Gilbert, not till you are yourself again. Constance must not see
you in this way, for the poor thing is dead with grief already," she
answered, striving to quiet my agitation.
"I'll stay, but don't leave me, for I'll not stop here alone; I can't!"
I cried, fear still overcoming me.
"See, it is nothing," she answered, entering the room and looking about.
"It was all a dream, Gilbert. There, you will be yourself again in a
minute"; and putting her arm about me, she led me to the open window,
and looking out, I saw the day was just breaking.
In this manner, and after some time, I regained my composure, so that
when Constance entered she in no wise suspected that anything had gone
amiss. Spreading the table, Setti motioned the servant to go away, and
making some excuse, she presently followed, leaving us alone. Seating
myself, I made pretense of eating, but only that, so deeply was I
stirred by what had happened and the thought of parting from Constance.
Now, though a long life has elapsed since that unhappy morning, I can
see her as plainly as then, striving to smile or say some cheerful word,
but more often with tears filling her gentle eyes and clogging her
utterance as she sat sad-faced and despondent by my side. In this way I
made believe I had some appetite, till the horn sounded the departure of
the stage. Then, springing to my feet, I took her in my arms and kissed
her a thousand times, but without speech of any kind, so full were we of
the sorrow of parting. At last, tearing myself away, I hurried below,
where I found Mr. Seymour waiting for me in the hall.
"Good by, God bless you!" he cried, with a striving at gayety as he put
his arm about me and led me to the door. "Remember, Gilbert, that we
love you always, and will welcome you back with open arms whenever you
choose to come," he concluded, his voice choking.