left him, watching and waving me a fond adieu. For a while the cool air
and the novelty of my errand buoyed me up, but after a time, being
greatly worn in body, I lost somewhat the security of my seat. This I
thought due to the swaying of the overwrought animal, and not to any
lack of steadiness on my part; but alarmed, I grasped the saddle, urging
the horse with whip and rein to still greater speed. Going on, strive as
I would, every trifling thing jarred my nerves and agitated my mind, and
soon strange fantasies such as I had never seen before began to dance
before my eyes. Riding with my back to the moon, my very shadow came to
perplex me, as if it were some unnatural thing. Now it would run on
ahead, as if afraid, only to halt directly for me to overtake it. Then,
as if tired of the road, it would wander off into the bushes, climbing
the sides of the hills and trees in the strangest possible way. Why did
it not go on before me, as a shadow should? Then I would be conscious
that its vagaries were caused by the windings and inequalities of the
road, and nothing else; but straightway I had convinced myself that this
was so, I would fall to speculating about it again, as if it somehow
boded me evil. How strangely, too, the trees and road blended at times
or were lost to sight in utter blackness! Surely there was some mist or
storm coming on with the dawn! Then again I would seem to topple and
fall from my horse, only to find myself a moment after holding hard and
going faster than before. What strange forms the objects by the
roadside took on, and how dim and tired my eyes with looking! Or was it
the wind? Yes, that was it, for I was always affected that way at Wild
Plum when riding at full speed. With all this, I was consumed with a
burning desire to get on, and faster, as if the world were about to stop
and the sky fall. This mare of Uncle Job's that he thought so fine,
why, my pony could beat her; and with the thought I fell to pounding her
sides with my heels to make her go the faster. What mattered the smoke
that steamed from her sides and the foam that flecked her head and
shoulders if she could do no better than this! Then changing, I would
praise her, patting her shoulder and calling her the bravest horse in
the world. How dreary and long the road, though! And its many devious
windings! Why were these not straightened? The hills, too! Surely they
might be made easier!
Going on in this mood, the moon died out and the gray of the morning
came on as I reached the open country, and looking away saw the great
river, black and glimmering as if with a sickness of some kind. By this
I knew I was far on my way, and urging my horse to still greater speed,
rocking this way and that, I came at last, without expectation, full
upon the town. Now indeed I was sure, but without halting or looking to
right or left I flew onward, until in the uncertain light I came
straight upon the park, as Uncle Job had said. Pulling my horse on her
haunches, the little tavern, with its sign dangling in the still air,
was at my very elbow. With the sight I slipped from my saddle and ran
to the door, beating it with my hands and forehead, crying all the time,
"Open! open! open!" No response, however, came to my summons until my
voice grew hoarse with the effort. Then, as my strength was leaving me
and my sight grew dim, the door flew open, and I fell forward into the
arms of the man who held it. Of sense I had none left, nor of voice
scarce enough to be heard, but clutching him as a drowning man might, I
cried:
"I'm from Uncle Job--he's at the cabin in Murderer's Hollow! Go--quick,
and--take a surgeon--and help--and--and--look to the saddlebags, and--"
But that was all, and sinking down, I thought I was dying, and was glad,
as one might be who throws off a burden too heavy to bear.
*CHAPTER XXXI*
*CONSTANCE*
When I opened my eyes, I lay without moving, staring and unconscious of
life as if I had never been. Presently, tiring with the effort, I sank
back into the blackness and stillness of night. Awakening anew, and yet
not knowing that I lived, something touched my lips, and I opened them
as a young bird will, and swallowed what was given me. Drifting again
into somber nothingness, I revived, but after what length of time or
wherefore I did not know. Then a face bent over mine, and looking down
into my glazed and staring eyes, started back with a sob or stifled cry.
Now I began to watch the shadows of the room, as a child might, without
knowing they were shadows or what they signified. Relapsing once more
into unconsciousness, I awakened, and after a while fell to tracing the
objects about me, and with some thought that I had seen them before, but
distrustfully, so weak was my understanding. Thus days passed, wherein
a shadowy face bent over mine, with sorrowful eyes that were always
anxious and often filled with tears. Gaining strength, I made out,
little by little, the things about me, and doing so, smiled as children
will in their sleep or when a toy is flashed before their eyes. By and
by the objects more distinct began to fix themselves, and in the guise
of friends, but drifting, and purposely, as if to elude me.
Thus the past came back, until at last I need no longer study the great
canopied bed with its dangling laces, nor the faces of the king and his
minister staring at me from off the wall. They were friends, and
craning my neck, I looked about for the curious table, and in the sweep
of my eye caught sight of my old enemy, the timber-wolf, above the door.
I was not at Wild Plum, then! That was gone; but next to it, and now as
dear, at the Dragon--Constance's home. Beyond the window were the big
trees and Little Sandy, and about me the treasures that Constance and
her father loved. Here it was I had dined and gone to sleep, and
strange that it should seem so long when only a night had passed! It
was time to rise, and with the thought I sought to lift my head, but all
in vain. Falling back and resting, other thoughts came, and not like
shadows: the flight from Wild Plum, Moth, the jail, Murderer's Hollow!
At this last I shuddered, so real did it appear. Was it a dream after
all, or was I dreaming now? Surely the one or the other! Worn out, I
raised my hand; but how white and thin it looked! I had been ill, then,
and so had never left the Dragon and Little Sandy. That was it; the
things I remembered were visions and nothing else. Reasoning thus, I
sighed as one will whose heart is weak or breaking; and scarce had it
passed my lips ere a face dearer to me than all else in life bent over
mine with a look of pity and tenderest love.
"Constance!"
"Gilbert!"
"Come nearer, dearest, so I can see you better," I whispered, after
awhile, afraid to speak aloud lest the vision vanish.
"My face touches yours, Gilbert."
"Then kiss me and put your arms about my neck," I answered, partly
reassured.
"Yes, you dear child! I'll do anything you say."
"Oh, I am so weary and tired, Constance," I answered, striving to return
her caress.
"Yes, but you will be stronger soon if you lie still"; and the sweet
angel laid her fingers on my lips, keeping her face close to mine as I
had asked. Kissing her hand, I had no wish to disobey if only I might
look into her eyes and feel her breath upon my face; and lest it should
be only a dream, I lay still, and looking into her eyes, sank into a
gentle sleep.
Awakening, I found her bending over me with anxious eyes and troubled
face.
"Constance! you are still there?"
"Yes, always."
"Tell me I'm awake."
"Yes, and better, you dear boy!"
"I'm at the Dragon, and you are surely Constance?" I asked, ready to cry
out.
"Yes, you know I'm Constance"; and she bent over and kissed me as if the
better to reassure me.
"I've had such dreams, Constance! such terrible dreams!"
"It's nothing, Gilbert. People with fevers always have dreams," she
answered, caressing my face.
"I thought I left Little Sandy with Uncle Job, and then a lot of things
happened."
"Yes; but don't think of it any more. Dreams never come true, you
know," she answered, placing her face beside mine.
"I won't; only I'm glad I'm in Little Sandy," I answered, lying still.
When I next awoke Uncle Job and Setti were beside me, my hands clasped
in theirs.
"You are better, Gilbert," Uncle Job spoke up, stopping short, as if
something choked him.
"I'm all right," I answered, feeling stronger.
"You are a Little Prince, and my True Knight forever," Setti exclaimed,
bending over me and taking my face in both her hands.
"I'll be anything you wish, Setti, you know," I answered, striving to
answer with some spirit.
"Then I must be careful," she answered, smiling through her tears and
kissing me.
"No, you mustn't," I cried, in great spirits. Then turning to Uncle Job
I went on: "I'm sorry to have kept you here, uncle, but I couldn't help
it. I've never been very strong, you know," I added, thinking how
little a thing it took to upset me.
"I said I wanted to stay longer in Little Sandy, you remember," he
replied, with a show of being cheerful.
"Your business needed you, though."
"Men always say that, Gilbert," he answered, as if it were nothing.
"What about Aunt Jane?" I asked, fearing to speak her name.
"Oh, she will never bother you any more."
"I'm glad of that, for I dreamed she had a man who followed me
everywhere, giving me no peace."
"Poor boy! but you must lie still, the doctor says, if you want to get
well," he answered, turning away.
"I've a lot I want to say, Uncle Job," I cried, following him with my
eyes.
"Yes, but not now, Gilbert," Constance interposed, coming to my side and
laying her hand on my lips. "Your fever will surely come back if you
don't keep quiet."
"I must talk, or you'll all vanish and it will turn out to be a dream, I
know it will," I answered, holding tight to her hand.
"No, for it's all real. Please lie still now, Gilbert; for my sake,"
she whispered, bending over me.
"I will if you'll stay and sit where I can see you"; and reaching out I
sought to lay hold of her, but eluding me, as if she were a shadow, her
form faded from my sight and I knew no more. Coming to again, my first
thought was of her, and she, sweet angel, as if knowing it would be so,
was there to meet my anxious look. When, however, I would have spoken,
she placed her hand on my lips, saying:
"You must not talk"; and kissing her hand, I was fain to do as she said.
In this way many days passed, Constance giving me nourishment, and
sitting beside me, her hand clasped in mine. When sometimes I would have
talked in spite of her, she would leave her seat as if to go away; at
which I would do as she wished, only looking always into her sweet face
and gathering there some new hope of life and happiness.
"You are my little mother, Constance, only different from her, and not
different either," I said one day.
"Yes, always your little mother," she answered, taking my hand.
"You will not go away as she did, though?" I answered, the fear of
losing her being always uppermost in my mind, so sore was my heart.
"You dear boy, you know I will never leave you," she answered, smiling
and patting my hand.
Lying thus, my thoughts would sometimes wander, in spite of me, to the
visions of my sickness, but if I sought to speak of them and so free my
mind and have an end of it, Constance would not listen, saying dreams
always came to those who had a fever. So, after a while, not being able
to speak of them, they faded away, as such things will when treated
irreverently. Thus, at last, I got the peace of mind I needed. Save a
visit each day from Uncle Job and Setti, no one came near me except
Constance and the doctor. When I slept, Constance rested beside me in a
great chair, never seeming to eat nor sleep, nor desire to do either.
The doctor I had never seen before, but that was not strange, not having
much need of medicine up to this time. He had little to say save to
tell me I would soon be on my feet if I but did as Constance told me.
One day, however, more talkative than usual, he said, smiling on her,
and softly tapping his medicine-case:
"You have been ill to death, my lad, and but for this little woman, and
the calomel and jalap, would have surely died."
"I know it; and except for her I'd not care to live," I answered, my
throat filling. Nothing, indeed, could exceed my love for the sweet
girl, and it added to my happiness now to think I should always owe my
life to her and her tender care.
As I grew stronger, Setti came and sat beside me, and I have ever been
grateful for this chance that made the gentle being known to me. For
with her shy ways I else had never known her as the tender and good in
woman should be by those who hold them in respect. As I gained strength
Uncle Job's visits were more frequent, but further than caressing my
hand or face he scarce said a word, so soft was his heart. The great
care with which they watched over me I must believe to have been needed;
for one day, when I disregarded some order of Constance's, I fell into
such a dreadful faint that all their efforts to bring me to were vain,
until Uncle Job and the doctor had been sent for; and thus I found them
grouped about my bed when I revived. When at last I had gained strength
and was pronounced out of danger, I one day asked Constance if Aunt Jane
had been to see me, thinking it strange if she had not, even in one so
cold. For a time Constance did not reply, and when she did it was not
like her, but as if she were acting a part.
"No, your aunt has not been here, Gilbert. Do you care much?"
"I don't know. Only I thought she might have come while I was sick."
"It's so far, Gilbert, you know."
"So far! her farm is scarce half an hour's ride, Constance. She can't
care for me. Or haven't you told her?"
"No, she doesn't know, Gilbert."
"Oh," I answered, not wondering much, but still feeling as if she ought
to have been told. "Didn't you want her to know?"
"We thought to write her, but put it off from day to day, hoping you
would be better."
"To write her?" I answered, only the more puzzled.
"You don't understand, Gilbert," Constance answered, moving about the
room, as she had a way of doing when anyway disturbed. After a while,
recovering herself, she went on, "Suppose your aunt is farther away than
you think, Gilbert?"
"I don't understand, Constance, unless she is dead or has moved away," I
answered, greatly disturbed.
"Suppose this is not Little Sandy, but Appletop. What would you say to
that, Gilbert?" she asked, kissing me.
At this I was more bewildered than ever, not being able in any way to
make out the sense of what she was saying.
"How can that be and you here?" I answered at last.
"Well, would it be so very strange? I might be in Appletop, you know,"
she answered, as if leading me on.
"This room, too! It couldn't be in both places!" I cried, thinking that
for some reason she was seeking to mislead me.
"Might we not have moved to Appletop and brought these things with us?
That would make it clear," she answered, bending over me.
"Yes--I don't know--only tell me quick!" I answered.
"That is how it is, Gilbert. This is not Little Sandy, but Appletop,"
she replied, pressing her face down close beside mine. After a while,
raising her head and smiling on me in tenderest love, she added: "Are
you glad, Gilbert!"
"Yes, you being here," I answered, not so much surprised after all, if
the truth were told, for I could never quite make myself believe that
some part of my dream was not true. "I so longed to see you after we
left Little Sandy," I went on, "that I always wished myself back, though
a hundred Moths and Aunt Janes were in the way."
"Then you are not worried?" she asked, kissing me again.
"No; why should I be? but have I been sick long?"
"Yes, many weeks."
"How did it happen? I can't remember that I was ailing," I answered.
"You broke down that morning when you came to our door, and for weeks
knew nobody, but raved continually about Moth and Burke and the wild
animals that had you imprisoned in a tree of some kind."
"Did I talk about such things?" I asked
"Yes."
"I'm a poor stick, always breaking down and making a show of myself," I
answered, ashamed of my weakness.
"No, you are not. The doctor said your sickness was brought on by
fatigue and lack of food and sleep. It was your coming to, though, he
most dreaded, fearing you would lose your mind."
"Now I see why I am in this room, and why you have made it like the old
one," I answered, tears coming to my eyes at the thought of their
kindness.
"Yes, we fixed it up like the other so you would think you were in
Little Sandy. See," she added, going to the window and throwing back
the curtain, "this is not the old square, but another, larger and finer,
with a house hidden away in the trees."
"Where all the roads meet, as Uncle Job said," I answered, putting my
arm about her and kissing her in such delight of living as I had never
known before.
"There; you will bring on your fever again if you act in that way, you
wild boy!" she answered, drawing back.
"I don't care if I do," I answered, reaching out and taking her hand and
pressing it to my lips.
"Then you don't mind my not telling you all this before?" she asked, as
if she had been in doubt how I would take the part she had played in
misleading me.
"No, for now I'll not have to leave you again. Tell me, Constance," I
asked, after a while, "why has your father not been to see me? I've
looked for him every day."
"He had to go back to Little Sandy, but will be here in a few days. It
was he who caught you that morning."
"Was it? I couldn't see."
"We never expected to hear you speak again, for you lay for hours as if
dead. Then sleeping and waking you uttered frightful cries, and for
weeks we stood about your bed, watching and praying," Constance
answered, tears dimming her soft eyes at the remembrance.
The next day, being stronger than ever, Constance said I might talk, and
with that I fell to questioning her about everything that had happened,
and particularly about Uncle Job, who, next to her, was ever uppermost
in my thoughts.
"Did some one go to Uncle Job that night?" I asked.
"Yes; papa and the doctor."
"What did they find?" I asked, lifting myself up.
"They found your Uncle Job guarding Burke and trying to bring the other
man to life," she replied.
"Did he succeed?" I asked, remembering poor Blott, and with what courage
he had stood up at the last.
"No; but the doctor soon brought him to."
"How is he now?"
"He is well and at work about the stables. Papa doesn't think he is
bad, only weak, and that Burke misled him."
"Burke!" I exclaimed, a tremor creeping over me at the thought of that
cruel villain and his soft, purring way. "What did they do with him?"
"They put him in prison, but when Blott refused to appear against him he
was released."
"Why wouldn't Blott appear?" I asked, surprised.
"Every one urged him to, but he said he was as bad as Burke."
"They ought not to have let Burke go!" I cried, thinking of Uncle Job.
"That is what papa said, but the jail was full and they would have had
to board him, and the town being poor, they didn't want to do that, no
one appearing against him."
"It's too bad," I answered, all Burke's cunning and wickedness rising
before me. "Didn't Uncle Job try to detain him?"
"No; and he seemed much relieved when Burke was released and left the
town, at which we all wondered."
"It was like him not to think of himself," I answered, remembering the
Singletons, and why Uncle Job should wish Burke anywhere but in
Appletop.
"Has he anything to fear from Burke any more than others?" Constance
asked, as if my alarm had in some way communicated itself to her.
"Oh, hasn't he told you?" I asked, stopping short; for if uncle had said
nothing about the conspiracy to kill him, ought I to tell?
"No."
At this I wondered, not being able to see any reason why he should not
have told Mr. Seymour. Anyway, I determined to tell Constance, and this
I did, but without referring to the Singletons or what happened on the
boat. Constance thought it strange, and straightway began to wonder who
there could be in Appletop that wished Uncle Job harm, but fruitlessly.
Indeed, after a while we concluded it was but a ruse of Burke's to give
him an excuse for keeping more than his share of the money. This, we
made up our minds, was what Uncle Job thought, and so when he came to
visit me I ventured to say as much, but without his vouchsafing any
reply.
"Did Uncle Job get hurt that night?" I asked, continuing my talk with
Constance, the better to keep her by my side.
"No; but when he saw you on his return he was nearly crazed, blaming
himself for all you suffered. Nor did he leave the house until the
doctor pronounced you out of danger. He was like one out of his mind,
and would not go to his room, but slept on a cot before your door. Had
you died it would have killed him, the doctor said, so much was he
wrought up over your misfortunes."
"Poor uncle! he was in no way to blame," I answered. "Tell me,
Constance, how it was that you came to leave Little Sandy?" I asked,
flying from one thing to another, as people will whose minds are weak.
"You had no thought of it when I came away."
"No; but papa had grown to dislike the place. After my mother died he
wanted to leave, and when your father and mother were gone, he was still
more inclined that way. So when your Uncle Job wrote to him to come to
Appletop, he did not wait to write, but taking everything, we drove
across the country, following the route you took. When we got here we
were disappointed not to find you, papa not less than I, for you know he
has loved you as if you were his son since that day you saved my life."
At this, too full for speech, I drew her to my side and kissed her. For
the doctor would have it that I should lie in bed part of the day, to
ease my heart, he said--though why my heart should need easing I could
not understand; but doctors--once they get you at a disadvantage--exact
all kinds of things of you, as every one knows, though for good reasons,
it is probable, in most cases.
"How long have you been in Appletop?" I went on, that I might still hear
her voice.
"We had only been here a little while when you came."
"How did you find time to fix this room?" I asked, wondering, it was so
like the other.
"It gave us a lot of trouble, for carpenters are hard to get here; but
papa is pleased, for it is dearer to him than everything else."
"I know; and have you named this place the Dragon?" I asked, smoothing
out her hair, which was ever inclined to fly apart as if impatient of
restraint.
"Yes; for any other would seem odd."
"The sign, too, is it like the old one?"
"Worse, because better painted, papa says. He does better in
water-colors though."
"Did he paint it?"
"Yes."
"Can he paint real pictures, too?" I asked, thinking how beautiful she
was with the sun shining in her hair.
"Yes, but no one is to know it," she replied; "though why, I don't
know."
"No?" I answered, gazing on her dear form and thinking how much more
fortunate I was than other youths, and all because of her love and
tender ways.
*CHAPTER XXXII*
*CONVALESCENCE*
One day when I was well on my way toward recovery, I was made happy by a
visit from Mrs. Singleton. I could plainly hear her inquiries as she
mounted the stairs, and so was in a measure prepared to receive the dear
lady and respond to her loving embrace and multiplied questions when she
finally entered the room.
"You are feeling better, I know, for your looks show it!" she exclaimed,
holding my hand and putting an arm about Constance.
"Yes, thank you; I'm a good deal better," I answered, grateful for what
she said. For there are no more disagreeable people than those who tell
you just how you look when you are ailing. Because of this I have
always maintained that if you have nothing agreeable to say about one's
looks, you should be silent. Or if you must babble about such matters,
should say something that will not depress those you address too much.
"I have been kept away from you, my child, by the vexations of
housekeeping," Mrs. Singleton went on, "but have known every day how you
were getting on."
"I expect you find it very hard to get started in your new home," I
answered.
"Yes; the worry is enough to drive one mad, and it is made worse by the
trouble of getting or keeping a servant."
"Do you like Appletop as well as you expected?" I asked at a venture.
"Oh, yes, and so does Mr. Singleton, who has a fine business; but my
girls! they drive me wild."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I answered, not sympathizing with her very
much, for she was the very picture of health and comfort of life.