country people like to face. Coming on lightly from the south, with
scarce any wind, the snow did not fly here and there as we sometimes see
it, but came in great wavering flakes, each lying where it fell, and
softly, as if the particles followed some order of things laid down from
the beginning, so deft were they and free from bustle or any show of
activity. Walking and partly running, the soft flakes falling on my
face cooled my blood and stimulated my strength, so that I looked
forward to my journey with something akin to pleasure. A moon half full
lessened the somber gray of the sky, bringing out in glad relief the
myriad forms built up by the snow on either side of the half-hidden
path. The stillness of the night and the seclusion of the forest soothed
and rested my mind, worn with the events of the day, and in that mood I
hurried on, refreshed and comforted by the contrast. All my life I had
been thus abroad, and the breaking of a twig or creaking of a limb under
the piled-up snow did not startle me as it would some, but came like the
welcome of a friend. In this way I ran on, elated, sometimes singing
lightly, but observing all that came within my view, and more
particularly the curious forms built up by the fast-falling shower. Of
these, some appeared to welcome the storm, while others stood aloof in
gloomy reproof. Thus the staring, upright limbs of the maple would have
none of it, but spurned the gentle drops as a woman might a soft caress,
neither seeking nor accepting grace of any kind. The hickory and wild
crab, too, looked black and sour in the twilight, as if viewing what was
going on with no kindly spirit. Drooping and in loving embrace, in
reproof of the others, the elms caught up great armfuls of the falling
flakes and held them tenderly, as a mother might an ailing child. The
oaks, too, like sturdy, brown-headed men--for so their clinging leaves
made them appear in the uncertain light--held their burden as if in some
way the foliage of other months would the sooner return to bless them
because of it. Underneath and diminutive, like waiting children, the
elders stood waist-deep, canopies of snow forming above them like
umbrellas uplifted against the storm. Other and lesser shrubs crouched
down, or bending forward had the look of wearing collars turned up about
their ears, so sturdy did they appear. Still smaller plants, growing on
the margin of the path, no bigger than your hand, stood up for a while
like mice or foxes perched on end, but only to sink down one by one and
disappear, as the snow piled higher and higher about them.
For a long time my journey, thus diverted, was such as we think of
afterward with pleasurable emotion; but by and by, the wind veering
suddenly to the north and rising, the particles of snow, before so soft
and comforting, came cold and cutting like crystals of ice. This
change, with the depth of the snow, hindered my progress, and after a
while produced something like despondency in my mind, so surely is the
traveler affected by what occurs about him that he should foresee but
cannot in any way alter. Going on resolutely, and thinking as yet but
lightly of the change, the rising wind and hardening snow soon made each
step a burden. The flakes, too, before so mute, now whirled and eddied
about my path, blinding my eyes and blocking my way with great uplifted
banks, in which, before I could suspect their presence, I found myself
struggling up to my waist. Thus impeded and my strength wasted, I went
forward as in a mire, my limbs and body no longer full of glow and
vigor, but benumbed with the cold, which each moment grew more intense.
Struggling to make headway, in a little while I began to lie longer when
I fell, comforted by my ease, and lifting myself with reluctance from
the soft embrace. Wearied and chilled, I yet feared to rest, lest sleep
should overtake me, and sleeping, I should awake no more. Startled at
the thought, I would get to my feet, but with wavering steps and slow,
like a drunken man or one enfeebled by age or sickness. Finally,
despite all my efforts my strength being gone, I could no longer rise.
Looking forward with a despairing cry, a gray wolf, gaunt with hunger,
stood watching me amid the whirling snow, scarce a yard's length from
where I lay. Behind him there was another, lean like the first, and
with eyes of fire. Roused by the sight, I stood upright. If these were
all it did not matter, but if a pack, then indeed I was lost. Waiting,
no more appeared; but stirred into life I uttered a feeble cry, striking
in dull rage at the brute nearest me. At this it moved aside, but only
a little way, and turning, faced me as before, and this expectantly, as
if awaiting some event that could not now be long delayed. Alarmed, and
yet attaching little importance to the presence of the brutes, I dragged
my steps forward, but soon to find my strength spent and my spirits
broken. Resting, the chill and roar of the wind as it plowed through the
naked trees filled me with sadness and indescribable languor, in which
the longing to sleep overcame all other thoughts. Despairing, I looked
about for a place where I might lie down and yet in some measure be
protected from the fierce cold and whirling snow. Some place, indeed,
less bleak, with the appearance of warmth, if nothing more. So much
indeed does the semblance of life lure us even in death; for of desire
to live I now had none, and like a hunted animal, sought only a place in
which to lie down and die.
In this mood, and looking forward, a cluster of oaks caught my eye,
their brown leaves seeming to offer shelter and warmth from the fierce
storm and biting cold. Making my way slowly toward them, the wolves
kept pace on either side, but not obtrusively, as if the end could now
be plainly seen. Reaching the haven, and looking about despairingly, as
one takes leave of the world, I found myself on the outer rim of the
great forest. Gazing with hungry eyes toward the open country, the
faint twinkle of a lighted candle after a while caught my eye across the
intervening space, but dimly, and as one sees a star in the far-off
heavens. Looking long and earnestly, I at last discerned the outlines
of the Eagle's Nest, standing black and chill in the wide expanse. At
this I gave a cry of joy, and hearing it, the wolves too gave voice, but
dolefully, as if the proximity of men filled them with dire dismay.
Benumbed with cold and the clinging snow, but cheered by what I saw, I
made my way from beneath the friendly trees to the open plain. Here the
wind, meeting no obstruction, rushed on more fiercely than before; but
pressing toward the light, which each moment shone more clear and warm,
I at last reached the door, and lifting the latch, plunged forward into
the room, carrying the snow that filled the entrance with me. Going
down, I made out the sorrowful figure of Fox seated before the open
hearth, his chin pitched forward in his hand, as if conjuring a doleful
sermon of some sort. Calling his name as I fell, the light faded from
my sight, and I knew no more.
*CHAPTER XXXVII*
*THE PRODIGAL*
When I awoke from my stupor, I lay wrapped in blankets before a blazing
fire, and on either side of me Fox and the landlord knelt, striving to
infuse some warmth into my body and stiffened limbs. Next the fire
their faces glistened as if aflame, but on the other side the shadows
gave them a strange and sinister look, so that at first I did not know
who they were. Soon recognizing them, I nevertheless lay still, having
no desire to stir, until Fox, seeing me look about, shouted at the top
of his voice:
"Hurrah, he's coming round!"
At this I sighed and turned away my face in shame that I should forever
show such weakness when others were brave and strong. Bringing some
kind of liquor, he forced it down my throat, exclaiming:
"Cheer up, my lad; you will be all right in a minute. It's only a
chill, and chills are nothing to the young."
"No, but I'm no good."
"Yes, you are a poor one, I know; but keep on trying, and maybe you will
amount to something after a while. You will never have any sense,
though, any one can see with half an eye," he added, working over my
legs.
"Why do you say that?" I asked, sitting up.
"Because young birds like you don't fly above the trees after dark--they
keep under cover; and if you had any sense you wouldn't wander about the
country the way you do at night."
"Yes," I answered; "but birds will do anything when the hawks are
about."
"Yes; but there are no hawks after you."
"No; but Uncle Job."
"Uncle Job! Why, what has happened to him?"
"He's in jail in Appletop."
"Is that where you were going?"
"Yes."
"Why now, and on such a night?"
"I didn't know before."
"Oh, you innocent! What can you do to help him?"
"I don't know."
"That is what I thought. But come, you are tired and sore, and must go
to bed. Sleep will make you as good as new."
"No, I'm going on to-night; I'm not sleepy nor tired now."
"You will do nothing of the kind, you vagrant! You would perish with
the cold. Wait, and in the morning I'll see that you are in Appletop by
sunrise. But come, if you're not sleepy, tell me about your Uncle Job's
trouble. It's early, and I'm in no hurry to go to bed."
This I at once proceeded to do, glad, indeed, to have the chance. When
I was through, he stared at me, saying he could by no means understand
it, if Uncle Job was innocent, as I thought. Thus we talked for a long
time, and when I could no longer find excuse for speaking of Uncle Job's
troubles, Fox spoke of our former meeting, questioning me about my
adventure in Murderer's Hollow, and more particularly the conspiracy to
kill Uncle Job, of which he now heard for the first time.
"It was just like Burke," he spoke up when I was through. "A more
desperate villain never lived, and he would think no more of murdering a
man than he would of killing a crow."
This reference to Burke recalled the crime I had heard planned in Black
Hawk's cabin, and there being no longer any reason for keeping it to
myself, I told Fox about it, omitting nothing, so great was my relief at
being able to share the burden with another. When I had finished, he
mused over it for a long time, making me repeat what I had said several
times. Above all he was most interested in Burke's companion, but of
him I could tell nothing, not having seen his face. Afterward, when I
again referred to the object of my journey, he said, cheerfully, and as
if to encourage me, that Uncle Job appeared to have escaped one danger
only to get into another, in which he hoped I might in some way be able
to serve him again. To this I agreed, but in what manner I could not by
any means see.
When the night was far gone we were shown to our beds, but before I had
fairly closed my eyes Fox had hold of my shoulder, saying it was time we
were off. This I could by no means believe, as it was still dark and I
dead with sleep. Dressing myself without remark, we descended to the
main room, where the landlord awaited us with a pot of coffee. Drinking
this, Fox mounted his horse, and lifting me up behind him, we set out.
The storm had by this time abated, but our progress was slow because of
the snow which lay heaped across the road in many places. Fox's horse
being strong and resolute, however, we reached the outskirts of Appletop
just as the day was breaking. Here Fox stopped, saying:
"I am sorry I can't go on with you to the Dragon, Gilbert, but it
wouldn't be wise. Not because of anything I've done since I saw you,
but on account of the Moth matter, which you know about."
"Then you've quit your old ways?" I asked, slipping to the ground.
"Yes, if they were my ways; but I have never harmed anybody greatly, and
this I want you to believe."
"I know it, and you needn't have told me; but is there any danger now?"
"Yes; Moth has posted me far and near and with a reward to sweeten it,
so that to show myself would be to invite arrest."
"What have you been doing all this time?" I asked, curious as to his
mode of life.
"Most anything; but just now I am caring for a drove of hogs belonging
to a buyer near the Eagle's Nest. I'm a swineherd, you see. A prodigal
like him of old, only there is no fatted calf for me, nor ever will be,"
he concluded, half sadly, half in play.
"Your work's not so bad," I answered, remembering the great number of
good men my father employed in this way. "Doesn't the man pay you?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then you can buy and eat your own calf; that's better than looking to
any one?" I answered, to put a better face on it.
"Oh, I live on veal; but it's the overlooking of what's past that I
mean."
"I know, but that will come in time, I'm sure," I answered.
"I hope so. Anyway, I am going to keep on in the narrow path here till
something turns up elsewhere that will not bring me under Moth's eye."
"I wish Moth were hanged, the scamp!" I cried; "he has caused enough
trouble."
"Oh, I don't know," Fox answered. "He sees things as he sees them. But
now about your Uncle Job's affair, for abusing Moth is not going to get
him out of jail."
"No, but you will," I answered, confidently.
"I don't know. I will do what I can; but if you want me to be of help,
go on to the Dragon and find out more about the affair. Everything,
mind, not overlooking a word or look. For it is always some trifle
nobody regards that affords the clew to every crime, the constables
say."
"I will," I cried, starting off.
"Hold on there! When you have found out all you can I want you to come
and tell me."
"Yes; where--at the Eagle's Nest?"
"No, that is too far for you to go; Hayward's Ferry will be better."
"When shall I come?" I asked.
"To-night, and as soon after dark as you can."
"Where, Mr. Hayward's house?"
"No; in the grove below the landing. Now be off. The sun's coming up,
and people are stirring about like flies on a piece of ice. Good by,
and don't fail to bring me all the news."
"No, I'll not," I answered, starting on a run, greatly elated at having
at last enlisted Fox in Uncle Job's behalf.
*CHAPTER XXXVIII*
*THE DRAGON'S MASTER*
Nearing the Dragon, I discovered Mr. Seymour standing on the porch,
without hat or coat, smoking a pipe, an occupation that seemed greatly
to his liking, as indeed it is to most of his sturdy countrymen.
Shivering in the icy air, I thought his dress far from appropriate; but
then Englishmen are hardier than we, though why this should be I do not
know, unless they are bred in a more rugged climate or spend more of
their time in the open air. Scanning his ruddy face and upright figure,
all the things I had been taught as a schoolboy to believe of his
countrymen came back as if to puzzle me by their presence. But were the
stories true? I asked myself as I walked on more slowly. Yes, every one
of them, and more; but if that were so, then Mr. Seymour could not be
like the others--those sent hither in the Colonial days by the Odious
King whom the forefathers defied and treated with scorn and contumely.
No! He was an exception to the Sodden Crew, the consorters of Hessians
and the like. Or, after all, were McGuffy's stories of Oppression and
the Flaming Torch vain and wanton imaginings only! No! They were true
enough; and it is thou, sweet Constance, that hast led me to doubt, and
who will in the end, if I do not have a care, uproot all the traditions
of my country, making its patriotic pillars to topple and fall as if
they were not. Come back to me, then, thou sturdy belief in the Cruel
Oppressor in the days when the patriots resolved and fought, and in the
end filled all the places of preferment and profit. Hated Englishmen!
Monsters of greed! Oppressors of the patriots! Devisers of stamps and
nefarious taxes! Let me never cease to despise you, though Constance be
all the world to me and more! Or, and the thought would come, however
much I strove to force it back, were the tales of oppression shadowy
phantoms merely of a gloomy period? Men in buckram, so to speak,
conjured up and kept alive to stir the patriot's heart! Were indeed the
servants of the British Tyrant like other men, sturdy and fair-minded
and of good sleep, so far as men can be, or odious oppressors, as the
Teachers point out and the Schoolbooks show? Oh, Constance, thou dream
of grace and love, what doubts thy sweet face and entrancing eyes have
caused to rise like a fog across the revolutionary moor that I have been
taught to believe a part of the heritage of my countrymen! Surely thou
hast undone me, loyal youth though I be!
With such thoughts, imperfect and fragmentary, but forerunners of others
to come in after years, I hurried forward to greet Mr. Seymour. Hearing
me, he turned about, surprised at my appearance, crying out as he came
forward and took my hand:
"Hello, Gilbert! Welcome home!"
"Thank you, sir; I'm glad to get back," I answered.
"Where do you come from, and on such a morning?" he asked, looking me
over.
"From the Blakes, where I've been since I left here."
"The Blakes--and all this while and we not know it!" he answered, half
incredulously. "Why, Blake has been here half the time, and yet has not
mentioned your name."
"Yes, sir; but it was agreed that nothing was to be said until Uncle Job
had matters fixed up with Moth," I answered.
"Moth couldn't have harmed you. However, you went, and that is the end
of it. Now your uncle himself is in trouble, and Moth is egging it on,"
Mr. Seymour answered, with lowering face.
"That's what brings me back. I didn't know till yesterday, or I'd have
come before."
"How does it happen that Blake let you come on foot in such weather?"
Mr. Seymour asked, in a voice in which anger and astonishment blended.
"I didn't tell him I was coming. But how is Uncle Job?" I asked,
anxious to learn all I could about his affairs.
"Well, but in poor spirits, of course. It couldn't be otherwise in the
desperate strait he is in," Mr. Seymour answered, soberly.
"Is it desperate, then?" I asked, my anxiety increased by his manner.
"Yes; a week or more has gone by without our being able to find the
slightest clew to the theft, and the trial comes off in three days."
"In three days!" I cried; "surely they might give him time to prove his
innocence."
"There is no haste, they think, and in this case your uncle expressly
asks it, the court being now in session. He says he is innocent, and
will scarce talk to a lawyer, not believing any one, least of all an
Appletop jury, will think him guilty. In this I fear he is mistaken,
and I am filled with anxiety in regard to him, so unfortunate does his
case appear."
"You don't think him guilty, sir?"
"No, certainly not."
"Does any one? He, of all men!"
"At first every one scouted the idea," Mr. Seymour answered, "but now
the feeling has changed. It is partly due, I think, to the devilish
persistency of Moth, though appearances are all against your uncle, if
the truth must be told."
"How did Moth come to be mixed up with it?" I asked, wondering at the
fate that always brought this man to the front in every trouble of my
life.
"He happened to be in Rock Island when news of the robbery reached
there, and being the attorney of the party to whom the money belonged,
was brought along to help hunt down the criminal. Now he is to act as
the prosecuting attorney."
"The villain! And he is glad of the chance I'm sure," was all I could
say.
"Perhaps; but there is some one else, we can't tell who, that occupies
himself creating suspicions and suggesting this and that. It doesn't
matter, however, the thing for us is to disprove the charge; but how
this is to be done I can't see," Mr. Seymour answered, as if the
question were one he had asked himself many times before.
"Is no one thought to be concerned except Uncle Job?" I asked, feeling
the ground sinking beneath my feet.
"No; and the worst of it is he insisted on guarding the money himself
that night. Rathe volunteered to do it, but your uncle wouldn't have it
that way."
"Couldn't the money have been taken without uncle's knowing it, while he
was asleep? Surely there would be nothing strange in that," I asked,
believing it to be so.
"Yes, and your Uncle Job claims that is how it was; that he was drugged,
in fact. I am sure that is the way it happened; but how could any one
have drugged him when he was locked in his room? they say."
"How did he happen to have the money?" I asked.
"It was a collection he had made for a client."
"Did any one know he had it in his office?" I asked.
"Only Rathe and I, so far as we know, though of course there might have
been others."
"Rathe! And where was he that night?"
"He stopped here, and never left the house. He appears greatly worried,
claiming the loss will ruin his business and discredit him forever."
"The sneak! I don't believe he cares--or if anything, is glad of it.
How much money was there?" I asked, feeling that every inquiry made the
case look the worse for Uncle Job.
"Ten thousand dollars," he answered, reflectively; "a fortune here."
"How could he hide so much money?" I asked, remembering the great stacks
of bills my father used to bring home and the trouble mother and he had
in secreting them about the house.
"It was mostly in big bills, with some gold and silver."
"Did you see it?"
"Yes, but only casually, as he and Rathe sealed it up."
"Uncle Job took it in charge afterward?"
"Yes; Rathe and I coming away together. At daybreak the next morning
your uncle woke us up, complaining of his head and looking wild and
disordered. He couldn't give any account of the money, however, except
that he thought he had been drugged, and indeed the odor of chloroform
filled the room, as I found on going there, which I did at once."
"That's enough to clear him," I cried. "Nothing could be plainer."
"Yes, so it would seem; but they claim he invented the story."
"The room was filled with the stuff, you say?"
"Yes; but Moth says your uncle spilled it himself, to hide the crime."
"The liar! he knows better. Oh, it's wicked to accuse Uncle Job when he
can't prove what he says."
"Yes, that is what his friends think; but what we are saying don't lead
to anything, and while we are talking you are freezing. Come, Constance
will want to see you and welcome you back." Saying which, Mr. Seymour,
not a whit the worse for the cold, took my arm and led me into the
house, though I was all of a tremor, so biting was the air.
Mr. Seymour ordered breakfast served in the Treasury, looking upon my
coming as an event, he said. Constance being told of my arrival, came
in presently, looking pale and distressed, and seeing me beside her
father, ran forward without speaking, save to call my name, clasping her
arms about my neck and hiding her face on my shoulder.
"There, Puss, don't give way like that," Mr. Seymour exclaimed.
"Gilbert is all right, and with the strength and color of a prince, as
you can see."
"Yes, papa; but when I heard he was here the fear that something
dreadful had happened gave me such a fright I could scarce stand."
This I did not doubt, for the dear girl trembled as with a chill, and
loosing her hands and taking them in mine, I drew her to me and kissed
her, saying:
"I was never in such fine health in my life, Constance; the country is
the place to build one up, you know."
At breakfast, seated beside her, I forgot, and wholly, Uncle Job and the
errand on which I had come. How beautiful she was, I thought. Almost a
woman, too, in height, and with the grace of one. Surely there never
was any one so fair and good as she. Pressing her hand, I wondered that
I could have remained so long away, or that another's troubles, should
have been needed to bring me back; but so it was always. Loving her, I
was content, or thought I was, when away, knowing her thoughts, like
mine, were ever such as we would have shared had we been together. Thus
it had been from the first, neither change of place nor period making
any difference to us, but constant in all things, each day only added to
our love. Nor, as I have told you, was this affection in anything like
that of children; nor of brother or sister, but of man and woman. This
Mr. Seymour knew, and since that day at Wild Plum had treated me in all
things as if I were his son and a man grown. Of the reason for this,
remembering my youth, I do not know, unless indeed something in his own
life led him to view the matter differently from what other men would
have done in his place. Thus all things contributed to make the bond
between us as strong as the affections of two loving and trusting hearts
could make it; and thus it continued, each day only adding to its
strength.
"Gilbert's come back to see if he can aid his Uncle Job," Mr. Seymour
remarked, as he arose from the table. "Maybe you can help him, Puss.
Two such wise young heads ought to be equal to most anything. He has
lost no time in finding out everything I know"; and with that he kissed
her and went out, turning at the door to smile upon her, half in banter,
half in earnest.
"Yes, Constance," I said, turning to her, "I've come back to help Uncle
Job, but how, I can't see."
"I am sure you will be able to help him if any one can, Gilbert," she
answered, with simple trust; "I have thought of him so much because of
you, and knowing how distressed you would be when you came to hear of
his misfortune."
"That's like you, Constance, but what can we do? Who could have stolen
the money and yet have covered it up so well?"
"There were but two who knew he had the money--papa and Mr. Rathe. Papa
didn't take it, we know. Then if he did not, Rathe must, and that I
believe."
"He never left the house, your father says, and so how could he have
taken it?" I answered.
"Papa thinks so, but how do we know. He could have left the house
easily enough during the night without any one knowing it, I'm sure."
"Oh, you sweet child!" I cried, my heart filling. For from the moment
Mr. Seymour had mentioned Rathe's name I believed him to be the thief,
and no other. "How can we prove it, though, for no one suspects him,
not even your father," I added, looking at her to see how she took it.
"I don't know about that. Papa's a man, and doesn't always say what he
thinks; but I know he doesn't like Rathe any more than we do."