that attached to it. Thus the little buoys, skimming the water like
ducklings, never failed to attract the attention and elicit the
admiration of those who crossed. Of our signaling devices, they were
very simple; two strokes of the bell indicated a horse or wagon, one a
foot passenger. The last fell to me, and because of it, I became in time
very expert in handling the small boat, never failing, as good fortune
would have it, to bring my passenger safely to shore. Our
landing-places, too, were exceedingly picturesque, and caused the more
sentimental no end of foolish talk. On the side where we lived
hawthorns and elder covered the banks and edges of the river, and on the
other shore two great elms guarded the approach. These last were
remarkable in their way, and because of it added considerable to our
earnings. One was of great height and grand to look upon from a
distance, but the other, stopping midway, as if tired of striving to
keep pace with its neighbor, reached out its limbs in every direction in
the most picturesque and pathetic way, as if inviting alms. This tree
was called the Penitent, and the other, because of its stateliness and
dearth of shade, the Pharisee. The trees were given these names at
first in idle fancy by a customer of ours, a devout woman much given to
snuff and gossip; but the cunningness of the fancy tickling her greatly,
she gave it the widest publicity, so that in time travelers came miles
out of their way to view the curiosity and comment upon it. Because of
this and the good lady's attendance upon covenant meetings and the like,
Mr. Hayward, who was not lacking in sentiment, reduced her fare
one-half. This, like most things he did, proved a great stroke of
business in the end, for now she visited Appletop twice as often as
before, and in her journeyings to and fro never tired of speaking of the
beauties of our ferry and its fine location and good business
management.
"A queer woman, that," Mr. Hayward one day remarked as I came up from
the landing after setting her ashore, "and tending to show that what
people think, they will do. If her name, now, had been something beside
Snuffe, she would never have thought of using the stuff as she does."
"Why, what has that to do with it?" I asked, not seeing the connection.
"After she got married, much thinking of the name of Snuffe, and some
worrying about it, she says, caused her to help herself to a pinch now
and then out of pure perversity of spirit, until in the end she got to
like it, so that now she can scarce finish a prayer without a sly dip
into her bag."
"Her husband might have changed his name; he would not have had to look
far for a better one," I answered, to see what he would say.
"Oh, Snuffe is as good as any, and the family will be a power in the
land some day. The old man will not eat anything he can find a market
for, and there is no surer way to get on than that if one has the
patience to stick to it."
Constance, who was always in my thoughts, I grew to love more and more
as the years passed, and as Mrs. Hayward had her much at our house,
scarce a day went by without my seeing her. When she stayed to supper,
which was often the case, I would take her home; and of these
journeyings I remember every one, and what we said, which was not much,
for we were but little given to speech when in each other's company.
Her visits clothed our little home with such a halo of romance and
delight, that my heart swells to this day when I think of it. For my
belief in her knew no bounds, and, like my love, grew stronger as we
grew to be man and woman. This not strangely, for at sixteen she was
such perfection of loveliness that there was no joy like that of being
near her, and if I but touched her hand, heaven itself, I thought, could
not convey greater happiness. Yet, strangely enough, I could not have
told the color of her eyes, if indeed they were always the same, which I
knew they were not. Nor could I have described her mouth, except that it
expressed such tenderness that its like was never seen before. Of her
face this I know, that it was oval, but of her complexion, it was of
such delicacy of white and pink that no one could describe it, nor have
conceived anything so perfect. Her hair, too, like her eyes, could not
be described, but was ever taking on some different phase or color, so
that if you thought you knew its every shade of loveliness, some new
light or manner of arrangement would add beauties to it not before
dreamed of. Such, you must know, was Constance, my sweet love, at the
time of which I speak.
*CHAPTER XLIX*
*THE BETROTHAL*
Amid surroundings such as I have described three years passed, and
happily for me, and to my great good then and for all time. Indeed, I
do not look back to any period of my life with greater pleasure, for it
was filled with Constance and thoughts of her and nothing else. My bed,
once too long, was now too short, yet I would not change it in any way.
Lying there, the pattering rain sang of my love, and at night the
sighing and chattering wind lulled me to sleep with thoughts of her.
Thus I lay one midsummer night, listening to the whir and beating of a
great storm that had come up suddenly from out the south, after the day
had closed. Above the roar of the wind and the splash of the water on
the roof, I could plainly hear the wash of the river as it beat on our
shore, and this as if to add to the strength and rhythm of the storm.
If by chance the wind abated for a moment, the rain fell anew, and in
torrents, as if the deluge were come again. Then, it in turn showing
some pause, the wind would spring up afresh, and in such fury that the
windows and logs of the house trembled as if shaken by an earthquake.
While I lay thus listening, not caring to sleep, and in such comfort of
position and delight of mind that movement of any kind was like pain,
there came to me above the tumult of the tempest, faintly and far off
like an echo, the dull boom of the Penitent's bell. But that could
hardly be, for surely no one would venture abroad on such a night!
Thinking thus, I lay still, and in a little while it came again, and
plaintively, the like of which I had never heard before. There could be
no mistake now; it was the Penitent's bell calling, and nothing else!
Still I did not move. The storm was too great, and no boat could live
in it a minute! Then let the great tree shelter its guest, for there
was no other way. Turning uneasily on my bed, the signal came again and
stronger, booming above the swash of the water and the rush of the wind
as if it were the voice of some one crying out in anguish of body and
mind, not far off nor vaguely now, but high and resounding, as if
tolling for the dead or dying. Frightened, I sat bolt upright; and soon
it came to me again, and with greater stress of melancholy, if that were
possible. Trembling, unable to withstand the call longer, I sprang up,
and putting on my garments, quickly found my way to the floor below.
Those resting there had not heard the summons, and so leaving them
undisturbed, I opened the door and stepped out into the night. At this,
and as if watching my coming, the wind, rising to new fury, tossed me
here and there so that I could scarce keep my feet. Above, there was
some glimpse of light in the leaden sky, but about me only inky darkness
and the circling wind and falling rain. As I stood clutching a tree,
loath to go on, the boom of the bell came again, and as if with new
import and stress of haste. No longer hesitating, I hurried on,
listening as I ran; and now, I know not why, stricken with a chill, as
if somehow its tolling meant harm to me or those I loved.
Reaching the boat, and emptying it of water, I fixed the oars in their
place, and without thought shoved it into the stream. At this, the wind
and waves taking it up in their arms as if it were a plaything, hurled
it back upon me, and with such force that I came nigh to being crushed
with its weight. Awaiting a more favorable moment, I sprang into the
boat, and doing so, pushed it into the boiling water. Little, however,
could I do now that I was afloat and held the oars, for, enveloped in
darkness, the waves flying before the storm so tossed me about that
effort to make headway was lost in striving to keep afloat. Then the
wind, veering with the windings of the river or overhanging trees,
bewildering me, I was fain to sit still and wait some clew to guide me.
This the stream would have done, but tossed by the wind, it lost its
force, so that I could not tell which way it ran, if indeed it had any
direction at all.
While thus striving to make headway, the Penitent's bell came to me
across the splashing water, but now at longer intervals and
indistinctly, as if those who rang it were faint or dying. Chilled by
its stroke, it yet helped to guide me, so that I struggled on the more
hopefully because of it. In this way I after a while reached the middle
of the stream, and now I made greater headway; but going on, the bell
grew faint, and then at last ceased its tolling altogether. Filled with
new fear lest losing its guidance I should after all go astray, I put
forth all my strength to gain the farther shore. Of sign of it,
however, or other thing, save the spray of the white-topped waves as
they swept over me and across the boat, there was none. Nor could I hear
any sound save the whir of the wind and the churning of the waves as
they beat against the boat or fell back into the angry stream. Going
on, with scarce anything to guide me, I came at last within the shadow
of the forest, feeling which I gave a shout. For, listening, I could
now plainly hear the water as it beat against the shore, and above it
the roar of the wind as the trees bent beneath its force. Putting forth
all my strength anew, the boat in a moment grated high on the shelving
beach, and I was safe.
Thanking God for my deliverance, I sprang ashore, and keeping hold,
stood still. Hearing nothing, I called, but to this there was no
response, save the confusion and tumult of the storm. Not knowing if I
were above or below the landing, I fastened my boat and hurried forward,
and this fortunately; for I had gone but a little way when I came upon
the beaten road that led from the shore back into the country.
Springing up the bank, I stood beside the Penitent, and now for the
first time some measure of fear seized me. For, save the gurgling water
and the moan of the wind, as if spirits filled the air, no sound reached
my waiting ear. Listening, I presently called, but without response or
movement of any kind. Steadying myself, I stood still, holding the
swaying rope, and doing so, a sigh came to my strained ears, and this
from off the ground at my very feet. Or was it merely some trick of the
storm and pushing wind? Groping about, my outstretched hands came in
contact with the face of some one lying prostrate on the ground, and
damp and icy cold, as if life had fled. Too agitated to speak, I knelt
and lifted the body on my knees, and doing so, discovered it to be a
woman. Pushing back the damp hair, I stroked her face and hands, but
for a long time in vain. This until I was losing hope, when she sighed
again--or was it a sob instead? Overjoyed, I put my arms about her and
raised her up, crying:
"Cheer up, dear lady; help has come and you are saved!"
Upon this she gave a cry, and lifting her arms they caught about my
neck, but as if life had left her with the effort.
"Oh, God, my sweet love! Constance!" I cried, half dead with fright;
for it was she I held in my arms, and no one else. Bereft of my senses,
I clasped her to my breast, calling to her again and again, and
entreatingly, and by every pet name I could think of, but without
response of any kind. This for a long time, until regaining some
presence of mind, I fell to stroking her hands and face, covering them
with kisses as I worked. Sighing after a while, she murmured my name,
but with such faintness I thought she was dying.
"Constance, my darling, my sweet love, speak to me! You must not die now
that I have come to save you."
Struggling to regain her strength, she answered, but oh! so softly:
"How dear of you, Gilbert, to come to me."
"Come to you, Constance; had I known you were here, the thought would
have killed me."
"I expected Mr. Hayward would answer, and you came instead--and oh, the
peril of it! When I heard your voice I thought I was dying, my
happiness was so great."
"I was never in any danger, Constance. I heard the bell, but would not
stir. Then it drew me on in spite of myself, as if some danger
threatened, I knew not what."
"It was I calling, as I stood reaching out across the dark water; but at
last, thinking my summons was not heard, I knew no more till I found
your arms about me."
"I ought to have reached you sooner, sweet love, but the waves tossed me
about so that I thought I should never find the shore. Had I known you
were lying here, I should have leaped into the river to reach you
sooner."
"How good of you, Gilbert; and you will always come to me?" she
answered, softly.
"Yes, Constance, and you know why. Because I love you, love you, love
you, dearest, above everything on earth, and always have and will; and
you, Constance, say that you love me, for this you have never done."
"You know I love you, Gilbert," she answered, after a while, clinging
closer about my neck; "and if you did not love me as you do, I should
not want to live. I love you above everything, and you are in my
thoughts day and night, you sweet boy"; and with that she took my face
in her hands and drawing me to her kissed me many times.
"I am always thinking of you, too, dearest, and of what you do and say,
and how you look and what will please you. Now I can't tell you how
happy I am to hear you say you love me," I cried, covering her face and
hair with my kisses, happy beyond anything I had ever dreamed of.
Thus we plighted our troth beneath the great tree, not thinking where we
were, nor caring for the storm, which now, indeed, was fast dying away.
Soon, however, and as if startled out of herself, she sprang up.
"Oh, Gilbert, I can never forgive myself, to have forgotten what I came
for in the happiness of being with you. Quick--come with me," she cried,
saying which, she grasped my hand and drew me toward the forest.
"Why, what is it, Constance? I have never thought to ask what brought
you here."
"Nor I to tell you, Gilbert; but yesterday, papa and I going into the
country, and night coming on, we thought to return by the other ferry;
but reaching it, some accident to the boat prevented our crossing, and
so we had to retrace our steps, and the night and the storm coming on,
our horse strayed from the road, throwing us into the ditch. When I
found papa he lay like one dead, nor could I bring him to, and after
striving for a long time in vain, I at last thought to come here for
help."
"Oh, you sweet love, to be in such distress and I not know it!" I cried,
lifting her arm and kissing the sleeve of her dress.
"Yes; but we must make greater haste," she answered, hurrying forward.
"Is it far?" I asked, that I might hear her sweet voice.
"I don't know; the way seemed long, but I was frightened and often
strayed from the road."
"No one but you would have had such courage, my brave little wife, for
that you will be some day, sweetheart."
To this she made no response save to press my hand as we hurried on.
Now losing the road in the darkness, and regaining it only to lose it
again, we made so little headway that I thought we never should reach
him we sought. Going on, we after a while stopped, affrighted lest we
had passed him in the darkness. While standing in this way and
straining our ears to catch some sound, we heard the neighing of a horse
a little way ahead. At this we went on again, and coming to the spot,
were overjoyed to hear Mr. Seymour's voice in answer to our call.
Hastening to where he lay, we found him as Constance had said, but now
able to speak. Kneeling and taking his head in her lap, she stroked his
hair and face, and I, gathering hold of his hands and body, so rubbed
and worked over them that in a little while he was able to move. Hunting
up the robes, I placed them under and about him; and presently, the day
breaking, we were able to do still better. In this way, through our aid
and by his own efforts, Mr. Seymour was soon on his feet. For he was
not much hurt, but the shock being great, had for a long time rendered
him unconscious.
When he was somewhat recovered, I brought the horse, and stripping off
the harness, we put Mr. Seymour on his back, and in this way, Constance
and I walking on either side, we made our way to the ferry. Mr.
Hayward, who was already abroad, hearing the Penitent's summons, soon
came to our aid, and great was his surprise at discovering me and the
danger he imagined I had escaped. For Constance quickly told him all
that had happened, adding many things that did not amount to anything,
so determined was she to make the most of my adventure. This greatly
disturbed Mr. Hayward, for in all things he was a very tender-hearted
man indeed. In proof of this, I must tell you, I have known him many a
time, when worn out with work, to go a great way to watch at night by
the bedside of some poor person in distress who would not, except for
him, have had any care whatever. This for many nights together, and
uncomplainingly, and he worn out, as I say. Nor was he backward in
giving outright when need be, and I have in this way seen a whole
month's gains from the ferry or some Specialty of ours vanish in a
moment. This I tell you lest you should mistake his character from what
I have said concerning him. Indeed, I have never known a man so generous
or tender of heart as he.
Hastening to the boat, we quickly reached the opposite shore, and in a
minute were safe in our little home. Here Mrs. Hayward taking charge of
Constance, soon had her arrayed in dry garments; and if they were too
long and somewhat too large, it did not matter, for never did woman look
more lovely than the sweet maid as she entered the room. Indeed, I
thought the quaintness of the dress, if anything, added to her beauty
and the gentle modesty of her demeanor.
While Constance was being looked to in the way I say, Mr. Hayward busied
himself with her father, afterward giving him some bitters with a dash
of the cholera mixture, whereupon Mr. Seymour declared himself as good
as new. Thus was brought to a happy ending a most eventful night, and
memorable above all others because of Constance's confession that she
loved me. For there can be no doubt whatever but that the happiest
moment in every man's life is that in which the woman he loves confesses
that she loves him in return. All other things, I must believe, are as
naught and not worth mentioning in comparison with this sweet boon.
*CHAPTER L*
*UNDER THE WIDESPREADING HAWTHORNS*
Some days after, as I was pulling my boat home from the Iowa shore,
thinking of Constance and watching the Penitent as it reflected its
graceful foliage in the dark waters of the great river, a voice I knew
and loved hailed me from the landing I was fast approaching. Pretending
not to hear, it called again, and louder than before, and with such
sweetness and cheerfulness of life that it made my heart beat the faster
to hear it.
"Gilbert! Gilbert! Gilbert!"
Turning about as if hearing for the first time, I saw Constance standing
in the shade of the hawthorns, holding something aloft in her hand.
"Hurry up, you lazy boy! See! I have a letter for you," she cried,
waving it above her head and turning about at the same time as if to go
away.
"Wait; don't go; I'll be there in a minute," I called back. Then, that
I might be near her and not because of the letter, I lengthened my
stroke, and put such strength into my arms that in a few seconds my boat
shot into the soft bank near which she stood.
Springing ashore, I clasped her in my arms, but not in a way to shock
any one's modesty, for of all the cunning bowers Nature ever formed for
lovers this was the fittest. Looking out on the great river, but apart,
it was a place to seek, or to make the most of if by chance you met your
love there, as in my case. Having many things to say, as lovers do, and
will till the world ends, her errand was forgotten; but after a while
recalling it--if that was really the thing that brought her--she gave me
the letter, and together we fell to examining its superscription and
seal, wondering the while who it was from and what it was all about. In
this way our faces touched and our hands came in contact and lingered,
loath to part, but not strangely, and as lovers should, you will say.
There was no need of haste, it was plain, and, moreover, the getting of
a letter was a thing to be treated with some formality. For, except as
Uncle Job or Aunt Betty may have written me, I had never received such a
thing before in all my life. The day, too, was one to invite idleness,
and of lovers more especially. Above our heads great clouds, white as
snow, floated slowly across the broad expanse, and on the bosom of the
majestic river, a ripple here and a calm there, or maybe a bit of
shadow, added to the placid beauty of the surroundings. About us soft
winds stirred the leaves of the listening hawthorns, and from out the
thicket beyond the road a thrush, awakened to life by our close
proximity, called in impassioned notes for its absent mate.
Lying outstretched on the yielding turf, I asked Constance to open the
letter, and this that I might the better look upon her and listen to her
sweet voice while she read. No way suspecting my reason for asking, the
missive presently lay open in her lap; and in those days, you must know,
letters were not hidden away in wrappers as now, but folded and sealed
and the address inserted in some nook or corner left for the purpose.
When she had torn the letter apart, we looked it over, but without
deciphering any word till we reached the end, and there, coming to the
name, we were so startled at what we saw that our heads came together
with a bump as we exclaimed with one voice: "Aunt Jane!" Yes, Aunt
Jane; for printed matter never was plainer, and this notwithstanding
some tremor of the letters as if they had been put down with labor, if
not with pain. Astonished, we looked into each other's faces, for
nothing so surprising as this had ever happened before to either of us.
Glancing above the signature, our eyes caught the closing words, "With
tender love," and seeing this, I cried out:
"What can it mean, Constance? Surely something strange must have
happened! Read what it says, and from the beginning!"
Smoothing out the paper, she did as I asked, and this is the sad message
the letter contained:
"Dying, my child, I may at last speak out my soul's wish as it is and
has been from the first, concealing nothing nor adding a word. My heart
is now too weak, too yearning, too inexpressibly sad, to longer harbor
reserve or any mystery of life. Sickness and tears and years of tender
longing, my child, for you, my next of kin, have melted it; and now,
coming to the end of my days, I may, all too late, speak as I am, and
was even in the old time when your father and mother were yet alive. Of
my coldness, oh, believe me! it was never real, but only a cloak, a
shadowy thing put on without thought. For it had no real substance, but
hid my heart, and foolishly, to my life's undoing. I have no one but
you, my child, and dying I am alone and forsaken, for only the walls of
my house answer back my call for love and sympathy. Surely, if I have
sinned through pride and in hiding my heart from you and those who sleep
in their graves, I have suffered and am punished beyond bearing. You
could have loved me, and your sweet-faced mother ever sought to win from
me some show of tenderness; but erring, I put off the day of yielding
until it was too late. Now I am as one abandoned in the world, for when
you come to die only those of your own blood can respond to your heart's
yearnings. Sweet child, if you can yet conjure up some shadow of
kindness for your poor aunt, come to her in her sickness and loneliness,
that she may press you to her heart and have you by her when she yields
her life to God. For believe me, her persecution, as you thought, was
but her love and striving for your welfare, but oh, how mistakenly
conveyed, as all her acts have been from the beginning. Then forgive
and pity her, sweet one, and hasten if you would let her see you before
she dies."
Tears ran down our faces long ere Constance had finished reading, for of
its truthfulness we had no shadow of doubt.
"Surely, she has been punished, if she has erred," Constance at last
said, as she took up the letter again.
"Yes; and how I have mistaken her all these years," I mourned, for I
could not now doubt her love and affection.
"You can't be blamed, Gilbert, for she made no sign," Constance
answered, as if to comfort me; "but how lonely her life must have been,
and how greatly she has suffered."
"Had I gone to her as I ought, her coldness would have quickly given
place to show of love; and it is I, not she, who should ask
forgiveness," I answered, remembering with shame the scant respect I had
shown her.
"You were not in fault, Gilbert, for she being older and wiser should
have been first to open her arms. How could you know her heart?"
Constance answered, excusing me, as she did in all things.
"I wonder if all letters are so full of tears?" I exclaimed, taking the
missive tenderly in my hands. "But see the date, and how long it has
been in coming! She will have died, I know, ere I can reach her!"
"You will go to her, then?" Constance answered.