"Oh, you can't go so soon, Gilbert, and on so long a journey!" Constance
answered, putting up her hand as if to restrain me.
"Why not? The distance is nothing," I answered, with some pride.
"See, Gilbert, what is this?" Constance interrupted, unfolding a paper
she had picked up from the ground; "an order to pay you money, and for
five hundred dollars. Surely, your aunt means all she says and more!"
Yes, so it was; a fortune, and sent that I might come to her without
loss of time or expense to my friends.
"Oh, aunt, I will come, be sure!" I cried, scarce able to decipher the
paper, so clouded were my eyes with tears.
"You will need it all, Gilbert; it is so far, and you can't go alone,
you know. Oh, how I wish I were going with you!" the sweet girl
exclaimed, clasping my neck as if no one could protect me so well as
she.
"I wish you were, sweetheart, for I shall be unhappy till I come back to
you," I answered, my heart sinking at the thought of leaving her.
"You must not feel that way, Gilbert, for you will not be long away,"
she answered, tears starting in her eyes.
"I must stay, once I get there; but I will come back, and often, till
that day, you know when," I answered, embracing her.
Thus it was arranged, and going to the house I showed Aunt Jane's letter
to Mr. and Mrs. Hayward, who were as much surprised as we had been.
When I told them I thought I ought to go to her at once, they both
assented, as I had felt sure they would from the first.
"If you think best," I said to Mr. Hayward after we had talked the
matter over, "I will go on to town with Constance, and if there is a
boat, I will go by that, and if not will take a horse and go across the
country."
"Do as you think best; and you are welcome to one of our horses, if you
conclude to go that way," he answered.
For this I thanked him, but declined, for I knew he needed them in his
business, which was now grown somewhat, but not as much as it ought.
"You will not think of going alone, Gilbert, I hope?" Mrs. Hayward spoke
up, as she helped me to collect the few things I needed, and this as if
she still saw in me the slender youth she had welcomed with so much
kindness years before.
"Why not? The country is open, and I have but to go ahead, and in three
or four days at the most I will be there."
"He is not going alone," Constance broke in at this. "The country is
full of outlaws and wild beasts. Think what happened to him when he
came to Appletop!"
"It is not so bad as that now, you know, Constance," I answered; "and
besides, I shall have money and a horse if I go overland."
"It has not changed much, and some accident might happen to you, and
then what would you do? Surely your Uncle Job or Mr. Fox will go with
you, or if not, papa will be glad to, I know," the sweet child insisted.
Matters being thus arranged, we took leave of Mr. and Mrs. Hayward, and
this on my part with a sad heart. For in the years I had made my home
with them they had been very tender and kind to me, and because of it I
had grown to love them, more, indeed, than I thought till the hour of
parting came.
When we reached Appletop we stopped at Uncle Job's on our way to the
Dragon. Tears filled his eyes as he read and re-read Aunt Jane's sad
letter.
"Poor woman! You will go to her, Gilbert?" he said at last.
"Yes; and I am glad you think I should," I answered.
"Of course; but when do you think of starting?" he asked.
"To-day if I can get off."
"That is prompt," he answered, as if pleased that I should respond so
quickly to her request. "How will you make the journey, do you think?"
"By boat, if there is one, and if not, across the country. I would like
the last best, though."
"There will be no boat till to-morrow night, and then not surely," he
answered, after a moment's thought.
"That is too long to wait, and a good horse will carry me as soon or
sooner than I could go the other way."
"You must not go alone," he replied. "I would be glad to go if I could
get away, but as I can't, how would Fox do?"
"We had thought of him," Constance spoke up.
"Then you have talked it over?" Uncle Job asked.
"Yes; it is not safe for him to go alone, and that is the way we
happened to speak of it."
"Fox will be a good companion, and more agreeable than I," Uncle Job
answered, pleasantly.
"You know that is not so, uncle," I answered, "for I should like no one
so well as you."
"Well, it is nice of you to say so, anyway; but if you are to start
to-day you must be off, and while you are looking up Fox I will get the
dapple-gray mare in shape for you."
"The mare!" I answered, surprised at the reference. "Will you let me
take her?"
"Yes; and if you will accept the gift, I shall be glad to give her to
you. I have been intending to do it for a long time," he answered,
smiling.
"I know that, for I have heard him say so before, Gilbert," Aunt Betty
here interposed, and as if pleased at what her husband proposed.
"Thank you," I answered; "there is nothing in the world you could give
me that would please me half so much"; for since the night I rode her to
Appletop I thought her the finest animal in all the world.
Taking leave of Uncle Job and Aunt Betty, Constance and I started for
the Dragon, and on our way ran across Fox, as good luck would have it.
When we told him about the journey and our wish that he should go with
me, he was delighted beyond power of speaking, for he had long desired
to get away from Appletop, and only Uncle Job's wish kept him back.
This because the past had been a bar to his getting anything worthy of
him, nor did it seem possible he could live it down, though he labored
hard to be thought worthy of men's confidence. It was plain, too, that
he had now begun to despair of his future, in which we greatly pitied
him, for he was in all things of blameless life and wholly free from
folly of any kind.
"Do you know where you can get a horse?" I asked, when it had been
arranged that he should go.
"Yes, I know a good one I can hire," he answered, and sorrowfully
enough, for it had been a long time since he had a horse of his own.
"We had better buy one; Aunt Jane has sent me money enough, and it can't
be used in a better way, can it?"
"That would be fine; and have you a horse?" he asked.
"Yes; Uncle Job has given me the gray mare."
"Given her to you! Well, that's past belief, for she is the very apple
of his eye," he answered, surprised.
While we were thus talking, Blott came up, bustling and fat and as full
of color as an alderman. He had now been married a year, and was,
moreover, deputy sheriff, an office he filled with great pride, and
acceptably to the public. When I told him of our journey, the roving
instinct in him showed itself in the way he straightened up.
"I'd like to go with you," he answered, "for it'll be a picnic; but
business is business, an' the peace of the county's got to be looked
after," he added, with a sly glance at his wife, a little woman with a
firm mouth and big nose, who had come up while he was speaking. This
little lady was a very determined woman, and ruled her lord with an iron
hand in all matters relating to temperance and early hours and things of
that sort, but for his good, be it said, and not unkindly.
"We should like to have you go if you could get away," I answered, for
Blott was fine company.
"It would be great if both Blott and Mr. Fox could go, Gilbert,"
Constance spoke up, seeing in this greater safety for me in fighting off
the outlaws and desperadoes with which she had peopled every lonely
place since the night in Murderer's Hollow.
"He can't, though, Miss Constance," Mrs. Blott broke in. "He couldn't
be away so long, and besides he might have a return of the old malady,
an' I ain't goin' to risk it."
"There ain't a bit of danger, Sarah," Blott answered, "for I'm livin'
too near the sky to ketch anything but a cold. Do you know, Gilbert, I
can hardly keep my feet on the ground, an' have to clip my wings every
mornin', I'm so good. Only Sarah's stricter'n she need be sometimes."
"No, I ain't," Mrs. Blott spoke up, "seein' what indulgence led you into
before."
"You see how I'm treed," Blott answered, looking at me ruefully.
"One can't be too careful, Blott," Fox answered; "being out nights and
away from the comforts of home is bad for those inclined to malarial
troubles."
"That's no dream; but there ain't no danger in my case," Blott answered.
"I don't know about that," Mrs. Blott broke in; "but we've got the habit
broke up, an' it's best to keep it so."
"Don't that frost you, Gilbert! But she'll have her way, she'll have
her way, an' it's probably the best. For I don't mind tellin' you, even
if she's by, that she knows more'n any doctor, an' barrin' a little too
much watchfulness, is the best woman on earth."
"One can see that with half an eye," I answered.
"Yes; an' she's the kind of a woman for a poor man, knowin' more'n to
run into the fence when she gits to the end of the furrer. Rose-bushes
is all right, Gilbert, in their place; but they don't make good kindlin'
wood, an' when women ain't brought up to know nothin' 'cept to set
'round an' make themselves pleasant-like, they shouldn't break the back
of a poor man by marryin' him. Women is like trees; sum air only purty;
other's air just as purty, an' make good rails an' firewood, too, when
the need comes."
"How is it with men, Blott?" Fox asked, winking at Mrs. Blott.
"Well, I wasn't talkin' 'bout men," he answered; "but there's many a
little woman takin' in washin' to support a hulk of a man who's too lazy
to work."
"You will be sheriff some day, Blott, with such a wife," I answered,
bowing to the little woman as we started to leave.
"Yes, you can't keep a good man down. I'm gettin' old, too, an' only
young turkeys is willin' to roost on the lower limbs. I'm pipe-layin'
for the place, Gilbert; but I mayn't get it, for the deservin' don't
always win, an' if they did there'd be nothin' left for the others.
It's the compeetin' of the deservin' with the ondeservin' that makes the
world interestin' to everybody."
Bidding Blott and his wife good by, Constance and I hurried on to the
Dragon, where we found Mr. Seymour, who, as I expected, joined with the
others in thinking I should lose no time in going to my aunt.
"Come, you can't ride on an empty stomach!" he exclaimed, after we had
talked the matter over, and with that led the way to the Treasure room,
Constance and I following. Here luncheon was served, and eating it we
spent an hour talking of the past and the future, for none of us could
tell how much my present journey might change my way of life. Going
downstairs at last, we found Uncle Job and Aunt Betty and Fox awaiting
us, the latter mounted on a fine horse and holding the gray mare,
saddled and bridled and looking as fine as a fiddle. Much affected by
all their kindness, I came near to breaking down, but putting as good a
face on it as I could, I bade them good by, and mounting my horse we set
off at a gallop.
*CHAPTER LI*
*THE MAUVAISE TERRE*
The second evening after our departure we were far on our way, stopping
for the night at the hut of a lonely trapper hid away among the steep
inclines that shelter the perverse and tortuous Kickapoo. The next
morning, getting an early start, we rode into the little village of
Peoria, crossing the placid Illinois as the morning sun tipped the
forest on its eastern shore. The fourth night found us, without
adventure, a few miles from Little Sandy, and here, worn out with our
long ride, we put up at a wayside tavern, half hidden by the overhanging
trees. The next morning, impatient to complete our journey, we were in
the saddle while the east was as yet scarce tinted with the coming of
the summer day. Riding forward into the great plain, the morning mists
hung white and trembling on the distant horizon, and this as if to hide
the beauties of nature that lay beyond. Above these shadowy curtains,
serene and far off, the placid heavens, half disclosed, looked down upon
us in gentle salutation. Going on, and the day advancing, the soft
murmurings and babble of the prairie filled our ears as with the breath
of life. Nothing indeed was lacking to complete nature's picture; the
hum of insects, the chirruping of birds, the drone of wild bees
gathering their winter stores. Inimitable throng! We felt its presence
as we might that of the Great Creator.
"Surely God dwells here!" Fox exclaimed, half aloud, slowing his horse
to a walk.
To this I bowed my head without speaking, feeling, indeed, that we were
in His very presence.
"The prairie has its life and mysteries, Gilbert, great and unfathomable
as the silent sea, and not less grand," Fox went on, pulling up his
horse.
Stopping to contemplate the tranquil scene, the odor of flowers and
fragrant grasses and the smell of the sweet earth came to our grateful
senses on the soft air like a welcome and benediction.
"It is nature's breath, and with the perfume of all the ages," Fox
exclaimed, removing his hat.
Nor was this all, for round about us, and as if in welcome of our
coming, the birds of the prairie and troops of meadowlarks in ecstasy of
song flitted here and there, or with faces turned toward us perched
swaying from some blossoming flower. Along the scarce-beaten path as we
went slowly forward the midgets of the plain, emerging from their
hiding-places, peered at us curiously from out the dew-laden grass, or
sat bolt upright, staring beside their nests. Beyond these, in the
quiet lakes, white with the morning mists, wild fowl watched from amid
the reeds and round about them muskrats swam back and forth or sat
perched on their housetops stroking their beards.
"See that old fellow with the pompadour!" Fox exclaimed, his mood
changing; "there! sitting on the roof of his Queen Anne cottage. How
much he resembles General Jackson! And I have no doubt will undermine
every house in the pond, as the general has done with our finances, if
any one dare make a face at him."
"What foolish talk," I answered, paying little heed to what he said.
"No; the muskrat is as serious as Mr. Jackson, and knows just as much
about finance and good government."
"Nonsense, Fox! General Jackson is a great man," I answered,
impatiently.
"Yes, in some things; but there never was a man in office who knew less
of its duties."
"Well, he is a fine soldier that you will admit," I answered, feeling
about for some common ground on which we could stand.
"Yes; but all the air in heaven will not be enough to supply those who
will sing his praises in the days to come, not as a soldier, but as a
Statesman, with a great, big, fat, succulent S. He is to our liking,
though--for if by chance freemen find a man with a genius for killing
people, they straightway make him President or something of that kind.
Fitness to the winds, my boy, tra la! Give me liberty or give me death,
but in any event, something to worship, if it is only a seven-months'
calf."
Not agreeing with Fox in anything he said, and indeed not knowing much
about it one way or the other, I made no reply, and so the subject
dropped. Stopping farther on to refresh our animals in the sweet waters
of the gentle Mauvaise Terre, its dainty fish hurrying from their
hiding-places, swam in and out about our horses' feet, as if in greeting
of these new monsters come to visit them in their quiet home. Beyond,
on the sloping bank, a robin, old and gray, eyed us critically, and at
last, as if seeing enough, gave a croak of warning and hopped briskly
away. Farther up the steep incline, as if nature were determined to
exhibit all her stores, a covey of quail ran scurrying across the way,
but stopping on the other side, looked down on us, and curiously, as if
having naught to fear. Abandoning ourselves to the dreamy sweetness of
the hour, there came presently from out the topmost branches of a
towering cottonwood the blackbirds' swelling chorus, rising and falling
on the morning air like an anthem of praise and thanksgiving, as indeed
it was.
"How is that, Gilbert, compared with our Appletop choir?" Fox asked,
shaking his head.
Not answering, I looked away; and far off, beneath an overhanging oak, a
gentle doe, with her young beside her, stood drinking. Looking in that
direction, Fox spoke again, but now soberly enough.
"See, Gilbert, in this Garden of Eden we are still thought to be
harmless like the other animals; and to think," he went on without
stopping, "that such a world should be bartered for an apple with a worm
in it! But hark!" and as he ceased there came to us, as in farewell and
from some far-off place, the soft cooing of the turtle-dove, sweetest
and saddest of all country sounds and fittest note of its remote and
restful solitudes. Listening, but without speech, we rode on, and
regretfully, loath to leave a scene so full of beauty and the fragrant
sweetness of life.
*CHAPTER LII*
*LIFE AND DEATH*
Rousing ourselves as we left the shadows of the Mauvaise Terre, we put
spurs to our horses, and ere the sun was half-way up the sky, rode into
the town of Little Sandy. This on a day like that upon which I left it
years before, but now how changed! The Dragon, once the center of so
much stir, stood forlorn and empty, its sign hanging half obliterated in
the morning air, as if in shame of its abandonment. About the town, the
houses once so full of life and sprightly gayety were now for the most
part empty and fast falling to pieces for lack of care. The busy
streets, too, were overgrown with grasses and sprouting trees, so that
the footfall of our horses could scarce be heard as we rode slowly
forward. No need to tell the reason of this decay, and that some new
place was luring the people to other homes.
Sorrowing over what I saw, we rode at a walk through the dying town into
the country beyond. Here, nearing my aunt's house, we turned into a
quiet path, and doing so, came full upon the lawyer Moth. He, keeping
his horse at a gallop, raised his hat and saluted us with every show of
kindness and good will as he passed, but without stopping or speech of
any kind. Returning his salutation, we went on, and now more soberly,
until presently our path brought us to the little churchyard where my
father and mother lay buried. Here, giving my horse to Fox, I went
forward alone, gathering as I crossed the intervening space the grasses
and wild flowers my mother had loved when she was yet alive. Coming
presently to the graves with throbbing heart, I found them not as I had
thought, but covered with sweet verdure and such profusion of flowers
that I could scarce believe my eyes. Seeing this, and being
overwrought, I burst into a flood of tears, and throwing myself down
upon the ground, rested my face upon my mother's grave. Calling to her
aloud in agony of grief, as a child might have done, I repeated again
her prayers and those that she had taught me kneeling at her side. At
last, quieted in some measure, I yet lay still, and doing so, lived over
my childhood days, tasted its sweet cares and blissful sorrows, heard
again the voices of those I loved, called up anew their forms and
smiling faces. Thus dreaming and mourning, I lingered, loath to leave,
until the sun was high in the heavens. Nor would I yet have gone had not
Fox come to draw me away. Then kneeling and kissing the mounds that
covered the dear forms, I arose and followed him. Passing Wild Plum, I
did not stay, except to note with throbbing heart that in everything it
was as we had left it. Here again I saw Aunt Jane's loving hand, as in
the flower-strewn graves, and seeing it, blessed her for her love and
tender care.
With my heart thus stirred with grateful thoughts, we spurred on to her
home, and coming to the gate, there was no sign of bustle or life of any
kind, but such quietness as no one had ever known in the olden time.
For in those days the very trees and plants, so it was thought,
meditated on the crops and the prospect of gain; but now how changed!
Standing upright and staring, they seemed without life and as if
awaiting some sad event which they had long foreknown. Thinking my aunt
was dead, and yet believing Moth would have told me had this been so, I
gave my horse to Fox, and going forward, knocked at the door. Scarce
had I done this, when it opened, and the servant, knowing me before I
spoke, took my hand, and kissing it, led me through the hall and up the
winding stairs to my aunt's room. Here, opening the door, she motioned
me to enter, and when I had done so closed it again and went away
without having vouchsafed me a word. Gazing about in the dimly lighted
room, I presently made out my aunt propped up in her bed, and intent, as
if breathing a prayer. Surprised at her worn and altered look, I
neither moved nor spoke. For of the robust form and commanding face of
other days there lay before me only a shrunken body, with features worn
and wasted so as to be scarce recognized as hers. Only the eyes
retained something of the old look, but now lighted as if by some hidden
and destructive fire. While I stood thus gazing upon her, my mind
filled with sad thoughts, she turned toward the door, and catching sight
of my form, gave a start, and stretching out her arms, cried, in a
frenzy of fear and haste:
"Gilbert! Gilbert! is it you? Come, come to me, quick! quick!"
At this I ran to her, and she, clasping my neck, trembling and sobbing,
drew me down upon her bosom. Thus we lay in each other's arms, my heart
too full for speech and hers beating against my breast as if it would
burst with the strain put upon it. When she had somewhat recovered
herself, she did not speak, but murmuring half-articulate words of
endearment, fell to stroking my hair and face as if I were a babe
nursing at her breast. Having in this way in some measure satisfied her
heart's longing, she took hold of my shoulders, and holding me off, fell
to studying my face, as if she would read there all that it had to tell
and more. Then softly, and oh, so differently from other days, she
spoke:
"Oh, my child, my sweet one, how it gladdens my tired heart to see you,
and so soon, for I scarce expected you yet, if indeed you came at all."
"I hope you did not think so badly of me as that, dear aunt, for I lost
not a moment after getting your letter."
"Yes, child, I thought you would come; and it was like your father to
act quickly. In looks, though, how like you are to your sweet mother!
Her color and face and eyes and hair! It is as if she stood beside me
in life, so much do you resemble her."
"I am glad to hear you say that," I answered, kissing her, pleased
beyond everything at the gentle way in which she spoke of my dear
mother.
"Yes, child; and I hope you will be like her in temper and sweetness of
life."
"No one can be that; but what you say makes me very happy, aunt," I
answered, caressing her hand.
"You started right away, then, when you got my letter?" she asked,
toying with my hair.
"Yes, within an hour; but I can never forgive myself for going away as I
did, giving you no chance to speak, and on my knees, dear aunt, I ask
you to forgive me," I answered, slipping down beside her bed and wetting
it with my tears, so sorrowing was my heart at her forlorn state.
"Don't kneel to me, dear one," she exclaimed, lifting me up. "We were
all mistaken, you least of all; but my whole life has been a mistake,
and from the very beginning. Wrapped up in my strivings, I thought not
of my acts, nor heeded how they appeared to others, only knowing that I
loved you all and labored that you might some day be the better for it.
How mistakenly, though, and oh, how bitterly God has punished me, till
at last my prayer is answered, and He has led you back to me."
"We were to blame, dear aunt, and should have read your heart better.
Now how happy my mother must be, can she but hear your words and know
your heart, for all her life long she wanted to win your love."
"I know it, and she had it above all others on earth; and yet, oh, God,
forgive my pride and wayward moods! I would make no sign. Not even
when she was about to die--but of that, merciful heaven, I did not
dream!" she cried in agony, pressing her hands against her tear-stained
face. Recovering after a while, she went on, but now more gently: "Tell
me, sweet child, how it is that you who were once so slight, yet have
your height and strength at scarce sixteen?"
"I don't know, dear aunt, unless, as I have heard, all our people were
the same."