as if he were thirty." Then, as if hastening, she went on: "I hope your
Uncle Job is well and happy. We greatly mistook him, and had you stayed
with me, as I wanted, you would perhaps not have been the better for it.
For you must know that all you have done, and all that has happened to
you, I have known about as well as if I had been with you. This you will
wonder at, but I have followed your wanderings as if you were my own
son. My estrangement from your father and mother was all my fault, but
I loved them none the less. When they died I thought to make some
reparation by the care with which I would watch over your young life,
but this failed, and unhappily, like all else. Then as I could not have
you with me, I thought to watch over you and be near should you need my
aid--not forcing myself upon you, but without your knowledge; and so
your life since you left Wild Plum is known to me better than to any one
save yourself."
"I never dreamed of that, dear aunt, nor was I worthy of it!" I
answered, greatly affected by what she said.
"Yes, you were; and I have grown to love you better because of your
simple ways. For believing you were alone in the world, you yet kept
on, not complaining nor going astray in any serious way."
"I had help in that, dear aunt, of which you do not know," I answered,
thinking of Constance.
"Yes, the help that comes from companionship with a gentle and pure
heart; from Constance's sympathy and love for you. You see, I know all
about her and your love for each other, you dear child. Yes, even while
you were yet at Wild Plum, and children; and I shall die the happier for
it, Gilbert, for she is worthy of your love though you were a thousand
times better than you are."
"Oh, aunt, how good of you to speak in that way; but you will not die,
for no one of our family, save my father, was ever stricken down so
young."
"I am sorry if it grieves you, dear child, but in a little while, you
cannot dream how soon, I shall be laid beside your sweet mother. Put me
there, Gilbert, and when you place flowers on their graves, spare some
for me. It is all I ask, save that you will remember me as kindly as
you can when I am gone."
"Don't talk that way, dear aunt, for you know I will love you always,
and I loved you before I saw you, when I found the graves covered with
flowers, and at Wild Plum, where everything was as it used to be."
"Did you come that way, child? It was affectionate of you, and as it
should be. When I am gone you can do as I have, if you wish, for I
shall leave you enough for that, and much more to spend as you like."
"Don't speak so, dear aunt, for you are not going to die," I answered,
melted anew to tears by the sad pathos of her voice.
"I must speak, and about your future, for I have but a little time left
me. I shall leave you all I have, my sweet child, and it is much more
than any one dreams of, save Moth. Of him, too, Gilbert, I want to speak
before it is too late. Everything he did was by my direction, save that
his zeal for me made him sometimes forget what was due to others. That
was only an excess of virtue, for in all things, great and small, he has
been true to me; and much of my great fortune, and it is truly great, is
due to his advice and never-failing friendship. Treasure him when I am
gone, sweet one, for no matter what you have thought, he is a man to
trust; pure gold tried over and over again in the furnace of life. It
was he who reconciled me, in my heart, to your Uncle Job. For after the
trial he came and confessed to me, almost on his knees, how grievously
he had been mistaken, and that in all things Mr. Throckmorton's honor
and good intentions were what they should be. Thus it has proven; for
if you have struggled on seemingly alone, it was for your good, and has
built you up as I could not have done, nor your uncle, had you looked to
him. In this he has been wise, as you will see more plainly as the
years pass."
"He would have aided me more than he has had I let him," I answered,
anxious to do him justice.
"I know; and you have been a little headstrong, Gilbert, but only that
you might provide for yourself. I don't treasure it against you, for
only good has come of it, and I love you all the more. Now, Gilbert,
let me say a word about other things, for I have but little strength,
and may never be able to speak to you again. All my life, as you know,
I have occupied myself with business. What else could I do? Had I
married, as I might, and happily, it would have been different.
Determining otherwise, and most unwisely, I set out to build up our
fortune, and for your good, hoping to transmit our name, not as it is
known in this distracted country, but as it was in another and more
peaceful land. In this I have succeeded beyond all my hopes, but much
of my success has been due to Moth. Wild Plum I redeemed, as I could
under your father's deed, and you will treasure it, and keep this place
too, I hope, in remembrance of me. Beneath these farms, and underlying
all the many thousand acres I leave you, there lie boundless fields of
coal, the worth of which no one dreams of now. For in a little while
our young state will have filled with people, and with them will come
factories, and the furnaces of these you will help to feed. These lands
I leave to you, and other things for your present wants, so that you may
spend all your life and still be rich; but do this in moderation,
Gilbert. Others will come after you. Leave something for them. Do not
be idle, but occupy yourself not less fully now that you will be rich.
For idleness is like a foul distemper that destroys the mind and saps
the character of men, leaving only shreds and patches not worth any
one's respect. Remember always that the greatest of God's gifts is the
opportunity to occupy our minds and bodies in the attainment of
honorable ends. Thus busied, men never grow old, but remain buoyant and
fresh to the very end."
"What am I, dear aunt, that you should have planned like this? Surely,
men are but little children compared with you."
"No; the most foolish among them have been wiser than I, for their lives
have had some ray of sunshine, while mine has not had one gleam to
brighten it."
"Oh, aunt, Constance and I will make your life happy if our love will be
enough, for we will love you as if you were our mother."
"It is too late, Gilbert," she answered, with a sad smile; "but I shall
die happy in being reconciled to you and in thinking you will grow to
love me when I am gone. Kiss me again, sweet one, and may the good Lord
have you in His keeping, and forgive me all my sins."
"Oh, aunt! we will be more to you than you can think; and Constance will
come, and you will love her and she will love you! Don't speak again of
dying," I cried, my heart filled to overflowing.
At this her face brightened as with some ray of happiness, but she made
no response save to pull me to her and kiss me, sobs filling her throat
as she pressed me in her arms. Then, faint and gasping, she fell back
on her pillow, and in a little while, as if comforted, fell into a sweet
and restful sleep. Sorrowing over her sad life and on all she had told
me, I sat beside her, her hand clasped in mine, not moving lest she
should awake. This till the shadows of the night were gathering in the
room, and then, she not stirring, I arose and leaned over her bed, and
doing so gave a startled cry. For while I had sat thus unconscious, her
spirit, so great and so unhappy, had taken its flight to the good Lord
whose forgiveness she had asked with her last breath.
* * * * *
Thus this most unhappy lady, so capable of love, passed away with a
smile on her sad face and a prayer upon her lips. I, following her
wishes, lovingly and with tears placed her beside the other two, and
spreading flowers over all their graves, knelt beside them and prayed
that the lives and hearts of the dear ones so long separated might be
thus reunited in heaven above.
*CHAPTER LIII*
*WHERE ALL THE ROADS MEET*
After Aunt Jane's death, Uncle Job came on to Little Sandy, and together
we spent several months acquainting ourselves with her affairs, for
among other things it was provided in the will that he should be trustee
of the estate until I was come of age. In regard to this, however, she
was at pains to express the wish that I should have my way from the
start, being a man grown, she said, and not likely to abuse her
confidence in any respect. Thus it fell out that at seventeen, through
her great wisdom and love, I was no longer poor and without a home, but
rich beyond anything I could have dreamed of.
When, finally, there was nothing further to keep us, and I had visited
the graves of those dear to me for the last time, we bade good by to the
place, leaving Moth and Fox in charge. Of their stewardship I never had
cause to regret, for through their wise and faithful management my
affairs prospered in the years that were to come beyond anything I could
have thought possible. Taking our departure, we passed through Little
Sandy, and now for the last time. For when I came again there was no
house to mark the spot, and where the streets had been a young forest
grew, and birds flew in and out or hid themselves in its silent depths.
Passing the Dragon, I saluted it, and with reverent sadness, as one
might a departing friend, for in its silent rooms and deserted halls it
treasured memories that only death could lessen or efface.
Our journey home was without event, and so filled with the sweetness of
the country that when we reached Appletop we were rested in body and
mind as from a refreshing sleep. Constance, as if to set my heart in a
greater flame, was grown taller and more beautiful, if that could be,
but otherwise had not changed; or if she had, it was to my advantage,
for when I asked her if she had greatly missed me, she answered that my
absence only added to her love; at which sweet confession I kissed her
and was content.
Some time after our return Mr. Seymour gave a dinner at the Dragon in my
honor, but quite informally, so the announcement ran. At the table I
sat next to Constance, and, truth to tell, to the great loss of my
appetite; for much of the time my food was untasted and my fork lay idle
on my plate that I might be the more free to pay her some compliment or
press her hand beneath the cloth. There being no one but friends
present, my affairs were much discussed, and this with such excess of
joy and good nature that I was many times in tears, so greatly was I
affected by their kind speeches and the recollection of their goodness
to me in the past. Mr. Seymour I never saw in better spirits, for my
good fortune was as if it had come to him, or as if I had, indeed, been
his own son. When the evening was somewhat advanced, he filled his
glass, and looking into the faces of those about him, said, in his
amiable way:
"I leave it to you, good friends, whether we may not properly toast our
young friend here before we part." Then stopping, as if to await their
answer, a great shout went up that made the room ring with its
good-natured heartiness. "That is as it should be, and expresses some
part of our love and happiness at his good fortune. I say good fortune,
and this I know it will prove; for when he was poor he bore himself with
such modesty that I am sure he will not lose in amiability now that
riches have come to him. For arrogance, as every one knows, is not
peculiar to the rich or those high in station, but crops up oftentimes
like a foul weed, born of envy, among the more lowly in life, who,
except for this deformity, would be very agreeable companions and
neighbors. It is peculiarly happy that this stroke of fortune has come
to Gilbert, for some of you will not have forgotten the belief I
expressed that Mr. Throckmorton's marriage destroyed all his hopes of
preferment in that direction. This has come about as I expected, for
Mrs. Betty's two fine boys, if she will excuse my familiar form of
speech, would have left little for our young friend. You can see that
for yourself now, Gilbert," he concluded, turning to me.
"Yes, nothing could be plainer," I answered; "though I had forgotten
what you said, and because, I suppose, I have never wanted for anything,
thanks to the goodness of my friends." This response was greatly
applauded by all present, and so, encouraged by their smiles, as
beginners are apt to be, I went on: "I am glad I have come into what I
have, and not altogether on my own account, either," and here I gave
Constance's hand such a squeeze that she came near to crying out with
the pain of it. "Aunt Betty's boys it is not likely will ever want for
anything, but if they do I shall be glad to share what I have with them,
and this because of their father's and mother's many kindnesses to me in
the past."
"I know you mean that, Gilbert," Aunt Betty cried; "and if it were not
for disturbing everybody I would come around and give you a kiss for
your sweet speech."
This, every one agreed, quite repaid me, and I thought so too, for Aunt
Betty was a most affectionate and lovable woman, and had been to me from
the very first as if I were a dear brother. Mrs. Singleton, who in the
years that had passed was forever looking me up to see, she said, if I
kept my good temper or was not in need of some kindness, now turned to
me, and smiling as a mother might on her child, asked:
"What do you intend doing, Gilbert, now that you are rich, if you have a
mind to tell us?"
"I don't know," I answered, truly enough.
"That is not strange; but where will you complete your education?" she
went on.
"In Appletop, I hope, if Mrs. Hayward thinks I need to know more about
books," I answered, turning to her.
At this the sweet lady blushed like a girl, so confused was she at the
reference, but pleased withal, I thought, at the compliment. Recovering
herself directly, she answered in her pleasant way:
"I was but a poor instructor, I fear, Gilbert, and taught you but
little, and that not well. William and I have talked about it a great
deal since the day you left us, for the ferry is not the same to us now
that you are gone."
"I will never again find friends who will be half as indulgent, and not
all the money in the world would repay the debt I owe you and Mr.
Hayward," I answered. "You taught me all I know, and with such
forbearance and gentleness that I shall love you for it as long as I
live," I went on, and yet not expressing the half I felt. For of all
women I ever knew, save Constance and my dear mother, there was never
one like her for goodness and every womanly virtue. Of Mr. Hayward, if
he was different, he was not less kind-hearted and true to those near
him. "About schools," I kept on, determined to have it out now that the
subject was up, "I never liked them when a boy, and less so to-day than
then. That is the way I feel, and except for the necessity of it I
would never look in a book again unless it referred to something I
liked. An education, though, I suppose, is as needful as plowing before
a crop, and so I must go on and finish mine whether I like it or no."
"You never liked to plow very well," Mr. Hayward responded, as if it
fell to him to answer, "but still you went at it resolutely enough when
there was need. You will do the same about finishing your education, I
know. The labor ought not to be very great, for most men are
overeducated. Nine-tenths of those who go to the higher schools had
better spend their time boiling soap or hoeing corn. The few who are
really great get along very well without so much cramming, and in the
case of others the preparation only makes them the more dissatisfied
with their real place in life," he concluded, soberly, and as if not
speaking altogether from hearsay.
"What studies do you like best, Gilbert, if any?" Mr. Seymour asked, as
if quizzing me.
"History and novels; things that have to do with men and women and the
like," I answered, truly.
"History is a fine study, and novels are a help to young men when they
refer to real things and not the imaginings of authors," Mr. Seymour
answered, mildly.
"I once wrote a story," Mrs. Singleton here spoke up, much to our
astonishment--"and you need not laugh. There were some beautiful things
in it, too, I know; but on reading them over I became at last possessed
of a horrible fear that I had seen them elsewhere, though I couldn't be
certain, and so in the end burned the manuscript."
"That is not strange," Mr. Seymour remarked, "for if we happen to say
something that is beautiful, we are as conscious of it as others; but
reflecting on the subject, it in time becomes common, and so assumes the
air of being old. Immediately this is so, we suspect it is not ours,
but something we have treasured in our memory, and so at last cannot
distinguish between the two."
"I am surprised at what you say, Mrs. Singleton," Uncle Job interposed;
"for I have heard the disposition to write was so intense that it could
not be appeased."
"It was not so in my case, for I have never had any disposition to make
a second attempt," she answered, amiably.
"If a man must write a novel, let him go ahead, and the Lord have mercy
on his soul," Mr. Seymour went on. "The taste, however, that leads some
to select the worst types of men and women to exploit, as if such people
made up the rank and file of society, or any considerable portion of it,
is beyond me. What earthly interest, for instance, have refined or
decent people in the doings of the social drabs that some of our authors
are at such infinite pains to portray?"
"There are such people, you will admit?" Uncle Job answered, as if to
draw him on.
"Yes; and there are cataclysms in the sea and quicksands on the land,
but neither the currents of the sea nor the highways by land lead to
them. It is only the casual wayfarer who suffers through their
existence, and so the impress of the disgusting creatures these
novelists depict would be slight if not thus widely advertised."
"Then you think it does harm?" Uncle Job answered.
"Of course it does harm. I may say a foolish word and it counts for
nothing. I myself will not remember it; but if some busybody or
malicious person repeats it, then it circulates and has enduring life,
as if stamped in bronze. So it is with the acts of those who disregard
the moral ethics of society; but these authors give the reader the
impression that the sun only shines by fits and starts, whereas the
shadows are as nothing compared with its eternal radiance."
"They exaggerate the situation, you think?" Uncle Job insinuated.
"Of course they do; for there are no such men and women in real life.
Even the worst have good qualities; and if plots are hatched to the
undoing of mankind, it is not among the young in life, for they are
always trusting and of fair dealing. No, the pathos and tragedies come
after marriage, for beyond that point the sea is strewn with wreckage.
To go back, though, to what we were speaking about, Gilbert," he went
on, soberly enough; "you will not find it disagreeable to finish your
education along the lines you mention. Nor will you, I think, in other
and more necessary ways."
"Thank you, sir; I will not lose time in making a beginning, anyway," I
answered. "What would you say, Uncle Job," I asked, turning to him, "to
Cousin Rolland's coming here to act as my instructor?"
"He would do very well, for he has a fine mind and is a university man;
but how about Cousin Angeline?" he responded, looking at me with a
twinkle in his eyes.
"I think we could manage that some way; and Cousin Rolland is such
agreeable company that study would not be hard under him."
"No, I don't think it would," Uncle Job answered, but in what sense I
could not make out.
"Where will you live meanwhile, Gilbert? I hope with us," Setti here
broke in for the first time, it never being in her nature to talk much,
as I have told you.
"I would like it better than any place on earth, Setti, but the house
would not be big enough for two such students as Constance and I. We
would be jealous of each other's learning before a month had passed. I
have an idea what I will do, though, if Uncle Job agrees to it."
"What is it, Gilbert? I agree beforehand to everything you do or say,
as I ought, for that was what your Aunt Jane said, you know," Uncle Job
answered, good-naturedly.
"Well, I have a mind to buy the Appletop place, and as the owner is dead
and it is for sale, I can't see that there is anything to prevent," I
answered, hurrying through, not knowing how the company would take it.
Of Constance I was at once assured by the pressure of her hand. The
others at first looked up in surprise, but after a while, reflecting on
the matter and thinking how fine it would be to have the great place
owned by a friend, there was such clapping of hands and shouting as left
no doubt whatever of their opinion in the matter. Turning to Constance,
I read in her eyes and heightened color how pleased she was to think I
should be so near her, and in such a home, surrounded by trees and lawns
and opening vistas, in the quiet of the country and yet among my
friends.
"If you buy it, Gilbert, and ever build a house, let it be something
like a manor, for that will be in keeping with the place," Mrs.
Singleton, who greatly admired the old-fashioned houses of the South,
spoke up.
"Yes; and I would like to suggest a name for it, Gilbert, if you have a
mind," Mr. Seymour interposed.
"I should be glad to have you, sir," I answered, in great spirits,
delighted to find my plan met with every one's approval.
"Call it Black Hawk Lodge, in honor of that great man and much maligned
savage," Mr. Seymour responded.
"I will build the house if only to name it in remembrance of him, and in
gratitude for his having saved the lives of my father and mother," I
answered, the image of the great savage rising like a specter before my
eyes.
Afterward it fell out as I had proposed; and not waiting to make any
change in the Appletop house, I went there to live, bringing Cousin
Rolland from Rock Island, as we had talked. Now, having a good deal of
time on my hands, for my studies were not so much of a burden as I had
thought, I soon began to think of building the new home, the old one
being hardly fit to live in. The planning of this, however, I found
required more time and study than I had thought, and being in doubt
about nearly everything pertaining to such a place, I was compelled to
seek Constance's aid, and this almost every hour of the day. First of
all we had to locate the building, and this with reference to the trees
and lawns and the streets that ran past the park. This required a deal
of time and much walking back and forth, for we were both agreed that
the matter of location was everything. The labor, too, being tiresome
in the extreme, we to rest ourselves would oftentimes have refreshments
brought and served on the lawn, or in some friendly arbor. Thus, not
being in any hurry, a thing I thought very simple at first grew each day
more difficult, so that in the end it required quite a year for its
fulfillment.
When we had fixed upon the location, the plans had next to be drawn, and
that there might be no mistake or lack of attention we kept them in our
own hands. As we were new to such things, and yet aware how important
it was, we found it necessary to make many changes, often tearing up the
plans we had made and beginning anew, so little satisfied were we with
what we had done. At the start we determined that the house should have
a wide veranda supported by pillars, as Mrs. Singleton had said. Then
the hall came next; and this, as regards width and depth and the
location of the stairs, caused us a world of planning. After that the
reception-room had to be agreed upon, and this with reference to the
drawing-room; but both of these we got fixed finally to our liking. The
living-room, most important of all, you will say, after making the
circuit of the building in search of a fit place, we at last located on
the sunny side of the house, where we should have put it at first. The
dining-room we determined from the very beginning to make extra big, in
the belief that entertaining one's friends tends to keep people young,
if not carried to an excess; and thus it was. The sleeping-rooms and
closets and things of that sort, as regards number and arrangement,
occasioned us a deal of study, but finally all were arranged to our
liking. The stable, last of all, we hid away behind a clump of pines,
and so constructed that we could add to it, and this without destroying
the symmetry of the structure, for we thought that a barn, being almost
as conspicuous as the dwelling, should be gracefully planned, so far as
it was possible to have it.