"H-have a good time, Cynthy?" said Jethro, looking down into her face.
Love had wrought changes in Jethro; mightier changes than he suspected,
and the girl did not know how zealous were the sentries of that love, how
watchful they were, and how they told him often and again whether her
heart, too, was smiling.
"It was very gay," said Cynthia.
"P-painter-man gay?" inquired Jethro.
Cynthia's eyes were on the orange line of the sunset over Coniston, but
she laughed a little, indulgently.
"Cynthy?"
"Yes."
"Er--that Painter-man hain't such a bad fellow--w-why didn't you ask him
in to supper?"
"I'll give you three guesses," said Cynthia, but she did not wait for
them. "It was because I wanted to be alone with you. Milly's gone out,
hasn't she?"
"G-gone a-courtin'," said Jethro.
She smiled, and went into the house to see whether Milly had done her
duty before she left. It was characteristic of Cynthia not to have
mentioned the subject which was agitating her mind until they were seated
on opposite sides of the basswood table.
"Uncle Jethro," she said, "I thought you told Mr. Sutton to give Cousin
Eph the Brampton post-office? Do you trust Mr. Sutton?" she demanded
abruptly.
"Er--why?" said Jethro. "Why?"
"Because I don't," she answered with conviction; "I think he's a big
fraud. He must have deceived you, Uncle Jethro. I can't see why you ever
sent him to Congress."
Although Jethro was in no mood for mirth, he laughed in spite of himself,
for he was an American. His lifelong habit would have made him defend
Heth to any one but Cynthia.
"'D you see Heth, Cynthy?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the girl, disgustedly, "I should say I did, but not to
speak to him. He was sitting on Mr. Worthington's porch, and I heard him
tell Mr. Worthington he would give the Brampton post-office to Dave
Wheelock. I don't want you to think that I was eavesdropping," she added
quickly; "I couldn't help hearing it."
Jethro did not answer.
"You'll make him give the post-office to Cousin Eph, won't you, Uncle
Jethro?"
"Yes;" said Jethro, very simply, "I will." He meditated awhile, and then
said suddenly, "W-won't speak about it--will you, Cynthy?"
"You know I won't," she answered.
Let it not be thought by any chance that Coniston was given over to
revelry and late hours, even on the Fourth of July. By ten o'clock the
lights were out in the tannery house, but Cynthia was not asleep. She sat
at her window watching the shy moon peeping over Coniston ridge, and she
was thinking, to be exact, of how much could happen in one short day and
how little in a long month. She was aroused by the sound of wheels and
the soft beat of a horse's hoofs on the dirt road: then came stifled
laughter, and suddenly she sprang up alert and tingling. Her own name
came floating to her through the darkness.
The next thing that happened will be long remembered in Coniston. A
tentative chord or two from a guitar, and then the startled village was
listening with all its might to the voices of two young men singing "When
I first went up to Harvard"--probably meant to disclose the identity of
the serenaders, as if that were necessary! Coniston, never having
listened to grand opera, was entertained and thrilled, and thought the
rendering of the song better on the whole than the church choir could
have done it, or even the quartette that sung at the Brampton
celebrations behind the flowers. Cynthia had her own views on the
subject.
There were five other songs--Cynthia remembers all of them, although she
would not confess such a thing. "Naughty, naughty Clara," was another
one; the other three were almost wholly about love, some treating it
flippantly, others seriously--this applied to the last one, which had
many farewells in it. Then they went away, and the crickets and frogs on
Coniston Water took up the refrain.
Although the occurrence was unusual,--it might almost be said
epoch-making,--Jethro did not speak of it until they had reached the
sparkling heights of Thousand Acre Hill the next morning. Even then he
did not look at Cynthia.
"Know who that was last night, Cynthy?" he inquired, as though the matter
were a casual one.
"I believe," said Cynthia heroically, "I believe it was a boy named
Somers Duncan-and Bob Worthington."
"Er--Bob Worthington," repeated Jethro, but said nothing more.
Of course Coniston, and presently Brampton, knew that Bob Worthington had
serenaded Cynthia--and Coniston and Brampton talked. It is noteworthy
that (with the jocular exceptions of Ephraim and Lem Hallowell) they did
not talk to the girl herself. The painter had long ago discovered that
Cynthia was an individual. She had good blood in her: as a mere child she
had shouldered the responsibility of her father; she had a natural
aptitude for books--a quality reverenced in the community; she visited,
as a matter of habit; the sick and the unfortunate; and lastly (perhaps
the crowning achievement) she had bound Jethro Bass, of all men, with the
fetters of love. Of course I have ended up by making her a paragon,
although I am merely stating what people thought of her. Coniston decided
at once that she was to marry the heir to the Brampton Mills.
But the heir had gone West, and as the summer wore on, the gossip died
down. Other and more absorbing gossip took its place: never distinctly
formulated, but whispered; always wishing for more definite news that
never came. The statesmen drove out from Brampton to the door of the
tannery house, as usual, only it was remarked by astute observers and
Jake Wheeler that certain statesmen did not come who had been in the
habit of coming formerly. In short, those who made it a custom to observe
such matters felt vaguely a disturbance of some kind. The organs of the
people felt it, and became more guarded in their statements. What no one
knew, except Jake and a few in high places, was that a war of no mean
magnitude was impending.
There were three men in the State--and perhaps only three--who realized
from the first that all former political combats would pale in comparison
to this one to come. Similar wars had already started in other states,
and when at length they were fought out another twist had been given to
the tail of a long-suffering Constitution; political history in the
United States had to be written from an entirely new and unforeseen
standpoint, and the unsuspecting people had changed masters.
This was to be a war of extermination of one side or the other. No
quarter would be given or asked, and every weapon hitherto known to
politics would be used. Of the three men who realized this, and all that
would happen if one side or the other were victorious, one was Alexander
Duncan, another Isaac D. Worthington, and the third was Jethro Bass.
Jethro would never have been capable of being master of the state had he
not foreseen the time when the railroads, tired of paying tribute, would
turn and try to exterminate the boss. The really astonishing thing about
Jethro's foresight (known to few only) was that he perceived clearly that
the time would come when the railroads and other aggregations of capital
would exterminate the boss, or at least subserviate him. This alone, the
writer thinks, gives him some right to greatness. And Jethro Bass made up
his mind that the victory of the railroads, in his state at least, should
not come in his day. He would hold and keep what he had fought all his
life to gain.
Jethro knew, when Jake Wheeler failed to bring him a message back from
Clovelly, that the war had begun, and that Isaac D. Worthington,
commander of the railroad forces in the field, had captured his pawn, the
hill-Rajah. By getting through to Harwich, the Truro had made a sad
muddle in railroad affairs. It was now a connecting link; and its
president, the first citizen of Brampton, a man of no small importance in
the state. This fact was not lost upon Jethro, who perceived clearly
enough the fight for consolidation that was coming in the next
Legislature.
Seated on an old haystack on Thousand Acre Hill, that sits in turn on the
lap of Coniston, Jethro smiled as he reflected that the first trial of
strength in this mighty struggle was to be over (what the unsuspecting
world would deem a trivial matter) the postmastership of Brampton. And
Worthington's first move in the game would be to attempt to capture for
his faction the support of the Administration itself.
Jethro thought the view from Thousand Acre Hill, especially in September,
to be one of the sublimest efforts of the Creator. It was September,
first of the purple months in Coniston, not the red-purple of the Maine
coast, but the blue-purple of the mountain, the color of the bloom on the
Concord grape. His eyes, sweeping the mountain from the notch to the
granite ramp of the northern buttress, fell on the weather-beaten little
farmhouse in which he had lived for many years, and rested lovingly on
the orchard, where the golden early apples shone among the leaves. But
Jethro was not looking at the apples.
"Cynthy," he called out abruptly, "h-how'd you like to go to Washington?"
"Washington!" exclaimed Cynthia. "When?"
"N-now--to-morrow." Then he added uneasily, "C-can't you get ready?"
Cynthia laughed.
"Why, I'll go to-night, Uncle Jethro," she answered.
"Well," he said admiringly, "you hain't one of them clutterin' females.
We can get some finery for you in New York, Cynthy. D-don't want any of
them town ladies to put you to shame. Er--not that they would," he added
hastily--"not that they would."
Cynthia climbed up beside him on the haystack.
"Uncle Jethro," she said solemnly, "when you make a senator or a judge, I
don't interfere, do I?"
He looked at her uneasily, for there were moments when he could not for
the life of him make out her drift.
"N-no," he assented, "of course not, Cynthy."
"Why is it that I don't interfere?"
"I callate," answered Jethro, still more uneasily, "I callate it's
because you're a woman."
"And don't you think," asked Cynthia, "that a woman ought to know what
becomes her best?"
Jethro reflected, and then his glance fell on her approvingly.
"G-guess you're right, Cynthy," he said. "I always had some success in
dressin' up Listy, and that kind of set me up."
On such occasions he spoke of his wife quite simply. He had been
genuinely fond of her, although she was no more than an episode in his
life. Cynthia smiled to herself as they walked through the orchard to the
place where the horse was tied, but she was a little remorseful. This
feeling, on the drive homeward, was swept away by sheer elation at the
prospect of the trip before her. She had often dreamed of the great world
beyond Coniston, and no one, not even Jethro, had guessed the longings to
see it which had at times beset her. Often she had dropped her book to
summon up a picture of what a great city was like, to reconstruct the
Boston of her early childhood. She remembered the Mall, where she used to
walk with her father, and the row of houses where the rich dwelt, which
had seemed like palaces. Indeed, when she read of palaces, these houses
always came to her mind. And now she was to behold a palace even greater
than these,--and the house where the President himself dwelt. But why was
Jethro going to Washington?
As if in answer to the question, he drove directly to the harness shop
instead of to the tannery house. Ephraim greeted them from within with a
cheery hail, and hobbled out and stood between the wheels of the buggy.
"That bridle bust again?" he inquired.
"Er--Ephraim," said Jethro, "how long since you b'en away from
Coniston--how long?"
Ephraim reflected.
"I went to Harwich with Moses before that bad spell I had in March," he
answered.
Cynthia smiled from pure happiness, for she began to see the drift of
things now.
"H-how long since you've b'en in foreign parts?" said Jethro.
"'Sixty-five," answered Ephraim, with astonishing promptness.
"Er--like to go to Washington with us to-morrow like to go to
Washington?"
Ephraim gasped, even as Cynthia had.
"Washin'ton!" he ejaculated.
"Cynthy and I was thinkin' of takin' a little trip," said Jethro, almost
apologetically, "and we kind of thought we'd like to have you with us.
Didn't we, Cynthy? Er--we might see General Grant," he added meaningly.
Ephraim was a New Englander, and not an adept in expressing his emotions.
Both Cynthia and Jethro felt that he would have liked to have said
something appropriate if he had known how. What he actually said
was:--"What time to-morrow?"
"C-callate to take the nine o'clock from Brampton," said Jethro.
"I'll report for duty at seven," said Ephraim, and it was then he
squeezed the hand that he found in his. He watched them calmly enough
until they had disappeared in the barn behind the tannery house, and
then his thoughts became riotous. Rumors had been rife that summer,
prophecies of changes to come, and the resignation of the old man who had
so long been postmaster at Brampton was freely discussed--or rather the
matter of his successor. As the months passed, Ephraim had heard David
Wheelock mentioned with more and more assurance for the place. He had had
many nights when sleep failed him, but it was characteristic of the old
soldier that he had never once broached the subject since Jethro had
spoken to him two months before. Ephraim had even looked up the law to
see if he was eligible, and found that he was, since Coniston had no
post-office, and was within the limits of delivery of the Brampton
office.
The next morning Coniston was treated to a genuine surprise. After
loading up at the store, Lem Hallowell, instead of heading for Brampton,
drove to the tannery house, left his horses standing as he ran in, and
presently emerged with a little cowhide trunk that bore the letter W.
Following the trunk came a radiant Cynthia, following Cynthia, Jethro
Bass in a stove-pipe hat, with a carpetbag, and hobbling after Jethro,
Ephraim Prescott, with another carpet-bag. It was remarked in the buzz of
query that followed the stage's departure that Ephraim wore the blue suit
and the army hat with a cord around it which he kept for occasions.
Coniston longed to follow them, in spirit at least, but even Milly
Skinner did not know their destination.
Fortunately we can follow them. At Brampton station they got into the
little train that had just come over Truro Pass, and steamed, with many
stops, down the valley of Coniston Water until it stretched out into a
wide range of shimmering green meadows guarded by blue hills veiled in
the morning haze. Then, bustling Harwich, and a wait of half an hour
until the express from the north country came thundering through the Gap;
then a five-hours' journey down the broad river that runs southward
between the hills, dinner in a huge station amidst a pleasant buzz of
excitement and the ringing of many bells. Then into another train,
through valleys and factory towns and cities until they came, at
nightfall, to the metropolis itself.
Cynthia will always remember the awe with which that first view of New
York inspired her, and Ephraim confessed that he, too, had felt it, when
he had first seen the myriad lights of the city after the long, dusty
ride from the hills with his regiment. For all the flags and bunting it
had held in '61, Ephraim thought that city crueller than war itself. And
Cynthia thought so too, as she clung to Jethro's arm between the
carriages and the clanging street-cars, and looked upon the riches and
poverty around her. There entered her soul that night a sense of that
which is the worst cruelty of all--the cruelty of selfishness. Every man
going his own pace, seeking to gratify his own aims and desires,
unconscious and heedless of the want with which he rubs elbows. Her
natural imagination enhanced by her life among the hills, the girl
peopled the place in the street lights with all kinds of strange
evil-doers of whose sins she knew nothing, adventurers, charlatans, alert
cormorants, who preyed upon the unwary. She shrank closer to Ephraim from
a perfumed lady who sat next to her in the car, and was thankful when at
last they found themselves in the corridor of the Astor House standing
before the desk.
Hotel clerks, especially city ones, are supernatural persons. This one
knew Jethro, greeted him deferentially as Judge Bass, and dipped the pen
in the ink and handed it to him that he might register. By half-past nine
Cynthia was dreaming of Lem Hallowell and Coniston, and Lem was driving a
yellow street-car full of queer people down the road to Brampton.
There were few guests in the great dining room when they breakfasted at
seven the next morning. New York, in the sunlight, had taken on a more
kindly expression, and those who were near by smiled at them and seemed
full of good-will. Persons smiled at them that day as they walked the
streets or stood spellbound before the shop windows, and some who saw
them felt a lump rise in their throats at the memories they aroused of
forgotten days: the three seemed to bring the very air of the hills with
them into that teeming place, and many who, had come to the city with
high hopes, now in the shackles of drudgery; looked after them. They were
a curious party, indeed: the straight, dark girl with the light in her
eyes and the color in her cheeks; the quaint, rugged figure of the
elderly man in his swallow-tail and brass buttons and square-toed,
country boots; and the old soldier hobbling along with the aid of his
green umbrella, clad in the blue he had loved and suffered for. Had they
remained until Sunday, they might have read an amusing account of their
visit,--of Jethro's suppers of crackers and milk at the Astor House, of
their progress along Broadway. The story was not lacking in pathos,
either, and in real human feeling, for the young reporter who wrote it
had come, not many years before, from the hills himself. But by that time
they had accomplished another marvellous span in their journey, and were
come to Washington itself.