I am able to cite one notable instance, at least, to disprove the saying
a part of which is written above, and I have yet to hear of a case in
which a gentleman ever hesitated a single instant on account of the
first letter of a lady's last name. I know, indeed, of an occasion when
locomotives could not go fast enough, when thirty miles an hour seemed a
snail's pace to a young main who sat by the open window of a train that
crept northward on a certain hazy September morning up the beautiful
valley of a broad river which we know.
It was after three o'clock before he caught sight of the familiar crest
of Farewell Mountain, and the train ran into Harwich. How glad he was to
see everybody there, whether he knew them or not! He came near hugging
the conductor of the Truro accommodation; who, needless to say, did
not ask him for a ticket, or even a pass. And then the young man went
forward and almost shook the arms off of the engineer and the fireman,
and climbed into the cab, and actually drove the engine himself as far
as Brampton, where it arrived somewhat ahead of schedule, having taken
some of the curves and bridges at a speed a little beyond the law. The
engineer was richer by five dollars, and the son of a railroad president
is a privileged character, anyway.
Yes, here was Brampton, and in spite of the haze the sun had never shone
so brightly on the terraced steeple of the meeting-house. He leaped
out of the cab almost before the engine had stopped, and beamed upon
everybody on the platform,--even upon Mr. Dodd, who chanced to be there.
In a twinkling the young man is in Mr. Sherman's hack, and Mr. Sherman
galloping his horse down Brampton Street, the young man with his head
out of the window, smiling; grinning would be a better word. Here are
the iron mastiffs, and they seem to be grinning, too. The young man
flings open the carriage door and leaps out, and the door is almost
broken from its hinges by the maple tree. He rushes up the steps and
through the hall, and into the library, where the first citizen and his
seneschal are sitting.
“Hello, Father, you see I didn't waste any time,” he cried; grasping his
father's hand in a grip that made Mr. Worthington wince. “Well, you
are a trump, after all. We're both a little hot-headed, I guess, and do
things we're sorry for,--but that's all over now, isn't it? I'm sorry.
I might have known you'd come round when you found out for yourself what
kind of a girl Cynthia was. Did you ever see anybody like her?”
Mr. Flint turned his back, and started to walk out of the room.
“Don't go, Flint, old boy,” Bob called out, seizing Mr. Flint's hand,
too. “I can't stay but a minute, now. How are you?”
“All right, Bob,” answered Mr. Flint, with a curious, kindly look in his
eyes that was not often there. “I'm glad to see you home. I have to go
to the bank.”
“Well, Father,” said Bob, “school must be out, and I imagine you know
where I'm going. I just thought I'd stop in to--to thank you, and get a
benediction.”
“I am very happy to have you back, Robert,” replied Mr. Worthington,
and it was true. It would have been strange indeed if some tremor of
sentiment had not been in his voice and some gleam of pride in his eye
as he looked upon his son.
“So you saw her, and couldn't resist her,” said Bob. “Wasn't that how it
happened?”
Mr. Worthington sat down again at the desk, and his hand began to stray
among the papers. He was thinking of Mr. Flint's exit.
“I do not arrive at my decisions quite in that way, Robert,” he
answered.
“But you have seen her?”
“Yes, I have seen her.”
There was a hesitation, an uneasiness in his father's tone for which Bob
could not account, and which he attributed to emotion. He did not guess
that this hour of supreme joy could hold for Isaac Worthington another
sensation.
“Isn't she the finest girl in the world?” he demanded. “How does she
seem? How does she look?”
“She looks extremely well,” said Mr. Worthington, who had now schooled
his voice. “In fact, I am quite ready to admit that Cynthia Wetherell
possesses the qualifications necessary for your wife. If she had not, I
should never have written you.”
Bob walked to the window.
“Father;” he said, speaking with a little difficulty, “I can't tell you
how much I appreciate your--your coming round. I wanted to do the right
thing, but I just couldn't give up such a girl as that.”
“We shall let bygones be bygones, Robert,” answered Mr. Worthington,
clearing his throat.
“She never would have me without your consent. By the way,” he cried,
turning suddenly, “did she say she'd have me now?”
“I believe,” said Mr. Worthington, clearing his throat again, “I believe
she reserved her decision.”
“I must be off,” said Bob, “she goes to Coniston on Fridays. I'll drive
her out. Good-by, Father.”
He flew out of the room, ran into Mrs. Holden, whom he astonished by
saluting on the cheek, and astonished even more by asking her to tell
Silas to drive his black horses to Gabriel Post's house--as the cottage
was still known in Brampton. And having hastily removed some of the
cinders, he flew out of the door and reached the park-like space in the
middle of Brampton Street. Then he tried to walk decorously, but it was
hard work. What if she should not be in?
The door and windows of the little house were open that balmy afternoon,
and the bees were buzzing among the flowers which Cynthia had planted on
either side of the step. Bob went up the path, and caught a glimpse of
her through the entry standing in the sitting room. She was, indeed,
waiting for the Coniston stage, and she did not see him. Shall I destroy
the mental image of the reader who has known her so long by trying
to tell what she looked like? Some heroines grow thin and worn by the
troubles which they are forced to go through. Cynthia was not this kind
of a heroine. She was neither tall nor short, and the dark blue gown
which she wore set off (so Bob thought) the curves of her figure to
perfection. Her face had become a little more grave--yes, and more
noble; and the eyes and mouth had an indescribable, womanly sweetness.
He stood for a moment outside the doorway gazing at her; hesitating to
desecrate that revery, which seemed to him to have a touch of sadness
in it. And then she turned her head, slowly, and saw him, and her lips
parted, and a startled look came into her eyes, but she did not move.
He came quickly into the room and stopped again, quivering from head
to foot with the passion which the sight of her never failed to unloose
within him. Still she did not speak, but her lip trembled, and the love
leaping in his eyes kindled a yearning in hers,--a yearning she was
powerless to resist. He may by that strange power have drawn her toward
him--he never knew. Neither of them could have given evidence on that
marvellous instant when the current bridged the space between them. He
could not say whether this woman whom he had seized by force before had
shown alike vitality in her surrender. He only knew that her arms were
woven about his neck, and that the kiss of which he had dreamed was
again on his lips, and that he felt once more her wonderful, supple body
pressed against his, and her heart beating, and her breast heaving. And
he knew that the strength of the love in her which he had gained was
beyond estimation.
Thus for a time they swung together in ethereal space, breathless
with the motion of their flight. The duration of such moments is--in
words--limitless. Now he held her against him, and again he held her
away that his eyes might feast upon hers until she dropped her lashes
and the crimson tide flooded into her face and she hid it again in the
refuge she had longed for,--murmuring his name. But at last, startled by
some sound without and so brought back to earth, she led him gently to
the window at the side and looked up at him searchingly. He was tanned
no longer.
“I was afraid you had been working too hard,” she said.
“So you do love me?” was Bob's answer to this remark.
Cynthia smiled at him with her eyes: gravely, if such a thing may be
said of a smile.
“Bob, how can you ask?”
“Oh, Cynthia,” he cried, “if you knew what I have been through, you
wouldn't have held out, I know it. I began to think I should never have
you.”
“But you have me now,” she said, and was silent.
“Why do you look like that?” he asked.
She smiled up at him again.
“I, too, have suffered, Bob,” she said. “And I have thought of you night
and day.”
“God bless you, sweetheart,” he cried, and kissed her again,--many
times. “It's all right now, isn't it? I knew my father would give his
consent when he found out what you were.”
The expression of pain which had troubled him crossed her face again,
and she put her hand on his shoulder.
“Listen, dearest,” she said, “I love you. I am doing this for you. You
must understand that.”
“Why, yes, Cynthia, I understand it--of course I do,” he answered,
perplexed. “I understand it, but I don't deserve it.”
“I want you to know,” she continued in a low voice, “that I should have
married you anyway. I--I could not have helped it.”
“Cynthia!”
“If you were to go back to the locomotive works' tomorrow, I would marry
you.”
“On ninety dollars a month?” exclaimed Bob.
“If you wanted me,” she said.
“Wanted you! I could live in a log cabin with you the rest of my life.”
She drew down his face to hers, and kissed him.
“But I wished you to be reconciled with your father,” she said; “I could
not bear to come between you. You--you are reconciled, aren't you?”
“Indeed, we are,” he said.
“I am glad, Bob,” she answered simply. “I should not have been happy if
I had driven you away from the place where you should be, which is your
home.”
“Wherever you are will be my home; sweetheart,” he said, and pressed her
to him once more.
At length, looking past his shoulder into the street, she saw Lem
Hallowell pulling up the Brampton stage before the door.
“Bob,” she said, “I must go to Coniston and see Uncle Jethro. I promised
him.”
Bob's answer was to walk into the entry, where he stood waving the most
joyous of greetings at the surprised stage driver.
“I guess you won't get anybody here, Lem,” he called out.
“But, Bob,” protested Cynthia, from within, afraid to show her face just
then, “I have to go, I promised. And--and I want to go,” she added when
he turned.
“I'm running a stage to Coniston to-day myself, Lem,” said he “and I'm
going to steal your best passenger.”
Lemuel immediately flung down his reins and jumped out of the stage and
came up the path and into the entry, where he stood confronting Cynthia.
“Hev you took him, Cynthy?” he demanded.
“Yes, Lem,” she answered, “won't you congratulate me?”
The warm-hearted stage driver did congratulate her in a most
unmistakable manner.
“I think a sight of her, Bob,” he said after he had shaken both of Bob's
hands and brushed his own eyes with his coat sleeve. “I've knowed her
so long--” Whereupon utterance failed him, and he ran down the path and
jumped into his stage again and drove off.
And then Cynthia sent Bob on an errand--not a very long one, and
while he was gone, she sat down at the table and tried to realize her
happiness, and failed. In less than ten minutes Bob had come back with
Cousin Ephraim, as fast as he could hobble. He flung his arms around
her, stick and all, and he was crying. It is a fact that old soldiers
sometimes cry. But his tears did not choke his utterance.
“Great Tecumseh!” said Cousin Ephraim, “so you've went and done it,
Cynthy. Siege got a little mite too hot. I callated she'd capitulate in
the end, but she held out uncommon long.”
“That she did,” exclaimed Bob, feelingly.
“I--I was tellin' Bob I hain't got nothin' against him,” continued
Ephraim.
“Oh, Cousin Eph,” said Cynthia, laughing in spite of herself, and
glancing at Bob, “is that all you can say?”
“Cousin Eph's all right,” said Bob, laughing too. “We understand each
other.”
“Callate we do,” answered Ephraim. “I'll go so far as to say there
hain't nobody I'd ruther see you marry. Guess I'll hev to go back to the
kit, now. What's to become of the old pensioner, Cynthy?”
“The old pensioner needn't worry,” said Cynthia.
Then drove up Silas the Silent, with Bob's buggy and his black trotters.
All of Brampton might see them now; and all of Brampton did see them.
Silas got out,--his presence not being required,--and Cynthia was helped
in, and Bob got in beside her, and away they went, leaving Ephraim
waving his stick after them from the doorstep.
It is recorded against the black trotters that they made very poor time
to Coniston that day, though I cannot discover that either of them
was lame. Lem Hallowell, who was there nearly an hour ahead of them,
declares that the off horse had a bunch of branches in his mouth.
Perhaps Bob held them in on account of the scenery that September
afternoon. Incomparable scenery! I doubt if two lovers of the
renaissance ever wandered through a more wondrous realm of pleasance--to
quote the words of the poet. Spots in it are like a park, laid out by
that peerless landscape gardener, nature: dark, symmetrical pine trees
on the sward, and maples in the fulness of their leaf, and great oaks on
the hillsides, and, coppices; and beyond, the mountain, the evergreens
massed like cloud-shadows on its slopes; and all-trees and coppice and
mountain--flattened by the haze until they seemed woven in the softest
of blues and blue greens into one exquisite picture of an ancient
tapestry. I, myself, have seen these pictures in that country, and
marvelled.
So they drove on through that realm, which was to be their realm,
and came all too soon to Coniston green. Lem Hallowell had spread the
well-nigh incredible news, that Cynthia Wetherell was to marry the son
of the mill-owner and railroad president of Brampton, and it seemed to
Cynthia that every man and woman and child of the village was gathered
at the store. Although she loved them, every one, she whispered
something to Bob when she caught sight of that group on the platform,
and he spoke to the trotters. Thus it happened that they flew by, and
were at the tannery house before they knew it; and Cynthia, all unaided,
sprang out of the buggy and ran in, alone. She found Jethro sitting
outside of the kitchen door with a volume on his knee, and she saw that
the print of it was large, and she knew that the book was “Robinson
Crusoe.”
Cynthia knelt down on the grass beside him and caught his hands in hers.
“Uncle Jethro,” she said, “I am going to marry Bob Worthington.”
“Yes, Cynthy,” he answered. And taking the initiative for the first time
in his life, he stooped down and kissed her.
“I knew--you would be happy--in my happiness,” she said, the tears
brimming in her eyes.
“N-never have been so happy, Cynthy,--never have.”
“Uncle Jethro, I never will desert you. I shall always take care of
you.”
“R-read to me sometimes, Cynthy--r-read to me?”
But she could not answer him. She was sobbing on the pages of that book
he had given her--long ago.
I like to dwell on happiness, and I am reluctant to leave these people
whom I have grown to love. Jethro Bass lived to take Cynthia's children
down by the brook and to show them the pictures, at least, in that
wonderful edition of “Robinson Crusoe.” He would never depart from the
tannery house, but Cynthia went to him there, many times a week. There
is a spot not far from the Coniston road, and five miles distant alike
from Brampton and Coniston, where Bob Worthington built his house, and
where he and Cynthia dwelt many years; and they go there to this day, in
the summer-time. It stands in the midst of broad lands, and the ground
in front of it slopes down to Coniston Water, artificially widened here
by a stone dam into a little lake. From the balcony of the summer-house
which overhangs the lake there is a wonderful view of Coniston Mountain,
and Cynthia Worthington often sits there with her sewing or her book,
listening to the laughter of her children, and thinking, sometimes, of
bygone days.
AFTERWORD
The reality of the foregoing pages has to the author, at least, become
so vivid that he regrets the necessity of having to add an afterword.
Every novel is, to some extent, a compound of truth and fiction, and he
has done his best to picture conditions as they were, and to make the
spirit of his book true. Certain people who were living in St. Louis
during the Civil War have been mentioned as the originals of characters
in “The Crisis,” and there are houses in that city which have been
pointed out as fitting descriptions in that novel. An author has,
frequently, people, houses, and localities in mind when he writes; but
he changes them, sometimes very materially, in the process of literary
construction.
It is inevitable, perhaps, that many people of a certain New England
state will recognize Jethro Bass. There are different opinions extant
concerning the remarkable original of this character; ardent defenders
and detractors of his are still living, but all agree that he was
a strange man of great power. The author disclaims any intention of
writing a biography of him. Some of the things set down in this book
he did, and others he did not do. Some of the anecdotes here related
concerning him are, in the main, true, and for this material the author
acknowledges his indebtedness particularly to Colonel Thomas B. Cheney
of Ashland, New Hampshire, and to other friends who have helped him.
Jethro Bass was typical of his Era, and it is of the Era that this book
attempts to treat.
Concerning the locality where Jethro Bass was born and lived, it will
and will not be recognized. It would have been the extreme of bad taste
to have put into these pages any portraits which might have offended
families or individuals, and in order that it may be known that the
author has not done so he has written this Afterword. Nor has he
particularly chosen for the field of this novel a state of which he is
a citizen, and for which he has a sincere affection. The conditions
here depicted, while retaining the characteristics of the locality,
he believes to be typical of the Era over a large part of the United
States.
Many of the Puritans who came to New England were impelled to emigrate
from the old country, no doubt, by an aversion to pulling the forelock
as well as by religious principles, and the spirit of these men
prevailed for a certain time after the Revolution was fought. Such men
lived and ruled in Coniston before the rise of Jethro Bass.
Self-examination is necessary for the moral health of nations as well
as men, and it is the most hopeful of signs that in the United States we
are to-day going through a period of self-examination.
We shall do well to ascertain the causes which have led us gradually to
stray from the political principles laid down by our forefathers for
all the world to see. Some of us do not even know what those principles
were. I have met many intelligent men, in different states of the Union,
who could not even repeat the names of the senators who sat for them in
Congress. Macaulay said, in 1852, “We now know, by the clearest of all
proof, that universal suffrage, even united with secret voting, is no
security, against the establishment of arbitrary power.” To quote James
Russell Lowell, writing a little later: “We have begun obscurely to
recognize that... popular government is not in itself a panacea, is no
better than any other form except as the virtue and wisdom of the people
make it so.”
As Americans, we cannot but believe that our political creed goes down
in its foundations to the solid rock of truth. One of the best reasons
for our belief lies in the fact that, since 1776, government after
government has imitated our example. We have, by our very existence
and rise to power, made any decided retrogression from these doctrines
impossible. So many people have tried to rule themselves, and are still
trying, that one begins to believe that the time is not far distant
when the United States, once the most radical, will become the most
conservative of nations.
Thus the duty rests to-day, more heavily than ever, upon each American
citizen to make good to the world those principles upon which his
government was built. To use a figure suggested by the calamity which
has lately befallen one of the most beloved of our cities, there is a
theory that earthquakes are caused by a necessary movement on the part
of the globe to regain its axis. Whether or not the theory be true, it
has its political application. In America to-day we are trying--whatever
the cost--to regain the true axis established for us by the founders of
our Republic.
HARLAKENDEN HOUSE, May 7, 1906.
PG EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Books she had known from her earliest infancy
But I wanted to be happy as long as I could
Curiosity as a factor has never been given its proper weight
Even old people may have an ideal
Every novel is, to some extent, a compound of truth and fiction
Fond of her, although she was no more than an episode in his life
Giant pines that gave many a mast to King George's navy
Had exhausted the resources of the little school
He hain't be'n eddicated a great deal
Life had made a woman of her long ago
Not that I've anything against her personally--
Pious belief in democracy, with a firmer determination to get on top
Riddle he could not solve--one that was best left alone
Stray from the political principles laid down by our forefathers
That which is the worst cruelty of all--the cruelty of selfishness
The home is the very foundation-rock of the nation
The old soldier found dependence hard to bear
The one precious gift of life
They don't take notice of him, because he don't say much
Though his heart was breaking, his voice was steady
We know nothing of their problems or temptations