Great afflictions generally bring in their train a host of smaller
sorrows, each with its own little pang. One of these sorrows had been the
parting with the Merrill family. Under any circumstance it was not easy
for Cynthia to express her feelings, and now she had found it very
difficult to speak of the gratitude and affection which she felt. But
they understood--dear, good people that they were: no eloquence was
needed with them. The ordeal of breakfast over, and the tearful "God
bless you, Miss Cynthia," of Ellen the parlor-maid, the whole family had
gone with her to the station. For Susan and Jane had spent their last day
at Miss Sadler's school.
Mr. Merrill had sent for the conductor and bidden him take care of Miss
Wetherell, and recommend her in his name to a conductor on the Truro
Road. The man took off his cap to Mr. Merrill and called him by name and
promised. It was a dark day, and long after the train had pulled out
Cynthia remembered the tearful faces of the family standing on the damp
platform of the station. As they fled northward through the flat
river-meadows, the conductor would have liked to talk to her of Mr.
Merrill; there were few employees on any railroad who did not know the
genial and kindly president of the Grand Gulf and sympathize with his
troubles. But there was a look on the girl's face that forbade intrusion.
Passengers stared at her covertly, as though fascinated by that look, and
some tried to fathom it. But her eyes were firmly fixed upon a point far
beyond their vision. The car stopped many times, and flew on again, but
nothing seemed to break her absorption.
At last she was aroused by the touch of the conductor on her sleeve. The
people were beginning to file out of the car, and the train was under the
shadow of the snow-covered sheds in the station of the state capital.
Cynthia recognized the place, though it was cold and bare and very
different in appearance from what it had been on the summer's evening
when she had come into it with her father. That, in effect, had been her
first glimpse of the world, and well she recalled the thrill it had given
her. The joy of such things was gone now, the rapture of holidays and new
sights. These were over, so she told herself. Sorrow had quenched the
thrills forever.
The kind conductor led her to the eating room, and when she would not eat
his concern drew greater than ever. He took a strange interest in this
young lady who had such a face and such eyes. He pointed her out to his
friend the Truro conductor, and gave him some sandwiches and fruit which
he himself had bought, with instructions to press them on her during the
afternoon.
Cynthia could not eat. She hated this place, with its memories. Hated it,
too, as a mart where men were bought and sold, for the wording of those
articles ran in her head as though some priest of evil were chanting them
in her ears. She did not remember then the sweeter aspect of the old
town, its pretty homes set among their shaded gardens--homes full of good
and kindly people. State House affairs were far removed from most of
these, and the sickness and corruption of the body politic. And this
political corruption, had she known it, was no worse than that of the
other states in the wide Union: not so bad, indeed, as many, though this
was small comfort. No comfort at all to Cynthia, who did not think of it.
After a while she rose and followed the new conductor to the Truro train,
glad to leave the capital behind her. She was going to the hills--to the
mountains. They, in truth, could not change, though the seasons passed
over them, hot and cold, wet and dry. They were immutable in their
goodness. Presently she saw them, the lower ones: the waters of the
little stream beside her broke the black bonds of ice and raced over the
rapids; the engine was puffing and groaning on the grade. Then the sun
crept out, slowly, from the indefinable margin of vapor that hung massed
over the low country.
Yes, she had come to the hills. Up and up climbed the train, through the
little white villages in the valley nooks, banked with whiter snow;
through the narrow gorges,--sometimes hanging over them,--under steep
granite walls seared with ice-filled cracks, their brows hung with
icicles.
Truro Pass is not so high as the Brenner, but it has a grand, wild look
in winter, remote as it is from the haunts of men. A fitting refuge, it
might be, for a great spirit heavy with the sins of the world below. Such
a place might have been chosen, in the olden time, for a monastery--a
gray fastness built against the black forest over the crag looking down
upon the green clumps of spruces against the snow. Some vague longing for
such a refuge was in Cynthia's heart as she gazed upon that silent place,
and then the waters had already begun to run westward--the waters of
Tumble Down brook, which flowed into Coniston Water above Brampton. The
sun still had more than two hours to go on its journey to the hill crests
when the train pulled into Brampton station. There were but a few people
on the platform, but the first face she saw as she stepped from the car
was Lem Hallowell's. It was a very red face, as we know, and its owner
was standing in front of the Coniston stage, on runners now. He stared at
her for an instant, and no wonder, and then he ran forward with
outstretched hands.
"Cynthy--Cynthy Wetherell!" he cried. "Great Godfrey!"
He got so far, he seized her hands, and then he stopped, not knowing why.
There were many more ejaculations and welcomes and what not on the end of
his tongue. It was not that she had become a lady--a lady of a type he
had never before seen. He meant to say that, too, in his own way, but he
couldn't. And that transformation would have bothered Lem but little.
What was the change, then? Why was he in awe of her--he, Lem Hallowell,
who had never been in awe of any one? He shook his head, as though openly
confessing his inability to answer that question. He wanted to ask
others, but they would not come.
"Lem," she said, "I am so glad you are here."
"Climb right in, Cynthy. I'll get the trunk." There it lay, the little
rawhide one before him on the boards, and he picked it up in his bare
hands as though it had been a paper parcel. It was a peculiarity of the
stage driver that he never wore gloves, even in winter, so remarkable was
the circulation of his blood. After the trunk he deposited, apparently
with equal ease, various barrels and boxes, and then he jumped in beside
Cynthia, and they drove down familiar Brampton Street, as wide as a wide
river; past the meeting-house with the terraced steeple; past the
postoffice,--Cousin Ephraim's postoffice,--where Lem gave her a
questioning look--but she shook her head, and he did not wait for the
distribution of the last mail that day; past the great mansion of Isaac
D. Worthington, where the iron mastiffs on the lawn were up to their
muzzles in snow. After that they took the turn to the right, which was
the road to Coniston.
Well-remembered road, and in winter or summer, Cynthia knew every tree
and farmhouse beside it. Now it consisted of two deep grooves in the deep
snow; that was all, save for a curving turnout here and there for team to
pass team. Well-remembered scene! How often had Cynthia looked upon it in
happier days! Such a crust was on the snow as would bear a heavy man; and
the pasture hillocks were like glazed cakes in the window of a baker's
shop. Never had the western sky looked so yellow through the black
columns of the pine trunks. A lonely, beautiful road it was that evening.
For a long time the silence of the great hills was broken only by the
sweet jingle of the bells on the shaft. Many a day, winter and summer,
Lem had gone that road alone, whistling, and never before heeding that
silence. Now it seemed to symbolize a great sorrow: to be in subtle
harmony with that of the girl at his side. What that sorrow was he could
not guess. The good man yearned to comfort her, and yet he felt his
comfort too humble to be noticed by such sorrow. He longed to speak, but
for the first time in his life feared the sound of his own voice. Cynthia
had not spoken since she left the station, had not looked at him, had not
asked for the friends and neighbors whom she had loved so well--had not
asked for Jethro! Was there any sorrow on earth to be felt like that? And
was there one to feel it?
At length, when they reached the great forest, Lem Hallowell knew that he
must speak or cry aloud. But what would be the sound of his voice--after
such an age of disuse? Could he speak at all? Broken and hoarse and
hideous though the sound might be, he must speak. And hoarse and broken
it was. It was not his own, but still it was a voice.
"Folks--folks'll be surprised to see you, Cynthy."
No, he had not spoken at all. Yes, he had, for she answered him.
"I suppose they will, Lem."
"Mighty glad to have you back, Cynthy. We think a sight of you. We missed
you."
"Thank you, Lem."
"Jethro hain't lookin' for you by any chance, be he?
"No," she said. But the question startled her. Suppose he had not been at
home! She had never once thought of that. Could she have borne to wait
for him?
After that Lem gave it up. He had satisfied himself as to his vocal
powers, but he had not the courage even to whistle. The journey to
Coniston was faster in the winter, and at the next turn of the road the
little village came into view. There it was, among the snows. The pain in
Cynthia's heart, so long benumbed, quickened when she saw it. How write
of the sharpness of that pain to those who have never known it? The sight
of every gable brought its agony,--the store with the checker-paned
windows, the harness shop, the meeting-house, the white parsonage on its
little hill. Rias Richardson ran out of the store in his carpet slippers,
bareheaded in the cold, and gave one shout. Lem heeded him not; did not
stop there as usual, but drove straight to the tannery house and pulled
up under the butternut tree. Milly Skinner ran out on the porch, and gave
one long look, and cried:--
"Good Lord, it's Cynthy!"
"Where's Jethro?" demanded Lem.
Milly did not answer at once. She was staring at Cynthia.
"He's in the tannery shed," she said, "choppin' wood." But still she kept
her eyes on Cynthia's face. "I'll fetch him."
"No," said Cynthia, "I'll go to him there."
She took the path, leaving Millicent with her mouth open, too amazed to
speak again, and yet not knowing why.
In the tannery shed! Would Jethro remember what happened there almost six
and thirty years before? Would he remember how that other Cynthia had
come to him there, and what her appeal had been?
Cynthia came to the doors. One of these was open now--both had been
closed that other evening against the storm of sleet--and she caught a
glimpse of him standing on the floor of chips and bark--tan-bark no more.
Cynthia caught a glimpse of him, and love suddenly welled up into her
heart as waters into a spring after a drought. He had not seen her, not
heard the sound of the sleigh-bells. He was standing with his foot upon
the sawbuck and the saw across his knee, he was staring at the woodpile,
and there was stamped upon his face a look which no man or woman had ever
seen there, a look of utter loneliness and desolation, a look as of a
soul condemned to wander forever through the infinite, cold spaces
between the worlds--alone.
Cynthia stopped at sight of it. What had been her misery and affliction
compared to this? Her limbs refused her, though she knew not whether she
would have fled or rushed into his arms. How long she stood thus, and he
stood, may not be said, but at length he put down his foot and took the
saw from his knee, his eyes fell upon her, and his lips spoke her name.
"Cynthy!"
Speechless, she ran to him and flung her arms about his neck, and he
dropped the saw and held her tightly--even as he had held that other
Cynthia in that place in the year gone by. And yet not so. Now he clung
to her with a desperation that was terrible, as though to let go of her
would be to fall into nameless voids beyond human companionship and love.
But at last he did release her, and stood looking down into her face, as
if seeking to read a sentence there.
And how was she to pronounce that sentence! Though her faith might be
taken away, her love remained, and grew all the greater because he needed
it. Yet she knew that no subterfuge or pretence would avail her to hide
why she had come. She could not hide it. It must be spoken out now,
though death was preferable.
And he was waiting. Did he guess? She could not tell. He had spoken no
word but her name. He had expressed no surprise at her appearance, asked
no reasons for it. Superlatives of suffering or joy or courage are hard
to convey--words fall so far short of the feeling. And Cynthia's pain was
so far beyond tears.
"Uncle Jethro," she said, "yesterday something--something happened. I
could not stay in Boston any longer."
He nodded.
"I had to come to you. I could not wait."
He nodded again.
"I--I read something." To take a white-hot iron and sear herself would
have been easier than this.
"Yes," he said.
She felt that the look was coming again--the look which she had surprised
in his face. His hands dropped lifelessly from her shoulders, and he
turned and went to the door, where he stood with his back to her,
silhouetted against the eastern sky all pink from the reflection of
sunset. He would not help her. Perhaps he could not. The things were
true. There had been a grain of hope within her, ready to sprout.
"I read two articles from the Newcastle Guardian about you--about your
life."
"Yes," he said. But he did not turn.
"How you had--how you had earned your living. How you had gained your
power," she went on, her pain lending to her voice an exquisite note of
many modulations.
"Yes--Cynthy," he said, and still stared at the eastern sky.
She took two steps toward him, her arms outstretched, her fingers opening
and closing. And then she stopped.
"I would believe no one," she said, "I will believe no one--until--unless
you tell me. Uncle Jethro," she cried in agony, "Uncle Jethro, tell me
that those things are not true!"
She waited a space, but he did not stir. There was no sound, save the
song of Coniston Water under the shattered ice.
"Won't you speak to me?" she whispered. "Won't you tell me that they are
not true?"
His shoulders shook convulsively. O for the right to turn to her and tell
her that they were lies! He would have bartered his soul for it. What was
all the power in the world compared to this priceless treasure he had
lost? Once before he had cast it away, though without meaning to. Then he
did not know the eternal value of love--of such love as those two women
had given him. Now he knew that it was beyond value, the one precious
gift of life, and the knowledge had come too late. Could he have saved
his life if he had listened to that other Cynthia?
"Won't you tell me that they are not true?"
Even then he did not turn to her, but he answered. Curious to relate,
though his heart was breaking, his voice was steady--steady as it always
had been.
"I--I've seen it comin', Cynthy," he said. "I never knowed anything I was
afraid of before--but I was afraid of this. I knowed what your notions of
right and wrong was--your--your mother had them. They're the principles
of good people. I--I knowed the day would come when you'd ask, but I
wanted to be happy as long as I could. I hain't been happy, Cynthy. But
you was right when you said I'd tell you the truth. S-so I will. I guess
them things which you speak about are true--the way I got where I am, and
the way I made my livin'. They--they hain't put just as they'd ought to
be, perhaps, but that's the way I done it in the main."
It was thus that Jethro Bass met the supreme crisis of his life. And who
shall say he did not meet it squarely and honestly? Few men of finer
fibre and more delicate morals would have acquitted themselves as well.
That was a Judgment Day for Jethro; and though he knew it not, he spoke
through Cynthia to his Maker, confessing his faults freely and humbly,
and dwelling on the justness of his punishment; putting not forward any
good he may have done; nor thinking of it; nor seeking excuse because of
the light that was in him. Had he been at death's door in the face of
nameless tortures, no man could have dragged such a confession from him.
But a great love had been given him, and to that love he must speak the
truth, even at the cost of losing it.
But he was not to lose it. Even as he was speaking a thrill of admiration
ran through Cynthia, piercing her sorrow. The superb strength of the man
was there in that simple confession, and it is in the nature of woman to
admire strength. He had fought his fight, and gained, and paid the price
without a murmur, seeking no palliation. Cynthia had not come to that
trial--so bitter for her--as a judge. If the reader has seen youth and
innocence sitting in the seat of justice, with age and experience at the
bar, he has mistaken Cynthia. She came to Coniston inexorable, it is
true, because hers was a nature impelled to do right though it perish.
She did not presume to say what Jethro's lights and opportunities might
have been. Her own she knew, and by them she must act accordingly.
When he had finished speaking, she stole silently to his side and slipped
her hand in his. He trembled violently at her touch.
"Uncle Jethro," she said in a low tone, "I love you."
At the words he trembled more violently still.
"No, no, Cynthy," he answered thickly, "don't say that--I--I don't expect
it, Cynthy, I know you can't--'twouldn't be right, Cynthy. I hain't fit
for it."
"Uncle Jethro," she said, "I love you better than I have ever loved you
in my life."
Oh, how welcome were the tears! and how human! He turned, pitifully
incredulous, wondering that she should seek by deceit to soften the blow;
he saw them running down her cheeks, and he believed. Yes, he believed,
though it seemed a thing beyond belief. Unworthy, unfit though he were,
she loved him. And his own love as he gazed at her, sevenfold increased
as it had been by the knowledge of losing her, changed in texture from
homage to worship--nay, to adoration. His punishment would still be
heavy; but whence had come such a wondrous gift to mitigate it?
"Oh, don't you believe me?" she cried, "can't you see that it is true?"
And yet he could only hold her there at arm's length with that new and
strange reverence in his face. He was not worthy to touch her, but still
she loved him.
The flush had faded from the eastern sky, and the faintest border of
yellow light betrayed the ragged outlines of the mountain as they walked
together to the tannery house.
Millicent, in the kitchen, was making great preparations--for Millicent.
Miss Skinner was a person who had hitherto laid it down as a principle of
life to pay deference or do honor to no human made of mere dust, like
herself. Millicent's exception; if Cynthia had thought about it, was a
tribute of no mean order. Cynthia, alas, did not think about it: she did
not know that, in her absence, the fire had not been lighted in the
evening, Jethro supping on crackers and milk and Milly partaking of the
evening meal at home. Moreover, Miss Skinner had an engagement with a
young man. Cynthia saw the fire, and threw off her sealskin coat which
Mr. and Mrs. Merrill had given her for Christmas, and took down the
saucepan from the familiar nail on which it hung. It was a miraculous
fact, for which she did not attempt to account, that she was almost
happy: happy, indeed, in comparison to that which had been her state
since the afternoon before. Millicent snatched the saucepan angrily from
her hand.
"What be you doin', Cynthy?" she demanded.
Such was Miss Skinner's little way of showing deference. Though deference
is not usually vehement, Miss Skinner's was very real, nevertheless.
"Why, Milly, what's the matter?" exclaimed Cynthia, in astonishment.
"You hain't a-goin' to do any cookin', that's all," said Milly, very red
in the face.
"But I've always helped," said Cynthia. "Why not?"
Why not? A tribute was one thing, but to have to put the reasons for that
tribute, into words was quite another.
"Why not?" cried Milly, "because you hain't a-goin' to, that's all."
Strange deference! But Cynthia turned and looked at the girl with a
little, sad smile of comprehension and affection. She took her by the
shoulders and kissed her.
Whereupon a most amazing thing happened--Millicent burst into
tears--wild, ungovernable tears they were.
"Because you hain't a-goin' to," she repeated, her words interspersed
with violent sobs. "You go 'way, Cynthy," she cried, "git out!"
"Milly," said Cynthia, shaking her head, "you ought to be ashamed of
yourself." But they were not words of reproof. She took a little lamp
from the shelf, and went up the narrow stairs to her own room in the
gable, where Lemuel had deposited the rawhide trunk.
Though she had had nothing all day, she felt no hunger, but for Milly's
sake she tried hard to eat the supper when it came. Before it had fairly
begun Moses Hatch had arrived, with Amandy and Eben; and Rias Richardson
came in, and other neighbors, to say a word of welcome to hear (if the
truth be not too disparaging to their characters) the reasons for her
sudden appearance, and such news of her Boston experiences as she might
choose to give them. They had learned from Lem Hallowell that Cynthia had
returned a lady: a real lady, not a sham one who relied on airs and
graces, such as had come to Coniston the summer before to look for a
summer place on the painter's recommendation. Lem was not a gossip, in
the disagreeable sense of the term, and he had not said a word to his
neighbors of his feelings on that terrible drive from Brampton. Knowing
that some blow had fallen upon Cynthia, he would have spared her these
visits if he could. But Lem was wise and kind, so he merely said that she
had returned a lady.
And they had found a lady. As they stood or sat around the kitchen (Eben
and Rias stood), Cynthia talked to them--about Coniston: rather, be it
said, that they talked about Coniston in answer to her questions. The
sledding had been good; Moses had hauled so many thousand feet of lumber
to Brampton; Sam Price's woman (she of Harwich) had had a spell of
sciatica; Chester Perkins's bull had tossed his brother-in-law, come from
Iowy on a visit, and broke his leg; yes, Amandy guessed her dyspepsy was
somewhat improved since she had tried Graham's Golden Remedy--it made her
feel real lighthearted; Eben (blushing furiously) was to have the Brook
Farm in the spring; there was a case of spotted fever in Tarleton.
Yes, Lem Hallowell had been right, Cynthia was a lady, but not a mite
stuck up. What was the difference in her? Not her clothes, which she wore
as if she had been used to them all her life. Poor Cynthia, the clothes
were simple enough. Not her manner, which was as kind and sweet as ever.
What was it that compelled their talk about themselves, that made them
refrain from asking those questions about Boston, and why she had come
back? Some such query was running in their minds as they talked, while
Jethro, having finished his milk and crackers, sat silent at the end of
the table with his eyes upon her. He rose when Mr. Satterlee came in.
Mr. Satterlee looked at her, and then he went quietly across the room and
kissed her. But then Mr. Satterlee was the minister. Cynthia thought his
hair a little thinner and the lines in his face a little deeper. And Mr.
Satterlee thought perhaps he was the only one of the visitors who guessed
why she had come back. He laid his thin hand on her head, as though in
benediction, and sat down beside her.
"And how is the learning, Cynthia?" he asked.
Now, indeed, they were going to hear something at last. An intuition
impelled Cynthia to take advantage of that opportunity.
"The learning has become so great, Mr. Satterlee," she said, "that I have
come back to try to make some use of it. It shall be wasted no more."
She did not dare to look at Jethro, but she was aware that he had sat
down abruptly. What sacrifice will not a good woman make to ease the
burden of those whom she loves! And Jethro's burden would be heavy
enough. Such a woman will speak almost gayly, though her heart be heavy.
But Cynthia's was lighter now than it had been.
"I was always sure you would not waste your learning, Cynthia," said Mr.
Satterlee, gravely; "that you would make the most of the advantages God
has given you."
"I am going to try, Mr. Satterlee. I cannot be content in idleness. I was
wasting time in Boston, and I--I was not happy so far away from you
all--from Uncle Jethro. Mr. Satterlee, I am going to teach school. I have
always wanted to, and now I have made up my mind to do it."
This was Jethro's punishment. But had she not lightened it for him a
little by choosing this way of telling him that she could not eat his
bread or partake of his bounty? Though by reason of that bounty she was
what she was, she could not live and thrive on it longer, coming as it
did from such a source. Mr. Satterlee might perhaps surmise the truth,
but the town and village would think her ambition a very natural one,
certainly no better time could have been chosen to announce it.
"To teach school." She was sure now that Mr. Satterlee knew and approved,
and perceived something, at least, of her little ruse. He was a man whose
talents fitted him for a larger flock than he had at Coniston, but he
possessed neither the graces demanded of city ministers nor the power of
pushing himself. Never was a more retiring man. The years she had spent
in his study had not gone for nothing, for he who has cherished the bud
can predict what the flower will be, and Mr. Satterlee knew her
spiritually better than any one else in Coniston. He had heard of her
return, and had walked over to the tannery house, full of fears, the
remembrance of those expressions of simple faith in Jethro coming back to
his mind. Had the revelation which he had so long expected come at last?
and how had she taken it? would it embitter her? The good man believed
that it would not, and now he saw that it had not, and rejoiced
accordingly.
"To teach school," he said. "I expected that you would wish to, Cynthia.
It is a desire that most of us have, who like books and what is in them.
I should have taught school if I had not become a minister. It is a high
calling, and an absorbing one, to develop the minds of the young." Mr.
Satterlee was often a little discursive, though there was reason for it
on this occasion, and Moses Hatch half closed his eyes and bowed his head
a little out of sheer habit at the sound of the minister's voice. But he
raised it suddenly at the next words. "I was in Brampton yesterday, and
saw Mr. Graves, who is on the prudential committee of that district. You
may not have heard that Miss Goddard has left. They have not yet
succeeded in filling her place, and I think it more than likely that you
can get it."
Cynthia glanced at Jethro, but the habit of years was so strong in him
that he gave no sign.
"Do you think so, Mr. Satterlee?" she said gratefully. "I had heard of
the place, and hoped for it, because it is near enough for me to spend
the Saturdays and Sundays with Uncle Jethro. And I meant to go to
Brampton tomorrow to see about it."
"I will go with you," said the minister; "I have business in Brampton
to-morrow." He did not mention that this was the business.
When at length they had all departed, Jethro rose and went about the
house making fast the doors, as was his custom, while Cynthia sat staring
through the bars at the dying embers in the stove. He knew now, and it
was inevitable that he should know, what she had made up her mind to do.
It had been decreed that she, who owed him everything, should be made to
pass this most dreadful of censures upon his whole life. Oh, the cruelty
of that decree!
How, she mused, would it affect him? Had the blow been so great that he
would relinquish those practices which had become a lifelong habit with
him? Would he (she caught her breath at this thought) would he abandon
that struggle with Isaac D. Worthington in which he was striving to
maintain the mastery of the state by those very practices? Cynthia hated
Mr. Worthington. The term is not too strong, and it expresses her
feeling. But she would have got down on her knees on the board floor of
the kitchen that very night and implored Jethro to desist from that
contest, if she could. She remembered how, in her innocence, she had
believed that the people had given Jethro his power,--in those days when
she was so proud of that very power,--now she knew that he had wrested it
from them. What more supreme sacrifice could he make than to relinquish
it! Ah, there was a still greater sacrifice that Jethro was to make, had
she known it.
He came and stood over her by the stove, and she looked up into his face
with these yearnings in her eyes. Yes, she would have thrown herself on
her knees, if she could. But she could not. Perhaps he would abandon that
struggle. Perhaps--perhaps his heart was broken. And could a man with a
broken heart still fight on? She took his hand and pressed it against her
face, and he felt that it was wet with her tears.
"B-better go to bed now, Cynthy," he said; "m-must be worn out--m-must be
worn out."
He stooped and kissed her on the forehead. It was thus that Jethro Bass
accepted his sentence.