CRUSOE LIFE.
As has been stated, the smoke of a steamboat had been seen at the point
above, without the boat coming in view, and during the forenoon another
went by opposite. He could hear the beat of her paddles, and see the
long, thin line of smoke hanging in the heavens over beyond the low
island in the west. But the vessel never came in sight. Evidently the
main current set across from the point to a bend, probably miles away,
in the opposite shore, and boats going down stream took the current,
while those coming up hugged the bend to avoid it. Quite likely the
nearest the passing crafts came to the castaways was the point above,
at least three miles to the north. It was plainly evident that they
could not make their presence known to these.
Once while seated on the sands he thought he heard the faint echo of
hounds, baying in the dark grey timbers that stood bold against the sky
in the east. But what of that? There was a long cottonwood sand flat
between his island's channel and the timbers, and who could tell the
number of other channels and deep lagoons that intervened before the
timbers were reached? The more he reflected upon the matter the more
was he convinced that an escape from the sandbar depended entirely upon
their own exertions, and sincerely regretted that he had allowed the
plank to drift away the previous night.
What was to be done? That was the momentous question; for whatever was
to be done, would have to be done quickly, while strength lasted. All
Ben's latent ingenuity was taxed for relief--stimulated by the cravings
of his empty stomach. At last he struck upon the following plan,--the
only one appearing feasible or practicable. The cottonwood brake that
covered the bar, was of two or three years' growth, with the shoots as
thick as a man's wrist at the butts, and standing seven or eight feet
high. Rather slender poles to use, but with his pocket-knife and the
help of Bertha he hoped to get enough of them together to make a raft
that would bear their united weights. He knew it would take a large
number, but it was their only hope, and they could continue piling tier
upon tier, until they made a serviceable float. When their raft could
bear them, he would await a favorable breeze from the west, and with
a skirt of his coat for a sail, take to the current and try to make
the wooded point four or five miles below. Should they miss a landing,
there was the open river to be gained, and a chance of being picked up
by some boat, while where they were none but Death would come to the
rescue.
The sun had mounted to meridian and was on its way to the western
horizon before Ben's clothes were dry. In the interim he employed
himself in building a hut out of the cottonwoods. With his hands he
scraped a hole a foot deep and four feet square in the sandy soil of
the brake. Around this he propped up a thick wall of the young trees
and covered it with a roof of the same. After placing a heavy carpet of
twigs and leaves on the floor, the hut was comparatively comfortable.
It would give them a shelter during the day and protect them from the
river breeze at night. He now dressed himself, and noticed for the
first time an alteration in his person, a sooner discovery of which
would have afforded him much comfort. His skin had grown red as a
boiled lobster and was painfully sensitive the moment his clothes
touched it. While the sun had been drying his clothes it had been
baking him. Despite the pain he remembered with a pang of remorseful
apprehension the advice he had given Bertha, and was filled with
alarm lest she had literally obeyed him, and was now in a similar
predicament--only worse.
When they met he cautiously advanced the matter by delicately
intimating his own broiled condition, and apologetically inquiring as
to her state. But Bertha only laughed and said, "What an idea!" from
which he inferred that his unfortunate advice had not been religiously
observed.
Then the young couple walked to their new house.
"We will go to housekeeping here," said Ben, pleasantly; and Bertha
blushed, that time.
Both evidently felt much improved in their dry clothes, and though
ravenously hungry, the first pangs of emptiness had modified
themselves.
"We will have to issue cards," continued our hero merrily. "At home,
September 26th, Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Cleveland, _nee_ Bertha----," and
there he suddenly stopped.
"My name is Ford," said Bertha quietly, though not unpleased at her
companion's facetiousness. "Bertha Ford, and I infer from what I have
just heard that I may address you as Mr. Benjamin Cleveland?"
"No, indeed, you may not," exclaimed Ben, warmly. "You must call me
'Ben.' I have earned that privilege, have I not?"
"Indeed, indeed I'll call you any thing you wish--_dear_ Ben if you
want me to; for did you not save my life!" and with two soft, white
little hands in his, she looked so winsomely grateful into his face
that Ben blushed in ecstasy,--stammered--and said--he knew not what.
At all events it was arranged that they should call each other by their
Christian names, and this dangerous precedent established, there is
no telling how far circumstances and surroundings might have carried
their intimacy, was it not that on the one side there was the bright
honor of a first and picturesque love, that would no more have allowed
an evil thought to sully it, than it would have permitted an injury to
be done to the object of its adoration; and on the maiden's part were
innocence and purity--needing no bulwarks and for which twin virtues
the conventionalities of society were never builded.
Having examined the hut Ben told her of his plan to escape, and she
flushed with hope and was anxious to commence the work immediately.
So at it the two went. He cut down the young trees and she carried
them in armfuls down to the water's edge, where it was proposed to
build the raft. When night overtook their labors, quite a pile of
the cottonwoods had been accumulated on the strand to reward their
industry. Ben's hands were blistered and Bertha's arms were tired and
sore, but both felt the elasticity of hope. During the early part of
the afternoon's labors much laughter was occasioned at the young lady's
appearance. To see a very pretty young woman with white jewelled hands
and diamond-draped ears packing brushwood through the sand, the long
heavy trail of a rich dress sweeping behind her, was ludicrous. After
sweeping a few furrows, Bertha came after her load without the trail,
and things progressed better. They said but little, and what was said
was only to encourage each other at their labors.
As it grew chilly with the evening breeze sweeping down the river they
retired to the protection of the hut, and there (though it was no doubt
highly indecorous) seated on the carpet of boughs the head of Bertha
found Ben's shoulder and his own stout arms wound about her form.
Ben afterward stated that had it not been for the fact of his being
everlastingly hungry, he would consider it the happiest moment of all
his life.
"Ben!" suddenly said the young lady.
"What is it, Bertha?" he asked.
"Do you know it seems to me as though I had known you for ages, instead
of for only a single day. Is it not strange?"
Now Ben did not think this so very strange. He had no cogitation with
himself about the fellowship of misery, but he did know that during
the entire afternoon when she came up from the strand after her load
of trees and he had freighted her with them, they had looked into one
another's eyes in a confidential manner that had deeply impressed
him. And sometimes when his cuttings had not accumulated fast enough
to furnish a load, she had stood by his side and in a soft, caressing
way had patted his back and shoulders encouragingly, and when he
looked up there was a smile on her lips and a great wide eyed look
of confidence and gratitude beaming down upon him. When their eyes
met they spoke--not in a language of vowel sounds and consonants,
(which same vowels and consonants when they have an opportunity of
materializing rush and tumble over one another, and cram themselves in
where there is no earthly use for them) they spoke not by breath shaped
into philological mysteries, but in the old, old tongue, that has been
spoken since Adam first held converse with Eve, and several years
before that event, perhaps.
"Does it seem strange to you, Bertha? It don't to me. I feel as if I
had known you always--and that I will know you forever!"
Bertha was silent.
"Do you hear me, Bertha--_forever_!"
"Bertha, _I love you_! I love you dearly and truly. I love you--!"
Before he could finish Bertha had withdrawn from his arms, and now
sat a little apart, trying to look kindly into his face through the
darkness, and holding both of his hands in hers.
"Ben, _dear_ Ben, don't love me _that_ way," she simply said. "Love me
as a sister. Love me as a very, _very_ dear friend, but do not think
of a nearer or closer relationship, Ben. I know I owe my life to you,
and I would gladly do any thing for you that lay in my power; _love
you_,--I do, _I do_! So dearly that I would die for you. But Ben--I can
not marry you. I am to be the wife of another. _It is settled!_"
There was a sorrowful cadence in the last three words that made Ben
forget his own misery in compassion for his gentle companion.
"_Settled_, Bertha! Do you _love_ him?" he asked, not just at that
moment reflecting that it was none of his business, and that the
question was an impertinence and an insult.
But instead of answering his question, she said with tears in her voice:
"Listen, my kind, dear friend, while I tell you the little there is to
my life. I was born eighteen years ago. When but little more than four
years old my father died, leaving my mother in straitened circumstances
with two children; myself and a little baby sister. Ben--" and she
softly placed a hand on his arm, "that little sister has never risen
from her bed. She is now fourteen years old, and all those fourteen
years have been spent in patient suffering.
"When I had grown to be quite a girl, a bachelor uncle, my mother's
brother, adopted me, and all the advantages that wealth could offer
I had. Two years ago this uncle died leaving a singular will. His
property, amounting to some three hundred thousand dollars, must remain
undivided, and yet he wished it shared between a nephew and myself. To
accomplish this the will directs that I am to marry my cousin within
two months after attaining the age of eighteen. In case either refuses
to enter into the alliance, the entire estate is to go to the one
agreeing to it--the other to be left unnoticed. Or in case of either
marrying other persons than those specified in the will the property
goes to the one remaining single. Should both marry, the property is to
be divided up among a number of charities. Both my cousin and myself
have employed able legal talent, but they all agree that the will is
drawn up in a manner that absolutely prevents any other disposition of
the property, than those specified. My dear friend, I have a darling
mother who has seen many hardships and trials; one who has loved and
watched over me, and sacrificed and suffered for me as only a mother
can. I have a poor, helpless, little sister--bed-ridden for life. The
income I now receive from my share of my uncle's property provides
them with a comfortable home, and furnishes those necessities, both
little and great, without which life, under the best of circumstances,
is hard. How much more then would it be for a poor helpless little
invalid? Tell me Ben--tell me my good friend--have I a _right_ to
refuse my cousin's proffered hand? Have I a right to take from those
two dear ones the only support they have? _Is_ my life or person my
own? Tell me, you who are so noble and brave; you who would have given
up your life for me--tell me, am I right? For, Ben, I feel that I owe
my life to you, and would now be a corpse at the bottom of the cruel
waters if you had not freely risked your own existence for mine. I
_feel_ this, and feeling it I give myself to you; it is the least
return I can make. You have heard my story; you know my position; would
you have me break my engagement?"
Poor Ben! Alas, poor Ben! Stone by stone the temple had gone up.
Column, and coigne, and architrave; tower, and entablature, and dome.
And here lay the fairy castle--all tumbled at his feet! Built of air,
and into air it had vanished. Bad, black, selfish thoughts strolled
over the ruins. Every one for himself. What should he care for a mother
he had never seen, and a sick sister he did not know? What were their
ease and comfort to him. The girl by his side had confessed that she
loved him. True the confession may have emanated from an overwhelming
sense of gratitude that subverted all other responsibilities. But what
of that? Evidently from the plenitude of her heart and innocence she
felt as she had spoken--that he had saved her life, and that it was
_his_. Why should he not claim it?
Poor Ben. It was so hard to see his castles tumbled down. So hard to
find his daydreams so near a realization and then to give her up. He
_could_ not, he _would_ not. Not until that moment did he know how
completely this love had taken possession of him. Day by day, hour by
hour, minute by minute, during all the long miles of his tramp it had
been subtly permeating every sense of his body. And must he now pluck
it out? He hid his face in his hands. Then a soft little hand stole
over his head and a warm arm about his neck, while in low accents she
said:
"Tell me Ben, am I right?"
There was good stuff in those hard-headed and stubborn-minded people
who first set Christian foot upon Plymouth Rock. There was good stuff
in this their descendant.
He raised his head and taking both of her hands in his, said
slowly--even solemnly:
"Yes, darling, you are right! But, oh, you do not know how hard it is
to give you up for I love you so much! But you are right, God bless
you, you are right! The service I rendered was one my manhood owed to
humanity--no more. It would ill become that manhood that it claim as a
reward that you desert the paths of duty to those loved ones. Kiss me,
Bertha; you may do _that_. There now, _sister_, lie down and sleep, for
I know you need rest," and he covered her with his coat and piled the
leaves and brush about her form.
Then hour after hour Ben sat and held bitter communion with himself.