"I cannot leave her," he said; but when I urged him he rose silently
and returned with me.
I remained with him for a while after that, and each day he went and
sat by the grave. At last I had to leave. I urged him to come with me,
but he replied always, "No, I must watch over Elsket."
It was late in the evening when we set off to cross the mountain. We
came by the same path by which I had gone, Olaf leading me as carefully
and holding me as steadily as when I went over before. I stopped at
the church to lay a few wild flowers on the little gray mound where
Elsket slept so quietly. Olaf said not a word; he simply waited till
I was done and then followed me dumbly. I was so filled with sorrow
for him that I did not, except in one place, think much of the fearful
cliffs along which we made our way. At the Devil's Seat, indeed, my
nerves for a moment seemed shaken and almost gave way as I thought of
the false young lord whose faithlessness had caused all the misery to
these simple, kindly folk, and of the fierce young Norseman who had
there found so sweet a revenge. But we came on and passed the ledge,
and descending struck the broader path just after the day broke, where
it was no longer perilous but only painful.
There Olaf paused. "I will go back if you don't want me," he said. I
did not need his services, but I urged him to come on with me--to pay a
visit to his friends. "I have none," he said, simply. Then to come home
with me and live with me in old Virginia. He said, "No," he "must watch
over Elsket." So finally I had to give in, and with a clasp of the hand
and a message to "her friend" Doctor John, to "remember Elsket," he
went back and was soon lost amid the rocks.
I was half-way down when I reached a cleared place an hour or so later,
and turned to look back. The sharp angle of the Devil's Ledge was the
highest point visible, the very pinnacle of the mountain, and there,
clear against the burnished steel of the morning sky, on the very edge,
clear in the rare atmosphere was a small figure. It stood for a second,
a black point distinctly outlined, and then disappeared.
It was Olaf of the Mountain, gone back to keep watch over Elsket.
"GEORGE WASHINGTON'S" LAST DUEL.
Of all the places in the county "The Towers" was the favorite with the
young people. There even before Margaret was installed the Major kept
open house with his major domo and factotum "George Washington"; and
when Margaret came from school, of course it was popular. Only one
class of persons was excluded.
There were few people in the county who did not know of the Major's
antipathy to "old women," as he called them. Years no more entered
into his definition of this class than celibacy did into his idea of
an "old bachelor." The state of single blessedness continued in the
female sex beyond the bloom of youth was in his eyes the sole basis
of this unpardonable condition. He made certain concessions to the
few individuals among his neighbors who had remained in the state of
spinsterhood, because, as he declared, neighborliness was a greater
virtue than consistency; but he drew the line at these few, and it was
his boast that no old woman had ever been able to get into his Eden.
"One of them," he used to say, "would close paradise just as readily
now as Eve did six thousand years ago." Thus, although as Margaret grew
up she had any other friends she desired to visit her as often as she
chose, her wish being the supreme law at Rock Towers, she had never
even thought of inviting one of the class against whom her uncle's
ruddy face was so steadfastly set. The first time it ever occurred to
her to invite any one among the proscribed was when she asked Rose
Endicott to pay her a visit. Rose, she knew, was living with her old
aunt, Miss Jemima Bridges, whom she had once met in R----, and she had
some apprehension that in Miss Jemima's opinion, the condition of the
South was so much like that of the Sandwich Islands that the old lady
would not permit Rose to come without her personal escort. Accordingly,
one evening after tea, when the Major was in a particularly gracious
humor, and had told her several of his oldest and best stories,
Margaret fell upon him unawares, and before he had recovered from the
shock of the encounter, had captured his consent. Then, in order to
secure the leverage of a dispatched invitation, she had immediately
written Rose, asking her and her aunt to come and spend a month or
two with her, and had without delay handed it to George Washington to
deliver to Lazarus to give Luke to carry to the post-office. The next
evening, therefore, when the Major, after twenty-four hours of serious
apprehension, re-opened the matter with a fixed determination to coax
or buy her out of the notion, because, as he used to say, "women can't
be _reasoned_ out of a thing, sir, not having been reasoned in,"
Margaret was able to meet him with the announcement that it was "too
late," as the letter had already been mailed.
Seated in one of the high-backed arm-chairs, with one white hand
shading her laughing eyes from the light, and with her evening dress
daintily spread out about her, Margaret was amused at the look of
desperation on the old gentleman's ruddy face. He squared his round
body before the fire, braced himself with his plump legs well apart, as
if he were preparing to sustain the shock of a blow, and taking a deep
inspiration, gave a loud and prolonged "Whew!"
This was too much for her.
Margaret rose, and, going up to him, took his arm and looked into his
face cajolingly.
"Uncle, I was bound to have Rose, and Miss Jemima would not have let
her come alone."
The tone was the low, almost plaintive key, the effectiveness of which
Margaret knew so well.
"'Not let her!'" The Major faced her quickly. "Margaret, she is one of
those _strong-minded_ women!"
Margaret nodded brightly.
"I bet my horse she wears iron-gray curls, caught on the side of her
head with tucking combs!"
"She does," declared Margaret, her eyes dancing.
"And has a long nose--red at the end."
"Uncle, you have seen her. I _know_ you have seen her," asserted
Margaret, laughing up at him. "You have her very picture."
The Major groaned, and vowed that he would never survive it, and that
Margaret would go down to history as the slayer of her uncle.
"I have selected my place in the graveyard," he said, with a mournful
shake of the head. "Put me close to the fence behind the raspberry
thicket, where I shall be secure. Tell her there are snakes there."
"But, uncle, she is as good as gold," declared Margaret; "she is always
doing good,--I believe she thinks it her mission to save the world."
The Major burst out, "That's part of this modern devilment of
substituting humanitarianism for Christianity. Next thing they'll be
wanting to abolish hell!"
The Major was so impressed with his peril that when Jeff, who had
galloped over "for a little while," entered, announced with great
ceremony by George Washington, he poured out all his apprehensions
into his sympathetic ear, and it was only when he began to rally Jeff
on the chance of his becoming a victim to Miss Endicott's charms,
that Margaret interfered so far as to say, that Rose had any number
of lovers, and one of them was "an awfully nice fellow, handsome and
rich and all that." She wished "some one" would invite him down to
pay a visit in the neighborhood, for she was "afraid Rose would find
it dreadfully dull in the country." The Major announced that he would
himself make love to her; but both Margaret and Jeff declared that
Providence manifestly intended him for Miss Jemima. He then suggested
that Miss Endicott's friend be invited to come with her, but Margaret
did not think that would do.
"What is the name of this Paragon?" inquired Jeff.