CHAPTER XXVII.
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,neeBertha——," 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—dearBen 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,dearBen, don't love methatway," she simply said. "Love me as a sister. Love me as a very,verydear 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 youlovehim?" 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 arightto refuse my cousin's proffered hand? Have I a right to take from those two dear ones the only support they have?Ismy 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. Ifeelthis, 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 washis. 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. Hecouldnot, hewouldnot. 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 dothat. 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.