The serpent, coiled within the grass,With open jaw and eager eyes,Watches the careless wild bird pass,And lures him from his native skies.
The serpent, coiled within the grass,With open jaw and eager eyes,Watches the careless wild bird pass,And lures him from his native skies.
The serpent, coiled within the grass,With open jaw and eager eyes,Watches the careless wild bird pass,And lures him from his native skies.
The serpent, coiled within the grass,
With open jaw and eager eyes,
Watches the careless wild bird pass,
And lures him from his native skies.
Leicester went to his room humming a tune as he moved along the passages. Soft and low the murmurs fell from his lips, like the suppressed cooing of a bird. Now and then he paused to brush the moisture from his coat. Once he fell into thought, and stood for more than a minute with his eyes beat upon the floor. One of those lone wanderers in hotels, that sit up to help off early travellers, happened to pass just then, and interrupted his reverie.
"Oh, is it you Jim," said Leicester, starting, "I hope there is a fire still in my room."
"Yes, sir, I just looked in to see if the young gentleman was comfortable," answered the man.
"What young gentleman, Jim?"
"Why, one that called just after you went out, sir. I told him you left no word, and might be in any minute, so he has been waiting ever since."
This information seemed to disturb Leicester, but he checked a visible impulse to speak again, and moved on.
Leicester found in his chamber a young man, or rather lad, for the intruder did not seem to be more than nineteen. His complexion was fair as an infant's, and silky as an infant's were the masses of chestnut curls, rich with a tinge of gold, that lay upon his white forehead. The boy was sound asleep in the large, easy chair. One cheek lay against the crimson dressing-gown, which Leicester had flung across the back of this chair on going out. The other was warmed to a rich rose tint by the heat. His lips, red and lustrous as over-ripe cherries, werejust parted, till the faintest gleam of his teeth became visible. The lad was tall for his age, and every limb was rounded almost to a tone of feminine symmetry. His hands, snowy, somewhat large, and dimpled at the joints, lay on his chest indolently, as if they had been clasped and were falling apart in his slumber, while each elbow fell against, rather than rested upon the arms of his seat.
An air of voluptuous quiet hung about the boy. Wine gleamed redly in the half filled glasses, fragments of Leicester's supper were scattered about, and all the rich tints that filled the room floated around him, like the atmosphere in a warmly toned picture. Leicester observed this, as he entered the room, and, with the feelings of an artist, changed one of the candles, that its beams might fall more directly on the boy's face, and fling a deeper shadow in the background.
The deep, sweet slumber of youth possessed the boy, and even the increased light did not arouse him; he only stretched himself more indolently, and, while one of his hands fell down, began to breathe deep and freely again. The motion loosened several folds of the dressing-gown, adding a more picturesque effect to the position.
Leicester smiled, and leaning against the mantel-piece, began to study the effect quietly; for he was one of those men whose refinement in selfishness, forbade the abridgment of a pleasurable sensation, however ill-timed it might be. The boy smiled in his sleep. He was evidently dreaming, and the glow that spread over his cheek grew richer, as if the slumbering thought was a joyous one.
Leicester's brow darkened. There was something in that soft sleep, in the warm smile, that seemed to awake memories of his own youth. He gazed on, but his eye grew vicious in its expression, as if he were beginning to loathe the youth for the innocence of his look. Again the boy moved and muttered in his sleep—something about a picture; Leicester heard it, and laughed softly.
At another time, Leicester would not have hesitated to arousethe youth, for it was deep in the night, and he was not one to break his own rest for the convenience of another; but he had been greatly excited, notwithstanding that cool exterior. Old memories were stirred up in his heart—pure as some memories of youth ever must be, even though breaking through a nature vile as his—like water-lilies dragged up from the depths of a dark pool. Those memories disturbed the very dregs of his heart, and when thus disturbed, some pure waters gushed up, mingled with much that was black and bitter. He had no inclination for sleep, none for solitude, and with his whole being thus aroused, anything which promised to occupy thought, without touching upon feeling, was a relief.
It would not do. The exquisite taste, the intense love of artistical effect that brightened his nature, could not long rob his spirit of those thoughts that found in everything a stimulus. In vain he strove to confine himself to simple admiration, as he gazed upon each new posture assumed by the sleeping boy. His own youth rose before him in the presence of youth asleep. He made a powerful effort at self-control. He said to his thought, so far shalt thou go and no farther. But the light which gleamed across the throat of that sleeping boy, exposed by the low collar and simple black ribbon, was something far more intense than the beams of a waxen candle. Spite of himself, it illuminated the many dark places in his own soul, and forced him to see that which existed there.
Thus he fell into a reverie, dark and sombre, from which he awoke at length with a profound sigh. The boy still smiled in his sleep. Leicester could no longer endure this blooming human life, so close to him, and yet so unconscious. He laid his hand on the youth's shoulder and aroused him.
"Robert!"
"Ha! Mr. Leicester—is it you?" cried the boy starting up and opening a pair of large gray eyes to their fullest extent.—"Really, I must have been asleep in your chair, and dreaming too. It was not the wine, upon my honor. I only drank half a glass."
"And so you were dreaming?" said Leicester, with a sort of chilly sadness. "The vision seemed a very pleasant one!"
The lad glanced at the miniature on the mantel-piece, and his eyes flashed under their long lashes.
"The last object I saw was that," he said. "It haunted me, I suppose."
"You think it pretty, then?" was the quiet rejoinder.
"Pretty! beautiful! I dreamed she was with me in one of those far off isles of the ocean, which Tom Moore talks about. Such fruit, ripe, luscious, and bursting with fragrance—flowers moist with dew, and fairly dripping with sunshine—grass upon the banks softer than moss, and greener than emerald—water so pure, leaping——"
"It was a pleasant dream, no doubt," said Leicester, quietly interrupting the lad.
"Pleasant—it was Heavenly. That lovely creature, so bright, so——"
"Do you know how late it is?" said Leicester, seating himself in the easy chair, and bringing the boy down from his fancies with the most ruthless coldness.
"No, really. I had been waiting some time, that is certain. Then the dream—but one never guesses at the length of time when——"
"It is near one o'clock!"
"And you are sleepy—wish me away—well, good bye then!"
"No; but I wish to talk of something beside childish visions!"
"Childish!" The boy's cheek reddened.
"Well, youthful, then; that is the term, I believe. Now tell me what you have been doing. How do you like the counting-house?"
"Oh, very well. I'm sure it seems impossible to thank you enough for getting me in."
"Has the firm raised your salary yet?"
"No—I have not ventured to mention it."
"You have won confidence, I trust."
"I have tried my best to deserve it," answered the boy modestly.
Leicester frowned. The frank honesty of this speech seemed to displease him.
"They are beginning to trust you in things of importance—with the bank business, perhaps?"
"Yes, sometimes!"
"That looks very well, and your writing—I hope you have attended to the lessons I gave you. Without faultless penmanship, a clerk is always at disadvantage."
"I think you will not be displeased with my progress, sir."
"I am glad of it. It would grieve me, Robert, should you fall short in anything, after the recommendation I procured for your employers."
"I never will, sir, depend upon it—I never will if study and hard work will sustain me," answered the youth, earnestly.
"I do not doubt it. Now tell me about your companions, your amusements."
"Amusements, sir, how can I afford them?"
"Certainly the salary is too small!"
"I did not complain. In fact, I suppose it is large enough for the services!"
"Still you work all the time?"
"Of course I do!"
"And those who receive twice—nay, three times your salary do no more."
"That is true," answered the boy, thoughtfully, "but then I am so young!"
"But you have more abilities than many of those above you who are far better paid."
"Do you think so—really think so, Mr. Leicester?" said the youth, blushing with honest pleasure.
"I never say what I do not think!" answered the crafty man with quiet dignity, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the boy, for he was reading every impulse of that warm young heart. "You have abilities of a high order, industry, talent, everythingrequisite for success—but remember, Robert, the reward for those qualities comes slowly as society is regulated, and sometimes never comes at all. The rich blockhead often runs far in advance of the poor genius."
The youth looked grave. A spirit of discontent was creeping into his heart. "I thought that with integrity and close application, I should be sure to succeed like others," he said, "but I suppose poverty will stand in the way. Strange that I did not see that before."
"See what, Robert?"
"Why, that starting poor I am only the more likely to be kept in poverty. I remember now one of our clerks, no older than I am, was promoted only last week. His father was a rich man, and it was whispered that he would sometime be a junior partner in the concern."
"You see, then, what money can do."
"Well, after all, my good old aunt has money, more than people imagine, I dare say!" cried the boy, brightening up.
"What, the old lady in the market? Take my advice, Robert, and never mention her."
"And why not?" questioned the boy.
"Because selling turnips and cabbage sprouts might not be considered the most aristocratic way of making money among your fellow clerks."
The boy changed countenance; his eye kindled and his lip began to curve.
"I shall never be ashamed of my aunt, sir. She is a good, generous woman——"
"No doubt, no doubt. Go and proclaim her good qualities among your companions, and see the result. For my part, I think the state of society which makes any honest occupation a cause of reproach, is to be condemned by all honorable men. But you and I, Robert, cannot hope to change the present order of things, and without the power to remedy we have only to submit. So take my advice and never talk of that fine old huckster-woman among your fellow clerks."
Robert was silent. He stood gazing upon the floor, his cheeks hot with wounded feeling, and his eyes half full of tears. When he spoke again there was trouble in his voice.
"Thank you for the advice, Mr. Leicester, though I must say it seems rather cold-hearted. I will go now; excuse me for keeping you up so late."
"You need not go on that account," said Leicester, "I am not certain of going to sleep at all before morning!"
"And I," said Robert, with a faint smile, "somehow this conversation makes me restless. That sweet dream from which you aroused me, will not be likely to come back again to-night!"
Robert glanced at the miniature as he spoke, and a glow of admiration kindled the mist still hanging about his eyes.
"Perhaps," said Leicester, quietly, and with his keen glance fixed upon the boy, "perhaps I may introduce you to her some day."
"To her," cried the youth. "Alive! is there any being like that alive?"
His face was in a glow, and a bright smile flashed over it. Nothing could have been more beautiful than the boy that moment.
Leicester regarded him with a faint smile. Like a chemist, he was experimenting upon the beautiful nature before him, and like a chemist he watched the slow, subtle poison that he had administered.
"Alive and breathing, Robert; the picture does not quite equal her in some things. It is a little too sad. The quick sparkle of her more joyous look no artist can embody. But you shall see her."
"I shall see her," muttered Robert, turning his eyes from the miniature. "What if my dream were to prove correct?"
"What—the lone island, the flowers, the magical fruit!" said Leicester with a soft laugh that had a mocking tone in it.
"That was not all my dream. It seemed to me that shewas in trouble, and in all her beauty and her grief, became my guardian angel."
"You could not select anything more lovely for the office, I assure you," answered Leicester.
"She must be good as she is beautiful," answered the boy, turning an earnest glance on his companion; for without knowing it, his sensitive nature had been stung by the sarcasm lurking beneath the soft tones in which Leicester had spoken.
"At your age, all women are angels," was the rejoinder.
"And at yours, what are they then?" questioned the lad.
"Women!" answered Leicester with a scornful curve of the lip, and a depth of sarcasm in his voice, that made the youth shrink.
The arch hypocrite saw the impression his unguarded bitterness had made, and added, "but this one really is an angel. I may not admire her as much as you would, Robert, but she is an exquisite creature, timid as a young fawn, delicate as a flower!"
"I was sure of it!" exclaimed Robert with enthusiasm, for this frank praise had obliterated all impression made by the sarcasm in Leicester's voice.
"And now," said Leicester taking his hat from the table, "as you seem quite awake, and as I positively cannot sleep, what if we take a stroll?"
"Where could we go at this time of night?" said Robert, surprised by the proposition.
"I have a great fancy to let you see the inside of a gambling house for once," was the quiet reply.
"A gambling house? Oh, Mr. Leicester!"
"I have often thought," said Leicester, as if speaking to himself, "that the best way of curing that ardent curiosity with which youth always regards the unseen, is to expose evil at once, in all its glare and iniquity. The gambling house is sometimes a fine moral school. Robert, have you never heard grave men assert as much?"
Robert did not answer, but a cloud settled on his whiteforehead, and taking his cap from Leicester, who held it toward him, he began to crush it nervously with his hand.
"The storm is over, I believe," observed Leicester, without seeming to observe his agitation. "Come, we shall be in time for the excitement when it is most revolting."
Robert grew pale and shrunk back.
"Not with me?" cried Leicester, turning his eyes full upon the boy with a look of overwhelming reproach, "are you afraid to go withme, Robert?"
"No. I will go anywhere with you!" answered the youth, almost with a sob, for that look of reproach from his benefactor wounded him to the heart. "I will go anywhere with you!"
And he went.
There was not about her birth-place,A thicket, or a flower,But childish game, or friendly face,Had given it a powerTo haunt her in her after life,And be to her again,A sweet and bitter memoryOf mingled joy and pain.
There was not about her birth-place,A thicket, or a flower,But childish game, or friendly face,Had given it a powerTo haunt her in her after life,And be to her again,A sweet and bitter memoryOf mingled joy and pain.
There was not about her birth-place,A thicket, or a flower,But childish game, or friendly face,Had given it a powerTo haunt her in her after life,And be to her again,A sweet and bitter memoryOf mingled joy and pain.
There was not about her birth-place,
A thicket, or a flower,
But childish game, or friendly face,
Had given it a power
To haunt her in her after life,
And be to her again,
A sweet and bitter memory
Of mingled joy and pain.
It was a wild and lovely spot in the heart of Maine, a state where the rural and the picturesque are more beautifully blended than can be found elsewhere upon the face of the earth. The portion we speak of is broken, and torn up, as it were, by undulating ridges of the White Mountains, that seem to cast their huge shadows half over the state. The valleys are bright with a wealth of foliage, which, in the brief summer time, is of a deeper and richer green than ever was found elsewhere on this side the Atlantic. Hills, some of them bold and black with nakedrocks, others clothed down the side with soft waving ridges of cultivation, loomed over fields of Indian corn, with buckwheat, all in a sea of snowy blossoms. Patches of earth newly ploughed for the next year's crop, blended their brown tints with mountain slopes, rich with rye and oats. Wild, deep lakes, sleeping in their green basins among the hills; mountain streams plunging downward, and threading the dark rocks together as with a thousand diamond chains closely entangled and struggling to get free, shed brightness and music among these hills; and the Androscoggin, gliding calmly on, winding through the hills, and rolling softly beneath the willows that here and there give its banks a park-like beauty, and a thousand broken hollows—sheltered and secluded nooks of cultivated ground, sometimes containing a single farm, sometimes a small village; such is the country, and such are the scenes to which our story tends.
In one spot the mountainous banks loomed close and dark over the river; but there was a considerable depth of rich soil among the rocks, and thrifty trees crowded the poverty-stricken yellow pine up to the very summit of each beautiful acclivity; for half a mile the shadows of this rough bank fell nearly across the river, but all at once it parted as if some earthquake had torn it, centuries before, and there lay a little valley opening upon the stream, walled on one hand by an abrupt precipice, and on the other by a steep and broken hill, its crevices choked up by wild grape-vines, mosses, and every species of forest tree that can be found among the high grounds of Maine. This little valley was perhaps half a mile in width, and cut back into the mountains twice that distance. From thence the highway wound up the broken bank, and was lost sight of among the pine trees bristling along the horizon.
The river was broad at this point, as a rich flat of groves and meadow land lay on the opposite side. This was threaded by a turnpike, connected with the road we have mentioned by a ferry-boat, or rather ancient scow, in which two old men of the neighborhood picked up a tolerable subsistence.
A few weeks after the events already related in the courseof our story, a plain, one-horse chaise came slowly along the highway, and bent its course toward the ferry. The scow had been hauled up beneath a clump of willows, and two old men sat in the shade, waiting for customers. They saw the chaise, and instantly sprang to work, pushing the scow out into the stream, and bringing it up with a clumsy sweep against the carriage track.
The chaise contained two persons; one was a female, in a neat, unostentatious travelling dress, and with her face partially concealed by a green veil. The old men had never travelled far beyond the river which afforded them support, but there was something in the air and general appearance of the lady, which aroused them to an unusual degree of curiosity.
The man, too—there was much in his air and dress to attract observation; a degree of rustic awkwardness, mingled with self-confidence and a sort of rude strength, that struck the old men as unnatural and foreign. The chaise was soon recognized as belonging to the landlord in a neighboring village; but the two persons who rode in it puzzled them exceedingly. The man in the chaise drove at once into the scow, and, stepping out, he took his horse by the bit.
"Now move on!" he said, addressing the old men with the air of one who understood the place and its customs. "If the horse stands steady, I will lend a hand directly."
"Oh, he's steady enough; we've rowed the critter across here more than once; he ain't shiey, that horse ain't," answered one of the men, ready to open a conversation on any subject.
"That may be, but I'll hold him just now and see how he stands the water."
There was nothing in this to open a fresh vein of conversation; so, taking up their poles, the two old men pushed their lumbering craft into the river, casting now and then a furtive glance at the lady, who had drawn her veil aside, and sat with her eyes fixed on the opposite shore, apparently unmindful of their scrutiny.
"Purty, ain't she?" whispered one of the men.
The other nodded his head.
"A sort of nat'ral look about her," continued the man, drawing back, as if to give a fresh plunge with his pole.
"Just so," was the rejoinder.
The lady, who had, up to this time, kept her eyes eagerly bent on the little village to which they seemed creeping over the water, suddenly addressed them—
"There are three houses in the valley now—that nearest the water, to whom does it belong?"
"That, ma'am! oh, that's the new tavern; the sign isn't so well seen when the leaves are out, yet if you look close, it's swinging to that ar willow agin the house."
The lady cast a glance toward the willow, then her eyes seemed to pierce into the depths of the valley. Beyond the tavern lay an apple orchard, and back of that rose the roof of an old gray house. The ridge and heavy stone chimney alone were visible; but the old building seemed to fascinate her gaze—she bent forward, her hands were clasped, her features grew visibly pale. She cast an earnest look at the old man, and attempted to speak; but the effort only made her parted lips turn a shade whiter. She uttered no sound.
"You needn't be afraid, ma'am, there's no arthly danger here!" said one of the men, mistaking the source of her emotion. "I've been on this ferry sixteen years, and no accident, has ever happened in my time. You couldn't drown here if you was to try."
The lady looked at him with a faint quivering smile, that died gently away as her gaze became more earnest. She dwelt upon his withered old face, as if trying to study out some familiar feature in its hard lines.
"Sixteen years!" she said, and the smile returned, but with an additional tinge of sadness, "sixteen years!"
"It seems a long time to you, like enough; but wait till you get old as I am, and see how short it is."
The lady did not reply; but sinking back into her seat, drew the veil over her face.
All this time, the traveller, who still held the horse by the bit, had been regarding the lady with no ordinary appearance of anxiety. He overheard the whispers passing between the ferrymen, and seemed annoyed by their import. He was evidently ill at ease. When the scow ran with a grating noise upon the shore, he gave the usual fare in silence, and entering the chaise with a swinging leap, drove toward the tavern.
The landlord, who had just arisen from an early supper, washed down by a cup of hard cider, came indolently from the front stoop and held the horse while the travellers dismounted.
"Want to bait the horse?" he inquired, pointing toward a wooden trough built against the huge trunk of the willow.
"Put him up—we shall stay all night, replied the guest."
The landlord's face expanded; it was not often that his house was honored by travellers of a higher grade than the teamsters, who brought private fare for man and horse with them; the same bag usually containing oats or corn in one end, and a box of baked beans, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of dried beef in the other—man and beast dividing accommodations equally on the journey.
"Oats or grass?" cried the good man, excited by the rich prospects before him.
"Both, with two rooms—supper for the lady in her own chamber—for me, anywhere."
"Supper!" cried the landlord, with a crest-fallen look, "supper! We haven't a morsel of fresh meat, nor a chicken on the place."
"But there is trout in the brook, I suppose," answered the traveller.
"Wal, how did you know that? Been in these parts afore mebby."
"These hills are full of trout streams, everybody knows that, who ever heard of the state," was the courteous reply. "If you have a pole and line handy perhaps I can help you."
"There is one in the porch—I'll just turn out the horse, and show you the way."
The traveller seemed glad to be relieved from observation. He turned hurriedly away, and taking a rude fishing-rod from the porch went round the house, and crossing a meadow behind it, came out upon the banks of a mountain stream, that marked the precipitous boundaries of the valley. A wild, sparkling brook it was—broken up by rocks sinking into deep, placid pools, and leaping away through the witch-hazels and brake leaves that overhung it with a soft, gushing murmur so sweet and cheerful, that it seemed like the sunshine laughing, as it was drawn away to the hill shadows.
Jacob Strong looked up and down the stream with a sad countenance. "How natural everything seems," he muttered. "She used to sit here on this very stone, with her little fish-pole, and send me off yonder after box-wood blossoms and wild honeysuckles, while she dipped her feet in and out of the water, just to hurry me back again. Those white little feet—how I did love to see her go barefooted! By and by, as she grew older, how she would laugh at my awkward way of baiting her hook—she didn't know what made my hand tremble—no, nor never will!"
Jacob sat down upon the stone on which his eyes had been riveted. With his face resting between his hands, an elbow supported by each knee, and his feet buried in a hollow choked up with wood moss, he fell into one of those profound reveries, that twine every fibre of the heart around the past. The fishing rod lay at his feet, unheeded. Just beneath his eye, was a deep pool, translucent as liquid diamond, and sleeping at the bottom, were three or four fine trout, floating upon their fins, with their mottled sides now and then sending a soft rainbow gleam through the water.
At another time, Jacob, who had been a famous angler in his day, would have been excited by this fine prospect of sport; but now those delicate creatures, balancing themselves in the waves, scarcely won a passing notice. They only served to remind him more vividly of the long ago.
He was aroused by the landlord, who came up the stream, pole in hand, baiting his hook as he walked along. He cast two fine trout, strung upon a forked hazel twig, on the moss at Jacob's feet, and dropped his hook into the pool.
Jacob watched him with singular interest. His eyes gleamed as he saw the man pull his fly with a calm, steady hand over the surface of the water, now dropping it softly down, now aiding it to float lazily on the surface, then allowing it to sink insidiously before the graceful creatures, that it had as yet failed to excite.
All at once, a noble trout, that had been sleeping beneath a tuft of grass over which the water flowed, darted into the pool with a swiftness that left a ripple behind him, and leaped to the fly. Jacob almost uttered a groan, as he saw the beautiful creature lifted from the wave, his fins quivering, his jewelled sides glistening with water drops, and every wild evolution full of graceful agony. He was drawing a parallel between the tortured trout and a human being, whose history filled his heart. This it was that wrung the groan from his heart.
"This will do!" said the landlord, gently patting the damp sides of his prize, and thrusting the hazel twig under his gills. "You're sartin of a supper, sir, and a good one too—they'll be hissing on the gridiron long before you get to the house, I reckon, without you make up your mind to go along with me."
"Not yet; I will try my luck further up the stream," answered Jacob, and snatching up the rod, he plunged through a clump of elders, and disappeared on the opposite bank. But the man was scarcely out of sight, when he returned again and resumed his old position.
Again he fell into thought—deep and painful thought. You could see it in the quiver of his rude features, in the mistiness that gathered over his eyes.
The afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen across the valley, but they only served to plunge poor Jacob into memories still more bitter and profound. Everything within sight seemed clamoring to him of the past. Near by was aclover-field ruddy with blossoms, and broken with clumps and ridges of golden butter-cups and swamp lilies. Again the little girl stood before him—a fair, sweet child, with chestnut curls and large earnest eyes, who had waited in a corner of the fence, while he gathered armsful of these field-blossoms, for her to toss about in the sunshine. On the other hand lay an apple orchard, with half a dozen tall pear trees, ranging along the fence. He remembered climbing those trees a hundred times up to the very top, where the pears were most golden and ripe. He could almost hear the rich fruit as it went tumbling and rustling through the leaves, down to the snow-white apron held up to receive it. That ringing shout of laughter, as the apron gave way beneath its luscious burden—it rang through his heart again, and made a child of him.
The shadows grew deeper upon the valley, dew began to fall, and every gush of air that swept over the fields, became more and more fragrant. Still Jacob dwelt with the past. The lady at the inn was forgotten. He was roaming amid those sweet scenes with that wild, mischievous, beautiful girl, when a hand fell upon his shoulder.
He started up and began to tremble as if caught in some deep offence.
"Madam—oh, madam! what brought you here?"
"I could not stay in that new house, Jacob. It was so close I could not breathe. The air of this valley penetrates my very heart—but I cannot shed a tear. Is it so with you, Jacob Strong?"
Jacob turned his head away; he could not all at once arouse himself from the deep delirium of his memories; his strong brain ached with the sudden transition her presence had forced upon it. Ada looked searchingly up the valley, and made a step forward.
"Where are you going, madam, not up yonder—not to the old house?"
"I must go, Jacob—this suspense is choking me—I could not live another hour without learning something of them."
"No, not yet, I beg of you, do not go yet."
Ada Leicester turned abruptly toward her humble friend; her lips grew very pale.
"Why, why? have you inquired? have you heard anything?"
"No, I did not like to ask questions at first."
"Then you know absolutely nothing?"
"Nothing yet!"
"But you have seen the old house. It should be visible from this hollow!"
"Not now, madam. The orchard has grown round since—since——"
"Have the saplings grown into trees since then, Jacob? Indeed it seems but like yesterday to me," said the lady, with a sad wave of the hand. "I thought to get a view of the house from this spot, just as one ponders over the seal of a letter, afraid to read the news within. Let me sit down, I feel tired and faint."
Jacob moved back from the stone, and tears absolutely came into his eyes as she sat down.
"How strangely familiar everything is," said the lady, looking around, "this tuft of white flowers close by the stone—it scarcely seems to have been out of blossom since I was here last, I remember. But why have you crushed them with your feet, Jacob?"
"BecauseIremember!" answered the man, removing his heavy foot from the bruised flowers, and regarding them with a stern curve of the lip, which on his irregular mouth was strangely impressive. The lady raised her eyes, filled with vague wonder, to his features. Jacob was troubled by that questioning glance.
"I never loved flowers," he faltered.
"You never loved flowers! Oh, Jacob, how can you say so?"
"Not that kind, at any rate, ma'am," answered Jacob, almost vehemently, pointing down with his finger. "The last time I came this way, a snake was creeping round among those very flowers. That snake left poison on everything it touched, at least in this valley."
The lady gazed on his excited face a moment very earnestly. Then the broad, white lids drooped over her eyes, and she only answered with a profound sigh.
The look of humble repentance that fell upon Jacob's face was painful to behold. He stood uneasily upon his feet, gazing down upon the tuft of flowers his passion had trampled to the earth. His large hands, with their loosely knit joints, became nervously restless, and he cast furtive glances at the face and downcast features of the lady. He could not speak, but waited for her to address him again, in his heart of hearts sorry for the painful thoughts his words had aroused. At length he ventured to speak, and the humble, deprecating tones of his voice were almost painful to hear.
"The dews are falling, ma'am, and you are not used to sitting in the damp."
"There was a time," said the lady, "when a little night dew would not drive me in doors."
"But now you are tired and hungry."
"No, Jacob, I can neither taste food nor take rest till we have been yonder—perhaps not then, for Heaven only knows what tidings may reach us. Go in and get some supper for yourself, my good friend."
Jacob shook his head.
"Iamwrong," persisted the lady; "let me sit here till the dusk comes on; then I will find my way to the house—perhaps I may sleep there to-night, Jacob, who knows?" She paused a moment, and added, "If they are alive, but surely I need not say if. They must be alive."
"I hope so," answered Jacob, pitying the wistful look with which the poor lady searched his features, hoping to gather confidence from their expression.
"And yet my heart is so heavy, so full of this terrible pain, Jacob. Leave me now; if any thing can make me cry, it will be sitting here alone."
Jacob turned away, without a word of remonstrance. His own rude, honest heart was full, and the sickening anxietymanifest in every tone and look of his mistress was fast undermining his own manhood. He did not return to the tavern, however, but clambering over a fence, leaped into the clover field, and wading, knee-deep, through the fragrant blossoms, made his way toward the old farm-house, whose chimney and low, sloping roof became more and more visible with each step.
On he went, with huge, rapid strides, resolute to carry back some tidings to the unhappy woman he had just left. "I will see them first," he muttered; "they might not know her, or may have heard. It ain't likely, though—who could bring such news into these parts? Anyhow, I will see that nothing is done to hurt her feelings."
Full of these thoughts, Jacob drew nearer and nearer to the old house. He crossed the clover lot, and a fine meadow, whose thick, waving grass was still too green for the scythe, lay before him, bathed in the last rays of a midsummer sunset. Beyond this meadow rose the farm-house, silent and picturesque in the waning day, with gleams of golden light here and there breaking over the mossed old roof. Jacob paused, with his hand upon an upper rail of the fence. His heart misgave him. Every object was so painfully familiar, that he shrunk from approaching nearer. There was the garden sloping away from the old dwelling, with a line of cherry trees running along the fence, and shading triple rows of currant and gooseberry bushes, now bent to the ground with a load of crimson and purple fruit. There was the well sweep, with its long, round bucket swinging to the breeze, and the pear tree standing by, like an ancient sentinel staunch at his post, and verdant in its thrifty old age. A stone or two had fallen from the rough chimney, and on the sloping roof lay a greenish tinge, betraying the velvety growth of moss with which time had dotted the decayed shingles, while clumps of house-leeks clustered here and there in masses from under their warped edges.
Silent and solemnly quiet stood that old dwelling amid the dying light which filled the valley. A few jetty birds were fluttering in and out of a martin-box at one end, and that wasall the sign of life that appeared to the strained eyes of Jacob Strong. He stood, minute after minute, waiting for a sight of some other living object—a horse grazing at the back door—a human being approaching the well, anything alive would have given relief to his full heart.
He could contain himself no longer: a desperate wish to learn at once all that could give joy or pain to his mistress possessed him. He sprang into the meadow, found a path trodden through the grass, and sweeping the tall, golden lilies aside, where they fell over the narrow way, he strode eagerly forward, and soon found himself in a garden. It was full of coarse vegetables, and gay with sun-flowers; tufts of "love-lies-bleeding" drooped around the gate, and flowering beans, tangled with morning-glories, half clothed the worm-eaten fence.
Coarse and despised as some of these flowers are, how eloquently they spoke to the heart of Jacob Strong! The very sun-flowers, as they turned their great dials to the West, seemed to him redolent and golden with the light of other days. They filled his heart with new hope; since the earliest hour of his remembrance, those massive blossoms had never been wanting at the old homestead.
Again the objects became more and more familiar. The plantain leaves about the well seemed to have kept their greenness for years. The grindstone, with a trough half full of water, stood in its old place by the back porch. Surely, while such things remained, the human beings that had lived and breathed in that lone dwelling, could not be entirely swept away!
Jacob Strong entered the porch and knocked gently at the door. A voice from within bade him enter, and, lifting the latch, he stood in a long, low kitchen, where two men, a woman, and a chubby little girl, sat at supper. One of the men, a stout, sun-burned fellow, arose, and placing a splint-bottomed chair for his guest, quietly resumed his place at the table, while the child sat with a spoon half way to its mouth, gazing with eyes full of wonder at the strange man.
Jacob stood awkwardly surveying the group. A chill of keendisappointment fell upon him. Of the four persons seated around that table, not one face was familiar. He sat down and looked ruefully around. A single tallow candle standing on the table shed its faint light through the room, but failed to reveal the troubled look that fell upon the visitor. The silence that he maintained seemed to astonish the family. The farmer turned in his chair, and at last opened a discourse after his own hospitable fashion.
"Sit by and take a bite of supper," he said, while his wife arose and went to a corner cupboard.
"No, I thank you," answered Jacob, with an effort; for the words seemed blocking up his throat.
"You had better sit by," observed the wife, modestly, coming from the cupboard with a plate and knife in her hands. "There's nothing very inviting, but you'll be welcome."
"Thank you," said Jacob, rising, "I'm not hungry; but if you've got a cup handy, I will get a drink at the well."
The farmer took a white earthen bowl from the table, and, reaching forward, handed it to his guest.
"And welcome! but you'll find the well-pole rather hard to pull, I calculate."
Jacob took the bowl and went out. It seemed to him that a draught from that moss-covered bucket would drive away the chill that had fallen on his heart at the sight of those strange faces.
He sat the bowl down among the plantain leaves, and seizing the pole, plunged the old bucket deep into the well. When it came up again, full and dripping, he balanced it on the curb and drank. After this, he lingered a brief time by the well, filled with disappointment, and striving to compose his thoughts. At length he entered the house again with more calm and fixed resolution.
"This seems to be a fine place of yours," he said, taking the chair once more offered to his acceptance, and addressing the farmer. "That was as pretty a meadow I just crossed as one might wish to see!"
"Yes, there is some good land between this and the brook," answered the man, pleased with these commendations of his property.
"You keep it in good order, too; such timothy I have not seen these five years."
"Wal, true enough, one may call that grass a little mite superior to the common run, I do think!" answered the farmer, taking his chubby little daughter on one knee, and smoothing her thick hair with both his hard palms. "Considering how the old place was run down when we took it, we haven't got much to be ashamed of, anyhow."
"You have not always owned the farm?" Jacob's voice shook as he asked the question, but the farmer was busy caressing his child, and only observed the import of his words, not the tone in which they were uttered.
"I rayther think you must be a stranger in these parts, for everybody knows how long I've been upon the place; nigh upon ten years, isn't it, Mabel?"
"Ten years last spring," replied the woman, in a pleasant, low tone; "jist three years before Lucy was born."
"That's it! she's as good as an almanac at dates; could beat a hull class of us boys at cyphering when we went to school together, couldn't you, Mabel?"
The wife answered with a blush, and a good-humored smile divided cordially between her husband and Jacob.
"You must not think us over-shiftless," she said, "for living in the old house so long; we've talked of building every year, but somehow the right time hasn't come yet; besides, my old man don't exactly like to tear the old house down."
"Tear it down!" cried Jacob, with a degree of feeling that surprised the worthy couple—"tear the old homestead down! don't do it—don't do it, friend. There are people in the world who would give a piece of gold for every shingle on the roof rather than see a beam loosened."
"I guess you must have been in this neighborhood afore this," said the farmer, looking at his wife with shrewd surprise;"know something about the old homestead, I shouldn't wonder!"
"Yes, I passed through here many years ago; a man at that time, older than you are now, lived on the place; his name was—let me think——"
"Wilcox—was that the name?"
"Yes, that was it—a tall man, with dark eyes."
"That's the man, poor old fellow; why we bought the farm of him."
"I wonder he ever brought himself to part with it! His wife seemed so fond of the place, and—and his daughter: he had a daughter, if I recollect right?"
"Yes, we heard so; I never saw her; but the folks around here talk about her wild, bright ways, and her good looks, to this day; a harnsome, smart gal she was if what they say can be relied on."
"But what became of her? Did she settle anywhere in these parts?"
"Wal, no, I reckon not. A young fellow from somewhere about Boston or York, come up the river one summer to hunt and fish in the hills, he married the gal, and carried her off to the city."
"And did she never come back?"
"No; but a year or two after, the young man come and brought a little girl with him, the purtyest creature you ever sat eyes on. Hard words passed between him and the old man, for Wilcox wouldn't let any human being breathe a whisper agin his daughter. Nobody ever knew exactly what happened, but the young man went away and left his child with the old people. It wasn't long after this before the old man kinder seemed to give up, he and his wife too, just as if that bright little grandchild had brought a canker into the house.
"After that things went wrong, nothing on earth could make the old people neighborly; they gin up going to meeting, and sat all Sunday long on the hearth, there, looking into the fire. Wal, you know the best of us will talk when anything happens thatis not quite understood. Some said one thing, and some another, and Wilcox, arter a while, got so shy of his neighbors that they took a sort of distaste to him."
"Did the old people live alone after their daughter went away?" asked Jacob, in a husky voice. "There was a young man or boy in the family when I knew anything about it."
"Oh, yes, I jist remember, there was a young chap that Mr. Wilcox brought up—a clever critter as ever lived. He went away just arter the gal was married, and nobody ever knew what became of him. People thought the old man pined about that too: at any rate, one thing and another broke him down, and his wife with him."
"You do not mean to say that Mr. Wilcox and his wife are dead?"
The farmer turned his eyes suddenly on the form of Jacob Strong, as these words were uttered, for there was something in the tone that took his honest heart by surprise. Jacob sat before him like a criminal, pale, and shrinking in his chair.
"No, I did not mean to say that they died, but when a tough, cheerful man, like Wilcox, gives up, it is worse than death."
"What happened then—where did he go? is the child living?" almost shouted Jacob Strong, unable to control the agony of his impatience a moment longer; but the astonished look of his auditors checked the burst of impetuous feeling, and he continued more quietly——
"I took an interest in this family long ago, and stopped in the valley over night, on purpose to visit the old gentleman. I had no idea he would ever leave the farm, and was surprised to find strangers here, more so than you could have been at seeing me. Tell me now where the Wilcox family can be found?"
"That is more, by half, than I know myself," answered the farmer. "I bought the farm, paid cash down for everything, land, stock, furniture, and all."
"But where did they go?" cried Jacob, breathless with suspense.
"To Portland; they took one wagon load of things, andwhen the teamster came back, he said they were left in the hold of a schooner lying at the wharf."
"But where was she bound?—what was her name?"
"That was exactly what we asked the teamster, but he could tell nothing about it; and from that day to this, no person in these parts has ever heard a word about them!"
Jacob arose and supported himself by his chair.
"And is this all? Gone, no one knows where? Is this all?"
"All that I or any one else can tell you," answered the kind-hearted farmer.
"But the teamster, where is he?"
"Dead!"
Jacob left the house without another word. He knew that these tidings would be more terrible to another than they had been to him, and yet that seemed scarcely possible, for all the rude strength of his nature was prostrated by the news that he heard.
The twilight had given place to a full moon, and all the valley lay flooded in a sea of silver. The meadows were full of fireflies, and a whip-poor-will on the mountain-side poured his mournful cry upon the air. Jacob could not endure the thought of meeting his friend and mistress, with tidings that he knew would rend her heart. He left the homestead, tortured by all that he had heard, and plunged into a hollow which opened to the trout stream. In this hollow stood a tall elm tree, with great, sweeping branches, that drooped almost to the ground. A spring of never-failing water gushed out from a rocky bank, which it shaded, and the sweet gurgle of its progress as it flowed away through the cowslips and blue flag that choked up the outlet to the mountain streams, fell like the memory of an old love upon his senses.
He drew near the tree, and there, sitting upon the fragment of rock, with her head resting against the rugged trunk of the elm, sat Ada Leicester. Her face shone white in the moonbeams, and Jacob could hear her sobs long before she was conscious of his presence.
She heard his approach, and starting to her feet, came out into the full light. The hand with which she wildly seized his was damp and cold, and he could see that heavy tear-drops were trembling on her cheek.
"You—you have seen them—are they alive? I saw you go in, and have been waiting all this time. Tell me, Jacob, will they let me sleep in the old house to-night?"
"They are all gone; no one of the whole family are there!" answered Jacob Strong, too much excited for ordinary prudence.
A wild cry, scarcely louder than the scream of a bird, but oh, how full of agony! rang down the valley, and terror-stricken at what he had done, Jacob saw his mistress lying at his feet, her deathly face, her lifeless hands, and the white shawl which she had flung about her, huddled together in the pale moonlight.
The strong man lost all self-control. He looked fiercely around, as if some one might attempt to stop him; then gathered Ada Leicester up in his huge arms, and folded her close to his bosom. It was not a light burden to carry; but he neither wavered nor paused, but strode down the hollow, folding her tighter and tighter against his heart; and a joy broke over his features, as the moonlight fell upon them, that seemed scarcely human.
"Ada Wilcox—little Ada—I have carried you so a thousand times. Then, Ada, you would lift up your little arms, and fold them over my neck, and lay your cheek against mine, as it is now, Ada."
His face sunk slowly toward hers. He gave a sudden start.
"God forgive me! oh, Ada, forgive me!" broke from him, as he looked down upon the pale forehead which his lips had almost pressed.
He stood still, holding his breath, trembling in all his limbs, and beginning to move to and fro, as he perceived that her pale eyelids began to quiver in the moonlight.
It was a delusion; the fainting fit had been too sudden; the exhaustion complete. She lay in his arms like one fromwhom life had just departed—her pale limbs relaxed—her eyelids closed. He stood thus awhile, and then she began to move in his arms.
"Do not move, Ada—Ada Wilcox; it is Jacob, your father's bound boy. We are all alone, in the home meadow. He has carried you down to the brook a thousand times, when you knew all about it and laughed and—and——; not yet—not yet," he said passionately; "you are not strong enough to stand alone."
Still she struggled, for in his excitement he girded her form with those strong arms, till the pain restored her to consciousness.
"Not yet—oh, not yet," he pleaded, feeling the strong heart within him sink with each faint struggle that she made; "you cannot stand—the grass is deep and damp—be still—I am strong as an ox, Ada—I can carry you."
"Is it you, Jacob Strong?" she said, but half conscious.
"Yes," said Jacob in a choked voice, "it's me, your father's bound boy; we are in the old home lot again. I—I—it is a long time since I have carried you in my arms, Ada Wilcox."
"Ada Wilcox!" said the woman, with a start; "let me down, Jacob Strong; my name is not Ada Wilcox; all that bore that name are gone; the homestead is full of strangers; Wilcox is a dead name; that of Leicester has crept over it like night-shade over a grave."
Jacob Strong unfolded his arms so abruptly, that Ada almost fell to the earth.
"I had forgotten that name," he said with mournful sternness.
The poor woman attempted to stand up, but she wavered, and her pale face was lifted with piteous helplessness toward him.
"No, Jacob, I tremble—this blow has taken all my life. Help me to stand up, that I may look on the old homestead once more. How often have we looked upon it from this spot!"
"I remember," answered Jacob, "the moonlight lies upon the roof as it did that night; the old pear tree had stretched its shadow just to the garden fence."
Jacob Strong grew pale in the moonlight. Ada felt his arm shake beneath the grasp of her hand.
"You shiver with the cold," she said.
"It is cold, madam; the dew is heavy; I will go forward and break a path through the grass. It will not be the first time."
Jacob moved on, tramping down the grass, and casting his long, uncouth shadow before her, in the moonlight. She followed him in silence, casting back mournful glances at the old homestead.
Jacob paused to let down a heavy set of bars that divided the meadow from the trout stream. He jerked them fiercely from their sockets in the tall chestnut posts, dropping them down on each other with a noise that rang strangely through the stillness. Ada Leicester passed through the opening, and moved slowly toward the tavern. She reached the door, but turned again to her attendant.
"Jacob," she said, very sorrowfully, "I am all alone now, in the wide world; you will not leave me?"
"Ada Wilcox, I have not deserved that question," said Jacob, pushing open the door.
She shrunk through timidly, perhaps expecting her servant to follow; but he closed the door and rushed away, leaping the pile of bars with a bound, and plunging back into the meadow.
"Leave her!" he said, dashing the tall herds-grass aside with his hand; "Leave her, as if I warn't her slave—her dog—her jackall, and had been ever since I was a shaver, so small that this very grass would have closed over my head; and yet she don't know why—thinks it's the wages, may be. It never enters her head that I've got a soul to love and hate with. What did I follow her and that man to foreign parts for, but to stand ready when her time of trouble came? What did I give up my freeborn American birthright for, and put that gold lace, anddarn'd etarnal cockade over my hat, like an English white nigger, only because I couldn't stand by her in any other way? What is it that makes me humble as a rabbit, sometimes, and then, again, snarling around like a dog? She don't see it; she believes me when I tell her that it was a hankering to see foreign parts, that sent me over sea; and that I, a freeborn American citizen, have a nat'ral fancy to gold bands and cockades, as if the thing wasn't jist impossible! True enough, she don't want me to wear them now; but if she did, it's my solemn belief that I should do it, jist here, in sight of the old homestead.
"The old homestead," he continued, standing still in the grass, and looking toward the old home, till the bitter mood passed from his heart, and his eyes filled with tears. "Oh, if I was only his bound boy again, and she a little girl, and the old folks up yonder. I would be a nigger—a hound—anything, if she could only stand here, as she did then—as innocent and sweet a critter as ever drew breath. But he did it—that villain! Oh, if he could be extarminated from the face of the earth! It wan't her fault—I defy the face of man to say that. It was the original sin in her own heart."
Poor Jacob! All his massive strength was exhausted now. He even ceased to mutter over the sad, sad memories that crowded on him. But all that night he wandered about the old homestead—now lost beneath its pear trees—now casting his uncouth shadow across the barn-yard, where half a dozen slumbering cows lifted their heads and gazed earnestly after him, as if waiting for the intruder to be gone. There was not a nook or corner of the old place that he did not visit that night, and the morning found him cold, sad and pale, waiting for his mistress at the tavern door.
Just after daylight, the one-horse chaise crossed the ferry again. The old boatmen would gladly have conversed a little with its inmates, but Jacob only answered them in monosyllables, and they could not see the lady's face, so closely was it shrouded with the folds of her travelling veil.