272CHAPTER XXI.“PULL THE STRING, BUB.”
The high state of excitement into which Charlie had been kept by the startling events connected with the massacre, and his ingenious defence of the cabin, brought about a reaction; great lassitude alternated with feverish symptoms. He felt obliged to watch during the long hours of night, and caught such snatches of sleep as Bub’s performances allowed by day.
One day, after Bub had had his breakfast, Charlie said,–
“I feel as if I was going to be sick, Bub; my mouth tastes dreadfully, and my head aches so I can scarcely see. If I shouldn’t get well, and the Indians should come, you must remember and go into the hole in the cellar, and pull the stone up in its place after you, just as I showed you how, and keep still same as we did in the tree.”
“And shall I have to take the toffee-pot and go to the spring, same’s you did?”
“No,” said Charlie; “the Indians would see you and kill you if you did, and we have a well273in the yard. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll bring a pail of cold water now, and fill the coffee-pot, and put it into the hole, and a good lot of food there for you to eat, so that you wouldn’t have to come out for anything; and, Bub, if I should die, and father and mother should come and take you away, I want you to tell them that I put the water and the food there; won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Bub; “and I’ll let them hide in our tree; mayn’t I, Charlie?”
“Yes,” answered Charlie; “you must tell them all you can remember; tell them that I tried to be a good boy; tell mother,”–speaking very softly,–“that every night we said ‘Now I lay me;’ and don’t you never forget to say, ‘Now I lay me;’ will you, Bub?”
“No, I won’t,” said Bub; “tos, if I’m dood, like you and mother, and say, ‘Now I lay me’ every night, when I die Dod will send a big angel down to take me up to heaven; won’t he, Charlie?”
“Yes,” said Charlie. “Now I’ll go get the water;” and, walking with unsteady step to the well, he returned with a pail of water, and, filling the coffee-pot, descended, feebly, to the cellar, and placed it in the hole which he had dug; then, carrying most of the provisions that they had, deposited them there also, and going274up stairs again, he started for the bed, but suddenly stopped, and putting his hand over his eyes, said,–
“O, where is it? I can’t see, I’m so dizzy,” and fell by the side of it, on the hard floor. Bub looked on in wonder, scarcely comprehending the meaning of it, saying,–
“Did the cellar hurt you, Charlie?” But there was no answer. In a few moments after, Charlie opened his eyes, and said,–
“Bub, I’m dreadful sick; if the Indians should come,–and you must watch for them, Bub, else they might come when you wasn’t looking,–”
Then he relapsed into silence.
“Did you ’peak, Charlie?” said Bub, wondering that he did not finish the sentence. The dear little voice seemed to recall his wandering thoughts, and, taking up what he was saying where he had left off, continued,–
“If the Indians should come, Bub, remember and pull the strings; perhaps that will frighten them off, as it did before. If it doesn’t, go right into the hole in the cellar, as I told you.”
“I fraid to go into the cellar ’out you.”
“But you must,” answered Charlie, “or the Indians will kill you. But you won’t feel afraid if you pray God to take care of you.”
“Is Dod stronger than dark?” asked Bub.
“Yes,” said Charlie, “he made the dark; he275made you, and everything; but,” he added, “I feel better; I guess I’ll get on the bed; it’s easier there.”
Charlie was threatened with brain fever, as his bloodshot eyes, flushed face, and throbbing temples revealed. The strain had been too great for him, and he soon seemed to be unconscious of what was passing around him, and moaned and tossed incessantly. Chary of his scanty store of provisions, not knowing how long they might be shut up in the cabin, he had eaten sparingly himself, but fed Bub generously, not only from love to his little brother, but because it would keep him the more quiet. The night-watching had worn on him terribly.
Bub had small comprehension of Charlie’s condition; and finding, after a while, that Charlie did not talk with him, he took the post of sentinel, and did himself great credit. This seemed a long period to the little fellow, and after going the rounds of the port-hole, and seeing nothing to alarm him, he set about amusing himself. The skin bag, containing the ammunition, caught his eye; so, getting the fire-shovel, he managed to dislodge it from the peg on which it hung, and down it plumped upon the floor. Bub looked towards Charlie at this, to see what he would say, but, as he did not seem to notice, lugged the bag to the hearth, and commenced strewing the276powder upon the fire. This was highly satisfactory, and one little puff would go up, sending out the white ashes, to be succeeded by another, as fast as the fat fist of the little mischief-maker could work. Then he began to strew the powder out from the hearth upon the floor; and he clapped his hands in glee, as he saw the fire run along the trains that he had laid. Very careless was he in his pyrotechnic contrivances, and might have found himself involved in a grand explosion, had he not bethought himself that, if powder was good to burn, it was also good to eat. Now, it chanced that Charlie, in his investigations in the cupboard, had come across a neglected jug, that contained molasses; and as molasses was much prized by Bub, he had kept it for that little boy’s sole use, dealing it out to him, a little at a time, at each meal. So, bringing out the jug and a saucer, Bub filled the latter with molasses, into which he stirred the powder, and commenced eating the sweet mixture. He knew he had been into mischief that would displease his brother; so, denying himself the first taste, taking the saucer and spoon in his hand, he trudged to the bedside, and said,–
“Bub made Charlie some tandy. Bub good boy.”
But, as Charlie gave no heed to the peace-offering, Bub put the saucer upon the table, and,277seating himself in his usual place at meal time, commenced eating. The compound was not so pleasant as its inventor had expected, and, after the first few spoonfuls, was abandoned in disgust. It now occurred to him that it was time to resume his post as sentry. Mounting to his first outlook, his little blue eyes dilated, for he saw an Indian creeping along.
“Charlie,” said he, jumping down in terror. “Injun come to kill Bub!”
But, as Charlie did not reply, he clambered on the bed, crying,–
“Charlie, ’peak to Bub; Injun come!” Then, supposing that the reason he made no answer was because he had burnt the powder, he said, with quivering lip,–
“Bub’s sorry he’s been naughty; Bub won’t be naughty no more. Bub love Charlie;” and he put his little face lovingly against Charlie’s. But he started back as Charlie’s hot cheeks touched his tender flesh. Remembering how hot his own flesh was when tortured with thirst in the tree, and how grateful the draught of water was Charlie fetched from the spring at the risk of his life, Bub exclaimed,–
“Charlie dry; Bub give Charlie some drink!” and hastening to the table, he took from it the large bowl, and filled it from the bucket that Charlie had left on the floor, and, climbing with it on the278bed again, essaying to put it to his lips, upset the whole over his face and neck. The sudden application of the cold water proved a balm to the sick boy, and, recognizing Bub, he inquired, confusedly,–
“Where–where am I?–what’s the matter?”
“Injun’s come!” cried Bub, with renewed earnestness.
Charlie attempted to rise, but fell back, exhausted, saying, while a growing faintness crept over him,–
“I can’t get up, Bub, I’m so sick; pull the string.”
Bub did as he was directed, and again the cabin fort broke the stillness of prairie and forest with its unmanned broadside.
“Now,” said Charlie, his voice sinking to a whisper, “go and hide yourself in the cellar, Bub, and keep very still.”
“I ’fraid ’out you!” said Bub.
“I am so sick,” answered Charlie, “I can’t go with you.”
“I so ’fraid!” quivered Bub, as he saw the deathly pallor creeping over Charlie’s face, and the fixed look of his eyes.
“Pray, and then go and keep still,” said Charlie.
And little Bub knelt by the bedside, and, folding his hands, repeated,–279
“Now I lay me down to sleep;I pray the Lord my soul to keep;If I should die before I wake,I pray the Lord my soul to take;”
and then adding, of his own accord, “Please, Dod, take care of Charlie, and don’t let the dark hurt Bub;” rising, he said, “Bub isn’t ’fraid now;” and, descending into the cellar, he crept into his hiding-place in the wall, and carefully readjusted the stone.
The Indian that Bub had seen was Long Hair. While he was cautiously reconnoitring, the command under Captain Manly had reached the ground. The soldiers found the outer door securely fastened, and, though they thundered for admittance, there was no response from within. In their impatience, some broke down the door, while others scaled the walls. Captain Manly was the first to enter, and the soldiers pushed in eagerly after him, anxious to rescue the settlers, if any were there still. Instantly his eye caught the figure stretched on the bed.
“Hush, boys,” said he, reverently; “the little fellow is dead.”
Tears filled the eyes of the men as they gathered about their officer, and gazed silently upon the features of the boy. A placid look was upon the brave lad’s countenance; his curly-brown hair lay in dank masses, in fine contrast to his280white forehead; while the lessons of self-control, which he had been taught, made his expression mature and noble. Captain Manly stooped and kissed the cold forehead, and the soldiers instinctively lifted their caps.
Meanwhile, the cabin had been carefully searched.
“There’s not a soul in it,” said Sergeant Eaton, touching his cap. “The little lad yonder seems to have been all alone.”
“Impossible. What did that firing mean from the cabin, just as we rode up? And here, you see, are no less than a dozen rifles, all nicely mounted. Where are the fingers that pulled the triggers? Sergeant, there is some mystery here that needs to be unravelled. Have you searched the cellar?”
“We have, sir,” was the reply.
The officers stood looking at each other perplexed, and were continuing their conversation in a low tone, when Long Hair entered, and without noticing any one, stood, with folded arms, gazing at Charlie.
“Long Hair,” said the captain, turning abruptly towards him, “how long did you get here before we did?”
“Little time–not much.”
“Were you on the ground when we heard the discharge?”281
“In tree; just here; over dere.”
“Did any one leave the cabin after the guns were fired?”
“No leave cabin,” he answered.
“Who do you think fired the guns, Long Hair?”
“Charlie fire gun.”
“But Charlie is dead; and the discharge was only a few moments ago.”
“No; Indian no sense; Charlie no fire gun. Bub fire gun.”
“Impossible,” returned the captain, impatiently. “How could such a child do it?”
“What string for, cap’n?” asked Long Hair, pointing to the twine that hung from the gun triggers, which, being so near the color of the walls, had been detected only by the Indian’s keen glance. This ingenious arrangement was examined with interest; and the conviction was fast gaining ground, that Long Hair was not far from right in his conclusions.
“But where is the child?” asked the captain; and again they searched the cabin. The closet was peered into to its topmost shelf; a few boxes that had been left, emptied of their contents; even the bed on which Charlie lay was minutely examined, and the improbable supposition that the walls of the cellar might conceal him was282renounced, as the soldiers struck the butts of their guns against the stones.
“Is it possible,” asked the captain of Long Hair,–for he had learned to rely much on his sagacity,–“that Bub could escape from the house?”
Long Hair shook his head, saying,–
“No trail; Bub no go.”
“May it plase your honor,” said the Irish private, O’Connor, touching his cap to the captain, “I belave, on me sowl, that it’s the ghost of the brave lad that shot the guns. The likes of him, sir, would be afther defendin’ the cabin if ’twas only out of respect to the onburied bodies of the women and the childers that has been murthured by the hathen savages–bad luck to ’em!”
“Long Hair,” said the captain, smiling at the superstition of the warm-hearted Hibernian, “I’ve a mind, while the men are taking their rations on the grass, to leave you to clear up this mystery; I believe, if any one can find it out, you can.”
The men, having fallen into line, stacked their guns, and Long Hair was left alone with Charlie. He stood for a moment looking at the quiet form of the boy; and the workings of his usually stolid face showed the affection which he felt for him. He then carefully looked about the room, then went quietly out, and passed around the cabin, critically examining the ground as he283walked. He soon returned, and made directly for the cellar, gliding noiselessly in his moccasins down the stairs. In the dim light he carefully went over the cellar bottom. Taking up some of the litter with which it was covered, he gently scraped the fresh sand away until he came to litter again. Patiently and carefully then he removed the top litter from a wide space, noticing from which direction the sand had been thrown, and in a moment he was standing where the heap had been, which Charlie and Bub had shovelled away. Stooping down now, he saw where the earth had been fretted by the stone as it had been pulled out and in; then he placed his ear to the ground, and listened intently; instantly he glided from the cellar, and stood with folded arms before Captain Manly.
“Well, what luck?” asked the captain.
“Long Hair find pappoose.”
There was a general excitement at this, and a number arose, as if eager to follow the captain and the Indian; but Long Hair stirred not, saying, angrily,–
“Too much sojer; scare pappoose.”
“That is sensible,” said the captain; “you and I will go alone, Long Hair.”
The Indian led him at once to the place in the wall where Bub was concealed.284
“Pappoose in dere,” said the Indian, pointing to the stone. “Take stone out.”
The captain drew it forth, got down on his hands and knees, and peeped in, and saw Bub’s bright eyes looking into his; and, taking hold of Bub’s chubby hand, he said, soothingly,–for Bub now began to cry,–
“Don’t be afraid, my little fellow; we are all your friends, and have come to take you to your mother.”
“Won’t Injun kill me?” asked Bub, glancing apprehensively at Long Hair.
“No,” said the officer; “it’s Long Hair; he came to keep the bad Indians from killing you.”
When Captain Manly appeared with Bub in his arms, the air was rent with the joyful shouts of the soldiers; and Bub suddenly found himself a hero, as he was borne about and caressed by them–a joy that was suddenly intensified to a wild pitch of excitement, as word was brought that dear, brave, romantic Charlie had revived. He was not dead. Aroused by the shouts of the soldiers over Bub’s appearance, he had opened his eyes, and, imagining that the Indians were assailing the cabin, murmured, in a clear, distinct voice,–
“Pull the string, Bub!”
285CHAPTER XXII.TOM AND THE MONEY-LENDER.
Mr. Cowles–farmer, grocer, postmaster, and money-lender–drew his chair to the fire. The large, old-fashioned stove had an open front, and it was pleasant, on such a piercing day, to see the flames leap, and hear the wood crackle, and sit in the genial warmth.
The table was neatly set for supper. There was a platter of cold prairie chicken, a glass dish containing wild-plum sauce, and a plate of biscuit; while on the stove hearth stood a white tureen, holding a few slices of hot toast.
Mrs. Cowles, having been informed by her liege lord that her presence was not desired at that particular hour, had gladly improved the opportunity to take a cup of tea with her friend Mrs. Barker, and learn the particulars concerning the accident that happened to Bill Walker and Maria Hobbs the night before, who, while returning from a log-house dance, six miles away, were upset from the wagon into Slough Creek. Mrs. Cowles dearly loved a dish of gossip, which,286smoking hot and seasoned to one’s taste, was always to be had at Mrs. Barker’s.
The Cowles were a money-loving and money-getting race, from the least of them to the greatest; and Mr. Charles Cowles was not a whit behind the shrewdest of them in this respect.
It was a stormy afternoon in March, and the winds, which, like troops of wild horses, came careering across the prairies, and charged upon the money-lender’s “framed” house, furiously whirled the snow, and made shrill, wintry music. Mr. Cowles added more fuel to the fire, reseated himself, put his feet into a chair, and fell into a deep study.
He was the moneyed man of the place, and, although comparatively a new comer, was the autocrat of the settlement. His first visit to the town, “prospecting,” caused considerable commotion; for if the groves and prairies had been arranged on the plan of a vast whispering-gallery, the fact that he had a golden purse could scarcely have circulated more rapidly. Many prophesied he would not condescend to dwell in so small a town–a surmise that seemed the more probable from his haughty, overbearing carriage. And when it was certain that he had bought out the best of the two stores, and carpenters were set to work building a large addition to the grocery, and teams arrived from the Mississippi loaded287with barrels and boxes of goods, there was general congratulation. The town will go ahead now, the settlers said; men of capital are beginning to come in, and land is sure to rise.
But Mr. Cowles did not pitch his tent there for the benefit of the public, as the public soon had reason to know. He invested nothing in “improvements,” but simply kept his stock replenished, selling at the high frontier prices, giving credit when wanted, but always taking ample security, and letting money in the same way, at five per cent. per month.
The settlers had met with the usual financial disappointments of the frontier, and then a business revulsion at the east caused a fall in the value of land, and a diminution of immigration; and, having expended the little they had on their arrival, they were compelled to do as best they could. In this extremity it became common for them to get trusted at the store for groceries, and hire money of its proprietor; and in an astonishingly short space of time, the sharp grocer held mortgages on most of the farms in the neighborhood. He was inexorable when pay-day came; and if the money was not ready, he foreclosed, deaf to all appeals. But of this he invariably gave each one who applied for a loan an offensively plain warning. He was a middle-sized, broad-chested, black-eyed man, muscular, passionate,288blasphemously profane, heavy-voiced, had a remarkable command of language, and when angered his eyes seemed to shoot lightning, and he would gesticulate with great energy. There was no respect of persons or station with him; high and low were served alike. When credit or money was asked for, he would say,–
“Certainly, sir; but, mind you,” with a fearful oath, “if you don’t pay according to agreement, I shan’t wait a moment. Everybody that deals with me has to be on the square. O, yes; youexpectto pay, but you won’t. And don’t you come whining and crying round me then; it won’t make any sort of difference. I’ve put my grip on your land, and I tell you now that I shan’t let go. Don’t you say, then, that I didn’t tell you beforehand just how it would turn out.”
The money-lender of the young village was feared, hated, and fawned upon. His bearing was imperious and sneering towards all. He had a vigorous intellect, however, was uncommonly well-informed, and would discourse to the groups in his store, sitting with his stout legs hanging over the counter, with a coarse brilliancy, original and sagacious, from which the more cultured might cull gems of thought, fresh and striking, despite the terrible swearing, which would startle even bad men.289
Was there “a well in the rock” of this man’s hard heart? We shall see.
The lines of the money-lender’s face were bitterly hard; but on this afternoon his features worked as if strong conflicting emotions were striving for mastery. Something unusual was stirring his brain; he sat thinking, thinking, uneasily shifting his position, and at length arose, and passing through a dark hall, entered the shop, and said,–
“Ah, Tom, is that you?”
“Yes,” answered the young man, diffidently; “Mr. Payson said you wished to see me.”
“Yes, walk in this way;” and Mr. Cowles returned to the home-room, followed by Tom.
“Do you know why I sent for you?” asked the grocer.
“No, sir.”
“Well, I had a little private matter that I wished to talk with you about; but I’m hungry as a bear, and if you’ll do me the favor to drink a cup of tea with me, I’ll try to explain.”
Tom had ever shrunk from contact with this man, and marvelled much at finding himself his guest. Yet a cosy sitting down together they had, Tom’s host being singularly attentive to him, while they partook of the nice edibles.
“Tom,” said the grocer, as they sat back from the table, “I’ve heard good accounts of you;”290and his voice grew soft and tremulous; “and I’m really glad of it. And I’ve had an eye on you myself quite a while; and, bad as they say old Cowles is, I like to see others do well. You stuck by your folks when you wished to go off; that’s right. You made the most of your schooling; that’s in your favor. You are an honest, right-minded lad, aiming to be, I suspect, some such a man as that missionary.”
Tom’s surprise grew apace. How did this rough, swearing, covetous dealer ferret out his heart’s secrets?
“You wished to go from home to study, but, like a true son, staid by to help the family. That must have been a great self-denial to you; was it not?”
“Yes,” faltered Tom.
“Of course it was. But how did you manage to give it up so bravely?”
“Mother advised me to pray about it, and I did.”
“Do you think it does any good to pray?” asked the grocer.
“O, yes, indeed. I couldn’t live without prayer, it helps me so much.”
“But,” objected his questioner, “do you imagine that the great God cares enough about our little affairs to answer the trifling requests we may make of him?”291
“I do, sir,” replied Tom, with glowing cheeks and tearful eyes; “I have known him to do so many and many a time.”
“Perhaps you were deceived.”
“O,” cried Tom, “if you had been in the missionary’s family as much as I have, and heard him pray for things, and then see just what he asked for come into the house almost before he arose from his knees, you could not doubt that God had heard him. Why, sir, how do you suppose he has managed to get along on the little that the settlers have paid him, unless it has been in answer to prayer?”
“I am sure he must have been pinched,” answered the money-lender, moving uneasily.
“I would like to relate an instance or two,” continued Tom, “if it would not be–”
“No, no, it won’t be disagreeable to me; but I have not time to hear it now. I believe all you say. I tell you what it is, young man,” he added, rising and pacing the floor, deeply agitated, “I know more about these matters than folks think. There’s my brother; he’s a Methodist minister, just like this missionary about praying. He’s often prayed for me, and says he has the evidence that I shall be converted, and become a preacher.”
“Perhaps you will,” earnestly remarked Tom;292“you have ability enough to do a great deal of good.”
“So he says. What if it should come about! How strange it would seem for a cursing old sinner like me to preach and pray as that missionary does! They call me ahardman. But what can I do? Don’t I inform every soul that asks me for money that he’s a fool, and that I shall hold him to the writing? I get their lands, it is true; but if I did not, somebody else would. Why, they mortgage all they have, and then buy the highest priced goods in the store. I’ve no patience with such folks, and they don’t get much mercy from me.”
“But,” bluntly said Tom, “I can’t see how another’s wrong-doing justifies ours.”
“That’s so,” he returned, gloomily. “But I’ve a different sort of business to transact with you, than to defend my misdeeds. That missionary has been making me a pastoral visit, and he took it upon himself to inform me that the Lord has called you to preach the gospel, and that it is my duty to furnish money to send you off to college, or some such place, where they grind out ministers.”
“Me!” exclaimed Tom, rising to his feet.
“Yes, you; sit down, sit down, young man, and be calm;” and the grocer, in his own excitement,293gesticulated violently with both arms at once. “He says that I’m the only man here that has the money to do this. Pretty cool–isn’t it?–to dictate to old Cowles, the miserly money-grabber, in that way. I just turned on my heel, and left him in the middle of his ordering; but, you see, I couldn’t help thinking about it night and day. I wouldn’t wonder if that meddling missionary had been praying about it all the while; and the result is, the old money-lender is going to give you a lift, my boy. We, hackneyed, hopeless old reprobates, need just such preachers as the missionary’s famous seminary is going to make out of you; and I invited you here to say that you can depend on me for two hundred dollars in gold to start with, and as much more each year, till you graduate, as the missionary says you need. When old Cowles begins to do a thing, mind you, he never does it by halves.”
“But,” said Tom, choking with joy and wonder, “how shall I pay you?”
“Pay! pay!” roared the grocer, his eyes shooting flame; then, suddenly waxing tender, the tears extinguishing the fire-flashes, “if you will pray for a poor old rebel like me, it is all the pay I want.”
Then, going into the entry, he called,–
“Johnson! Johnson!”294
“Here, sir,” said a voice; and the dapper little tailor, who rented a window in the store, made his appearance.
“Measure this young man for a suit of clothes,” said the grocer; “and mind and give him a genteel fit, that will do for him in the best circles east.”
295CHAPTER XXIII.AN ENCHANTING SCENE.–THE PARTING.
“The hearth is swept, the fire is made,The kettle sings for tea.”
It was the clear, honest voice of Deacon Palmer that fell on Tom’s ear, and which he now heard for the hundredth time. Year in and out, at morning and night, the good man had sung this, his favorite song,–bachelor though he was, with silver-streaked hair,–as if his heart yearned for the wifely waiting, and the sweet home-joys it pictured. Why were they not his? Do all have their longings for something brighter and better than the present brings? something for which they must wait and wait, and perchance never attain?
Tom knocked modestly at the storekeeper’s door. A moment, and the money-lender opened it, saying, heartily,–
“Walk in; walk in!”
“No, I thank you,” answered Tom; “I called to say, that as I am to start on Monday to begin study at the east,”–and the young man’s tones grew tremulous,–“General and Mrs. McElroy296and mother are to be at the missionary’s to-day, and they desire the pleasure of your company at dinner.”
“Well, well, young man, youhavebrought a message–haven’t you?” exclaimed the grocer, fidgeting about. “A pretty mixed-up company that would be–wouldn’t it? Old Cowles sitting down to table with a minister of the gospel, and a student for that sacred calling, and such like folks. No, no; that wouldn’t be consistent. Tell them that I am much obliged, but–”
“Now, Mr. Cowles,” exclaimed Tom, seizing his hand, “you must come. I shall feel dreadfully hurt if you refuse,–and they all want you to so much. And, you know that if it was not for your kindness–”
“There, there, boy,” interrupted the storekeeper, his black eyes flashing through tears, “don’t talk in that way. All is, if it will please you, I’ll come. But how do you go to the river, Monday?”
“O, the missionary is to get a team.”
“Well, just say to him that my horses are at his service.”
We will not dwell upon the dinner in the log-cabin parsonage, during which “irrepressible” Bub–his clerical tastes sharpened by Tom’s example–took clandestine possession of the attic study, and, constituting himself preacher,297audience, and choir, undertook to conduct divine service. Having given out the first hymn, he drowned the missionary’s words, as the latter said grace, by stoutly singing,–
“I want to be an angel,An angel with a stand.”
Neither may we linger amid the tender, solemn scenes of the Sabbath following, the last Tom was to spend in the rude frontier sanctuary.
It was evening of a beautiful day in May, when the money-lender’s capacious carriage, drawn by his trusty grays, deposited its passengers at the landing, to await the steamer. What a lifetime of thought and emotion seemed crowded into that interval of waiting, as Mrs. Jones stood with Tom clasped closely, whispering words of mingled foreboding, hope, and caution!
“To be agoodminister of Jesus Christ, how glorious, how sublime!” said she. “There is nothing I so much desire for you. But you are going into scenes very different from those in which you have been reared–scenes which will have their peculiar and insidious perils. I foresee that you will rise to distinction in your studies. But do not seek high things for yourself. Be not anxious to become what is called a great preacher, nor aspire to a ‘brilliant settlement.’ Sacrifice not conscience for place and power and the applause298of sect. Keep humble. Keep Christ ever before you; and may he watch between me and thee while we are separated from each other;” and she kissed him a fond farewell. Tom stepped aboard the steamer, which rapidly bore him away, carrying in his heart the images of the godly missionary, fair-haired Alice, and his mother–the little group that stood on the shore gazing so lovingly after him. The young man wept freely as they faded from sight. But, happily, the magical splendor of night on the Mississippi broke in on the tumult of his feelings. Hundreds of lights gleamed from the shore in every direction; from village, and city, and town; from cottage and homestead; while steamer after steamer, illuminated within and without, came sweeping, sounding, thundering on, like some monster leviathan spouting fire. It was as a dream of enchantment to him, and soon stirred his brain wonderfully. With singular vividness the eventful past of his pioneer life flitted before his mental vision, and again he experienced the terrible anxieties and thrills of horror and of heroic resolve connected with the Indian uprising. And now his tears flow as he revisits in imagination the lonely grave of his father on the far-off prairie. Would the dear ones that survived the fearful outbreak be long safe? Might they not soon need his aid once more? And the glowing future299for which he had so panted, would it be to him all he had fancied? Would he pass safely the dangers his far-seeing mother had sketched? Would he realize her ideal? And the kind missionary and the eccentric money-lender, they had high expectations of what he should become. Would he disappoint their hopes? Tom, wearied with thought, sought his state-room, and fell asleep, dreaming that he was hearing, as on the morning of his first visit to the fort, the bird-like notes of the song that then floated through the open window, and that fairy Alice looked out and said,–
“Don’t forget me, Tom, while you are away.”
Thus does divine and human love ever intertwine. How strange, how unvarying the experience! Farewell, Tom! Farewell, Charlie! Good by, Bub! Perhaps we may meet again.
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