“A man braggin’ gits riled if ye try ’n’ choke him off.” –Old Cy Walker.
Riverton, less provincial than Greenvale, was a village of some two thousand inhabitants. A few brick blocks, with less pretentious wooden buildings, formed a nucleus of stores. A brownstone bank, four churches, two hotels, the Quaboag House and the Astor House were intermingled among these, and a railroad with two trains in each direction a day added life and interest to the place. Each of the hotels sent a conveyance to meet every train, with a loud-voiced emissary to announce the fact of free transportation. In each hostelry a bar flourished, and like rival clubs, each had its afternoon and evening gathering of loafers who swapped yarns and gossip, smoked and chewed incessantly, and contributed little else to support the establishments. Three times daily, at meal hours, each of the rival landlords banged a discordant gong in his front doorway, without apparent result.
At about eleven in the forenoon each weekday in summer, Uncle Joe Barnes on his lumbering two-horse stage, arrived from Greenvale, paused at the post-office, threw off a mail-pouch, thence around to the Quaboag House stable, and cared for his horses. At two he was ready for the return trip and mounting his lofty seat, he again drove to the front of the hotel, shouting “All aboard!” dismounted to assist lady passengers, but let masculine ones do their own climbing, and after halting to receive a mail-bag, again departed on his return trip.
A certain monotonous regularity was apparent in every move and every act and function of village life in Riverton. At precisely seven o’clock each morning the two landlords appeared simultaneously and banged their gongs. At twelve and six, this was repeated. At eight o’clock the three principal storekeepers usually entered their places of business; at nine, and while the academy bell was ringing near by, every village doctor might be seen starting out. At ten exactly, Dwight Bennett, the cashier of the bank, unlocked its front door, and the two hotel ’buses invariably started so nearly together that they met at the first turn going stationward. Even the four churchclocks had the same habit, and it was often related that a stranger there, a travelling man, on his first, visit, made an amusing discovery.
“What kind of a fool clock have you got in this town?” he said to Sam Gates, the landlord of the Quaboag, next morning after his arrival. “I went to bed in good season last night an’ just got asleep when I heard it strike thirty-two. I dozed off an’ the next I knew it began clanging again, and I counted forty-four. What sort of time do you keep here, anyway? Do you run your town by the multiplication table?”
The half-dozen chronic loafers who met every afternoon in the Quaboag House office arrived in about the same order, smoked, drank, told their yarns, gathered all the gossip, and departed at nearly the same moment. Their evening visits partook of the same clocklike regularity.
These of the old guard were also dressed much the same, and “slouchy” best describes it. Gray flannel shirts in winter or summer alike. Collars, cuffs, and ties were never seen on them, though patches were, and as for shaving or hair-cutting, a few shaved once a week, some never did, and semi-annual hair-cuts were a fair average.
The worst sinner in this respect, Luke Atwater,occasionally called “Lazy Luke,” never had his beard shortened but once, and that was due to its being burnt off while he was fighting a brush fire in spring.
It was related of him, and believed by many, that once upon a time many years previous he had had his hair cut, and on that occasion the barber had found a whetstone concealed in Luke’s shock of tangled hair. It was also asserted that he admitted always carrying his whetstone back of his ear while mowing, and so losing it that way.
All the news and every happening in Riverton, from the catching of an extra big trout to twins, was duly commented upon and discussed by this coterie. Village politics, how much money each storekeeper was making, crop prospects, the run of sap every spring, drouth, weather indications, rain or snow falls, each and all formed rotating subjects upon which every one of this faithful-to-the-post clique expressed opinions.
Chip’s arrival there with the Frisbie family, and her later history, learned from Uncle Joe, furnished a fertile topic, her escapade in running away from Greenvale a more exciting one, while Old Cy’s visit and deposit of a fabulous sum in the bank in her name had been a nine days’wonder. That amount, hinted at only by the cashier as a comfortable fortune, soon grew in size until it was generally believed to be almost a million.
This was Riverton and its decidedly rural status when late one December afternoon the Quaboag free ’bus (a two-seated pung, this time) swept up to that hotel’s front door, where the porter assisted a stylish young lady to alight, and he, stepping like a drum major, led the way into the Quaboag’s unwarmed parlor.
“Young lady, sir, a stunner, wants room over night, sir,” he announced to the landlord in the office a moment later. “Goin’ to Greenvale to-morrer, she says.”
On the instant all converse in the office ceased, and the six constant callers hardly breathed until Sam Gates hastened to the parlor and returned.
“It’s that McGuire gal–lady, I mean,” he asserted pompously; then to the porter, “Git a move on, Jim, ’n’ start a fire in Number 6, an’ quick, too!” And hastily brushing his untidy hair before the office mirror, he left the room again, followed by six envious glances. Then those astonished loafers grouped themselves, the better to observe the passage between parlor and office.
Only one instant sight of this important guest was obtained by them as Chip emerged from the parlor and followed the landlord upstairs, and then the hushed spell was broken.
“By gosh, it’s her!” exclaimed one in an awed whisper, “an’ Jim was right, she’s a stunner!”
“I ’member jest how she looked that fust day she came,” asserted another. “Saw her legs, too, when she shinned up top o’ the stage.”
“Ye won’t git ’nother chance, I’ll bet!” declared a third.
“What do ye s’pose she’s here for,” queried a fourth, “to draw the int’rest on her money, or what?”
It was precisely four-forty-five when Chip appeared before this judge and jury of all Riverton’s happenings. At five-forty-five they had agreed that she was the handsomest young lady who had ever set foot in the town, that she must be going to get married soon, and that her mission there was to draw out a few thousand dollars for wedding finery. Then they dispersed, and at six-forty-five, when they assembled at the Quaboag again, half of Riverton knew their conclusions, and by bedtime all knew them.
By eight-thirty next morning, this all-observantand all-wise clique had gathered in the hotel office once more, an unusual proceeding, and when Chip tripped out, eight pairs of eyes watched her depart. Then they dispersed.
At nine o’clock Chip walked up the stone steps to the bank door, read the legend, “Open from 10a.m.until 2p.m.,” turned away, and once more resumed her leisurely stroll up and down the street while she peered into store windows. At ten precisely by the four church clocks she was back at the bank again, and the cashier lost count of the column he was adding when he saw her enter.
“I would like three hundred dollars, if you please, sir,” she said, presenting her little book, and he had to count it over four times, to make sure the amount was right. Then he passed the thick bundle of currency out under his latticed window, seeing only the two wide-open, fathomless eyes and dimpled face that had watched him, and feeling, as he afterward admitted, like fifty cents.
And now ensued an experience the like of which poor Chip had never even dreamed,–the supreme joy of spending money without stint for those near and dear to her. And what a medley of gifts she bought! Two silk dress patterns, two warmwraps, three winter hats, a gold watch for Miss Phinney, an easy-chair, two of the finest pipes she could find, a trout rod, four pairs of gloves, and finally a gun for Nezer. Then as her roll of money grew less, she began to pick up smaller articles,–handkerchiefs, slippers, and the like.
“Send them to the hotel, please,” she said to one and all of whom she purchased articles of any size, “marked for Vera McGuire.”
That was enough!
Riverton had sensations, mild ones, of course. Now and then a fire had occurred, once an elopement. Occasionally a horse ran away, causing damage to some one. But nothing had occurred to compare with the arrival of a supposed fabulously rich young lady who came without escort, who walked into and out of stores like a young goddess, noticing no one, and who spent money as if it were autumn leaves.
A few of the Quaboag retinue followed her about in a not-to-be-observed manner. Women by the dozen hastily donned outdoor raiment, and visited stores, just to observe her. They crossed and recrossed the street to meet her, and a battery of curious eyes was focussed on her for two hours.
When she returned to the hotel, the old guard,recruited by every idle man in town, filled the office, awaiting her. Uncle Joe, who had heard of her arrival the moment he came, was among them, recounting her history once more, and when she neared the hotel, he emerged to meet her.
“Why, bless yer eyes, Chip,” he said, extending a calloused hand, “but I’m powerful glad to see ye once more. Whatever made ye run away the way ye did, ’n’ what be ye doin’ here? Buyin’ out the hull town? I’ve got the pung filled wi’ bundles a’ready wi’ yer name on ’em.”
He beaued her into the parlor, like the ancient gallant he was. He washed, brushed his hair and clothing, and awaited her readiness to dine, without holding further converse with the curious crowd. He ushered her into the dining room and made bold to sit and eat with her unasked, and when he assisted her to the front seat in his long box sleigh, crowded with her purchases, and drove away, he was envied by two dozen observers.
“Why didn’t ye send us word o’ yer comin’,” he said as they left Riverton, “so I cud ’a’ spruced up some an’ come down with a better rig, bells on the hosses and new buffler robes?”
“There was no need of that,” answered Chip, pleased, as well she might be. “I am just the samegirl that I always was, only happier now that I have more friends. How is dear old Aunt Comfort, and every one in Greenvale? I am anticipating seeing them so much.”
And never during all the twenty years in which Uncle Joe had journeyed twice each day over this road had the way seemed shorter, or had he been blessed with a more interesting companion.
The only regret Chip had, was that she had forgotten to buy Uncle Joe a present. She made up for it later, however.
At Greenvale, Chip met almost an ovation. Aunt Comfort kissed her and cried over her. Nezer ran for Angie, who soon appeared on the scene, and Hannah was so “flustered” she was unable to speak after the first greeting. Martin, who had heard of Chip’s arrival from Uncle Joe, hastened to Aunt Comfort’s, and had Chip been a real “millionnairess” or some titled lady, she could not have awakened more interest or received half so cordial a welcome.
Hannah was the one who felt the most embarrassed, however, and guilty as well. For half an hour, while Chip was the centre of interest, she could only stare at her in dumb amazement. Then she stole out of the room, and later Chip found her in the kitchen, shedding copious tears.
“I’m a miserable sinner ’n’ the Lord’ll never forgive me,” she half moaned, when Chip tried to console her. “An’ to think ye feel the way ye say, ’n’ to bring me a present, arter all the mean things I said. It’s a-heapin’ coals o’ fire on my head, that it is.” And the shower increased.
“I have forgotten all about them, Hannah, truly I have,” Chip assured her, “and I wish you would. You didn’t understand me then, perhaps, or I you, so let us be friends now.”
The next afternoon Chip, who had learned that Miss Phinney’s school was to close the day following, set out to call on her in time to arrive at its adjournment.
No hint of her return had reached Miss Phinney, no letters had been exchanged, and not since that tearful separation had they met.
And now as Chip followed the lonely by-road so often traversed by her, what a flood of bitter-sweet memories returned,–each bend, each tree, each rock, and the bridge over the Mizzy held a different recollection. Here at this turn she had first met Ray, after her resolve to leave Greenvale. At the next landmark, a lane crossing the meadows, she had always parted from her teacher, the last time in tears. And how long, long ago it all seemed!
Then beyond, and barely visible, was the dear old schoolhouse. She could see it now, half hid in the bushes, a lone and lowly little brown building outlined on the winter landscape and apparently dwarfed in size. Once it had awed her; now it seemed pathetic.
The last of its pupils were vanishing as Chip drew near, and inside, and as lonely as that lone temple, Miss Phinney still lingered.
That day had not gone well with her. A note of complaint had come from one parent that morning, and news that a dearly loved scholar was ill as well, and Miss Phinney’s own life seemed like the fields just now–cold, desolate, and snow-covered.
And then while she, thus lone and lonesome, was putting away books, slates, ink-bottles, and all the badges of her servitude, Chip, without knocking, walked in.
How they first exclaimed, then embraced, then kissed, and then repeated it while each tried to wink the tears away, and failed; how they sat hand in hand in that dingy, smoke-browned room with its knife-hacked benches, unconscious of the chill, while Chip told her story; and how, just as the last rays of the setting sun flashed from the icicles along its eaves, they left it, still hand in hand,was but an episode such as many a schoolgirl can recall.
Of the few friends Greenvale held for Chip, none seemed quite so near and dear as Miss Phinney, and none lived longer in her memory. They had been for many months not teacher and pupil, but rather two sisters, confiding, patient, and tender. Life swept them apart. They might never meet again, and yet, so long as both lived, never would those school days be forgotten.
With Sunday came Chip’s most gratifying experience, perhaps, for her arrival was now known by the entire village and the fact that she was an heiress as well. Her fortune (also known) was considered almost fabulous according to Greenvale standards, and when Chip with Angie entered the church porch, it was crowded with people waiting to receive them. Chip, of course, now well clad and well poised, was once more the cynosure of all eyes except when the pastor prayed. At the close of service a score, most of whom she knew by sight only, waited to greet her and shake hands with her in the porch. The parson hurried down the aisle to add his smile and hand clasp, and, all in all, it was a most gratifying reception.
And here and now, let no carping critic say it wasall due to that bank account, but rather a country town’s expression of respect and good-will toward one whom they felt deserved it.
That it all pleased Angie, goes without saying. That Chip well deserved this vindication, no one will question; and when her visit ended and she departed, no one, not even Miss Phinney, missed her more than Angie.
Only one thread of regret wove itself into Chip’s feelings as she rode away with Uncle Joe, whose horses were now decked properly for this important event. She had received a most cordial reception on all sides–almost a triumph of good-will. Her gifts had brought an oft-repeated chorus of thanks and a few tears. On all sides and among all she had been welcome, even receiving a call and words of praise from Parson Jones. She was anobodyno longer; instead, asomebodywhom all delighted to honor and commend.
But the one whose motherly pride would have been most gratified, she for whom Chip’s heart yearned for oftenest, would never know it.
Withthe birds and flowers once more returning to Christmas Cove, came outdoor freedom for Chip again. Like the wood-nymph she was in character and taste, the wild, rock-bound coast outside and the low, wooded mountain enclosing this village were her playgrounds where she found companionship. Other associates she cared but little for, and a few hours alone on a wave-washed shore, watching the wild ocean billows tossing spray aloft, or a long ramble in a deep, silent forest, appealed to her far more than parties and girlish enjoyments.
The wood-bordered road, leading from the village to the railroad ten miles away, was now a favorite walk of hers. It was suited to her in many ways, for it was seldom travelled; it followed the sunny side of the low mountain range back of Christmas Cove, not a house stood along its entire way, and to add charm, a brook kept it company, crossing and recrossing it for two miles. That feature was the most especial attraction, for beds of watercress waved beneath the limpid waters in deep pools,bunches of flag grew along its banks, their blue flowers bending to kiss the current; its ripples danced in the sunlight; its music was a tinkling melody, and these simple attractions appealed to Chip.
There was also another reason for now choosing this byway walk. She knew, or felt sure, that Ray would visit Christmas Cove on his return from the woods. He must come in the old carryall,–about the only vehicle ever journeying along this road,–and now, like a brownie of the forest, she watched until she spied it afar and then hid in the bushes and peeped out until it passed each day.
A curious and somewhat complex feeling toward this young man had also come to her. At first, like a child, she had loved him unasked. She had known no different. He had seemed like a young god to her, and to cling to him was supreme happiness. Then had come an awakening, a consciousness that this freedom was not right and must be checked. Following that also–a bitter lesson–it had come to her that she was a kind of outcast, a child of shame, as it were, whose origin was despicable, and who was dependent upon the charity of others. This awakening, this new consciousness, was like a black chasm in front of her, a horror andshame combined, and true to her nature, she fled from it like one pursued.
But two years had changed her views of humanity. She had learned that money and social position did not always win friends and respect. That birth and ancestry were of less consideration than a pure mind and honest intentions, and that fine raiment sometimes covered a base heart and vile nature.
Toward this boyish lover, also, her feelings had been altered. A little of the old-time fondness remained, however. She could not put that away. She had tried and tried earnestly, yet the wildwood illusion still lingered. She had meant, also, to put him and herself quite apart–so far, and in such a way, that she would never be found by him. That had failed, however; he knew where she was. He had said that he was coming here. Most likely he would expect to renew the old tender relations; but in that he would be disappointed. She was sure she would be glad to see him for old times’ sake, however. She would be gracious and dignified, as Aunt Abby was. She wanted to hear all about the woods and Old Cy again, but caresses must be forbidden. More than that, every time she recalled how freely she had permitted them once, she blushed and felt that it would be an effort to look him in the face again.
But she was anxious to see how he would appear now: whether the same boy, with frank, open face, or a commanding, self-possessed man.
And so each pleasant afternoon she strolled up this byway road. When the ancient carryall was sighted, she hid and watched until it passed.
But Captain Mix, its driver, also had observing eyes. He knew her now as far as he could see her, as every one in the village did, and he soon noticed her unusual conduct. He also watched along the wayside where she left it, and slyly observed her peeping out from some thicket. Just why this odd proceeding happened time and again, he could not guess, and not until a strange young man alighted from the train one day and asked to be left at the home of Mrs. Abby Bemis, did it dawn on him.
Then he laughed. “Friend o’ Aunt Abby, I ’spose?” he inquired in his Yankee fashion, after they had started.
“No,” answered Ray, frankly, “I have never seen the lady. I know some one who is living with her, however. A Miss Mc–Raymond, I mean.”
Captain Mix glanced at him, his eyes twinkling. “So ye’re ’quainted with Vera, be ye,” he responded. “Wal, ye’re lucky.” Then as curiosity grew he added, “Known her quite a spell, hev ye?”
But Ray was discreet. “Oh, three or four years,” he answered nonchalantly. “I knew her when she lived in Greenvale.” Then to check the stage-driver’s curiosity, he added, “She was only a little girl, then. I presume she has changed since.”
“She’s a purty good-lookin’ gal now,” asserted Captain Mix, “but middlin’ odd in her ways. Not much on gallivantin’ round wi’ young folks, but goin’ to school stiddy ’n’ roamin’ round the woods when she ain’t. Purty big gal to be goin’ to school she is. I callate her arly eddication must ’a’ been sorter neglected. Mebbe ye know ’bout it,” and once more this persistent Yankee glanced at his companion.
But Ray was too loyal to the little girl he loved to discuss her further, and made no answer. Instead, he began inquiries about Christmas Cove, and as they jogged on mile after mile, he learned all that was to be known of that quiet village. When they had reached a point some three miles from it, a kindly thought came to the driver.
“If Vera ain’t ’spectin’ ye,” he said, “mebbe ye’d like to s’prise her. If so be it, ye kin. She’s ’most allus out this way ’n’, curislike, hides ’fore I get ’long whar she is. If I see her to-day, ’n’ ye want to, I’ll drop ye clus by ’n’ let ye.”
And so it came to pass.
Chip, as usual, had followed her oft-taken walk on this pleasant May afternoon. When the carryall was sighted also, as usual, she had hidden herself. With beating heart she saw two occupants this time, and looking out of her laurel screen, she saw that one was Ray.
Then she crouched lower. The moment she had waited for had come.
But now something unexpected happened, for after the carryall passed her hiding spot, Ray, brown and stalwart, leaped out. The carryall drove on, and she saw him returning and scanning the bushes.
She was caught, fairly and squarely. One instant she hesitated, then, blushing rose-red, emerged from the undergrowth.
And now came another capture, for with a “Chip, my darling,” Ray sprang forward, and although she turned away, the next moment she was clasped in his arms.
In vain she struggled. In vain she writhed and twisted. In vain she pushed him away and then covered her blushing face.
Love, fierce and eager, could not be thus opposed. All her pride, anger, resentment, shame, and intended coldness were as so many straws, for despite herstruggles, he pulled her hands aside and kissed her again and again.
“My darling,” he exclaimed at last, “say you forgive me; say you love me; say it now!”
Then, as she drew away, he saw her eyes were brimming with tears.
“I won’t,” she said, “I hate–” but his lips cut the sentence in two, and it was never finished.
“I did mean to hate you,” she declared once more, covering her face, “but I–I can’t.”
“No, you can’t,” he asserted eagerly, “for I won’t let you. You promised to love me once, and now you’ve got to, for life.”
And she did.
When the outburst of emotion had subsided and they strolled homeward, Chip glanced shyly up at her lover.
“Why did you pounce on me so?” she queried; “why didn’t you ask me, first?”
“My dear,” he answered, “a wise man kisses the girl first, and asks her afterwards.” Then he repeated the offence.
“I did mean to hate you, but I–I can’t.”
“I did mean to hate you, but I–I can’t.”
And now what a charming summer of sweet illusion and castle-building followed for the lovers! How Aunt Abby smiled benignly upon them, quite content to accord ample chance for wooing! How many blissful, dreamy hours they passed on lonely wave-washed cliffs, while the marvel of love was discussed! How its wondrous magic opened a new world whose walks were flower-decked, whose sky was ever serene, where lilies bloomed, birds sang, sea winds whispered of time and eternity, and where Chip was an adored queen! How all the shame and humiliation of her past life faded away and joy supreme entered on the azure and golden wings of this new morning! Even Old Cy was almost forgotten; the spites, Old Tomah, and Tim’s Place quite so; and all hope, all joy, all protection, and all her future centred in the will and wishes of this Prince Perfect.
“Blind and foolish,” I hear some fair critic say. Yes, more than that, almost idiotic; for selfish man never pursues unless forced to do so, and an object of worship once possessed, is but a summer flower.
“A man’ll hev all the friends he kin keer for if he tends to his own knittin’ work.”–Old Cy Walker.
Quitedifferent from the meeting of the lovers was that which occurred when Old Cy reached Peaceful Valley. There were no heroics, no falling upon one another’s necks, no tears. Just a “Hullo, Cyrus!” “Hullo, Judson!” as these two brothers clasped hands, and forty years were bridged.
Aunt Mandy, however, showed more emotion, for when Old Cy rather awkwardly stooped to kiss her, the long ago of Sister Abby’s sorrow welled up in her heart, and the tears came.
That evening’s reunion, with its two life histories to be exchanged, did not close until the tall clock had ticked time into the wee, small hours.
All of Old Cy’s almost marvellous adventures had to be told by him, and not the least interesting were the last few years at the wilderness home of the hermit. Chip’s entry into it and her history formed another chapter fully as thrilling, with Uncle Jud’s rescue of her for adénouement.
The most pathetic feature of this intermingled history–the years while sweet Abby Grey waited and watched for her lover–was left untold. Only once was it referred to by Aunt Mandy, in an indirect way; but the quick lowering of Old Cy’s eyes and the shadow that overspread his face, checked her at once. Almost intuitively she realized its unwisdom, and that it was a sorrow best not referred to.
Old Cy evidently felt it a subject to avoid, and not until the next day did he even ask how Aunt Abby looked or what had been her life experiences. A little of this reticence wore away in due time, however, and then Aunt Mandy once more referred to her sister.
“I kinder feel you blame Abby somehow, Cyrus, the way you act,” she said, “and yet thar ain’t no cause for it. She’d waited ’most seven years. We’d all given you up for dead, and life in Christmas Cove wa’n’t promisin’ much for Abby.”
“I don’t blame her a mite,” Old Cy answered quickly, “an’ no need o’ yer thinkin’ so. I don’t blame no woman fer makin’ the best shift they kin. They’ve got to hev a home ’n’ pertecter, bless ’em, or be nobody in this world. Comin’ here and findin’ how things are, sorter makes me realize how much I’ve missed in life, though, an’ how much sorrer I’vehad to outgrow. I don’t lay up nothin’ ’gainst Abby, not fer a minit. Only I hated to hev ye tell me what I knew ye’d hev to, that fust night.”
“But you’re goin’ to see her, ain’t ye, Cyrus?” Aunt Mandy asked anxiously. “Ye won’t shame her by not goin’, will ye?”
“Wal, mebbe,” he answered slowly, and after a long pause. “I wouldn’t want to hurt her knowin’ly. I callate I’ve done more grievin’n she has, though, ten times over, an’ seein’ her now’s a good deal like openin’ an old tomb–a sorter invitin’ ghosts o’ old heartaches to step out. Abby’s outgrowed the old times, ’n’ I’m sartin, too, won’t be the happier by seein’ me ag’in. I may be wrong, but I’ve a notion she’ll sorter hate to see me. ’Twas to keep her from feelin’ ’shamed ’n’ miserable ’n’ spoilin’ her life, I’ve never let her nor nobody that knew her find out I was alive. I’m doubtin’ I would now if she hadn’t larned it from Chip.”
He relented a little from this strange and almost cruel whim a week later, and after visiting the Riggsville store and obtaining what really amounted to a disguise in new garments, he announced his plans.
“I’ve got to see Chip,” he said, “an’ see how she ’n’ Ray’s gittin’ on. I’ve got to see Abby, I s’pose. I want to, an’ I don’t want to, both in one. Thenag’in, these two young folks–Chip ’n’ the boy–hev sorter got tangled up in my feelin’s, ’n’ I can’t rest content till I’ve seen ’em settled in life. I’m goin’ to Christmas Cove fer a day. Then back here till they hitch up, ’n’ then–wal, then mebbe I’d better go to the woods ag’in. I ain’t fitted by natur fer dressed-up folks.”
No opposition to this unseemly outcome was made by Uncle Jud or Aunt Mandy. They knew, or hoped, the leaven of bygone memories and association would change the hermit-like impulse of Old Cy, and all in good time a better ending of his life would seem possible to him. To argue it now was apparently useless. A man so set in his ideas as to remain a homeless wanderer for almost a lifetime, was not to be changed in a month, or perhaps in a year.
Neither did Old Cy seem in a hurry to visit Christmas Cove.
“I don’t look nat’ral or feel nat’ral in them new clothes,” he said to Aunt Mandy one day, “an’ while I want to see Abby, I’ve lived in the woods so long I’m sorter ’shamed to go ’mongst respectable people. Then I look like one o’ them wooden men dressed up in a store winder with that new rig on, an’ jest know folks’ll all be laughin’ at me. I’ve got to go, I callate, but I’d like to make the trip in a cage.I’m sartin sure Abby’ll laugh at me arterwards.” From which it may be seen how hard it was for Old Cy to fit himself into civilized life once more.
He nerved himself for the trip to Christmas Cove in a few days, however, and how he met and renewed acquaintance with his old-time sweetheart shall be told in his own words.
“Abby hain’t changed near so much as I callated,” he said on his return; “a leetle fuller in figger, but jest the same easy-spoken, sweet sorter woman I always knew she’d be. She was ’lone when I called, an’ fer a minit arter we shook hands neither on us could speak ag’in. Then she kinder bit her lip ’n’ swallered her feelin’s, keepin’ her face turned away, an’ then we sot down ’n’ begun talkin’. It was techin’, too, the way she acted, fer she kept tryin’ to smile, ’n’ all the while the tears kept startin’. It was like one o’ them summer days when the rain patters while the sun is shinin’. I don’t think she noticed my clothes much, either, an’ we sot up till ’most midnight talkin’ over old times. It all turned out ’bout the way I ’spected–a sorter funeral o’ old hopes with us two fer mourners. She’s powerful considerate, too, Abby is, for all the time we was talkin’ she never once spoke o’ Cap’n Bemis, ’n’ I didn’t. It was jest ez if we started in whar we leftoff, ’n’ skippin’ the gap between. She ’lowed she hoped she’d see me soon ag’in, that she felt like a mother to Chip; an’ when I bid her good-bye, she kinder choked once more.
“I didn’t see much o’ Chip, either, which sorter hurt me. Take it all in all, my visit thar upsot me more’n I callated, ’n’ I guess when Chip’s settled, I’d best go to the woods ’n’ forgit all that’s past. My life’s been a failure, anyway.”
And Old Cy was right; but it was grim and merciless Fate that made it so, and for that he was not responsible.
Love in youth is a sweet song of joy and hope and promise. But love that spans a lifetime, that reaches and caresses our heartstrings once again as we enter the final shadows, has only the pathos of parting and the tender chords of almost forgotten melodies in it. Vainly do we strive to enter the enchanted garden once more. Vainly do our heart throbs beat against its adamant walls. Vainly do we hope to catch just one more of the old bygone thrills. It is useless, for none can live life over, and once age has locked the portals of youth and fervor, they are never opened again.
WithSeptember came a supreme event in the lives of Chip and Ray, when Mr. and Mrs. Frisbie, Aunt Comfort, Miss Phinney and Hannah, Uncle Jud and Aunt Mandy, and Old Cy, all gathered in Aunt Abby’s quaint parlor to see her aged pastor join their hands and lives. Then came the kisses, the congratulations, the rice, and old-shoe throwing, and then solitude and tears for Aunt Abby. All the wedding guests except Old Cy hied themselves away with the new pair, and he left for Bayport.
And thus closes the history of Chip McGuire, waif of the wilderness and slave of Tim’s Place.
Bless her!
Two days later Old Cy returned.
No one was in the house when he knocked at Aunt Abby’s door, and then, led perhaps by the invisible chord that spanned forty years, he slowly strolled up the path beside the old mill-pond, which he and she had often followed in the old, old days.
His heart had led him aright, for there, at the footof the ancient oak that had once been their trysting-place, she sat.
“I thought I’d come over ’n’ bid ye good-bye, Abby,” he said gently, as she arose to meet him. “I’ve been doin’ a good deal o’ biddin’ good-bye to-day. I bid good-bye to the old graveyard whar my folks is; it’s all growed up to weeds ’n’ bushes, I’m sorry to say. But that can’t be helped. It’s the way o’ natur. I’ve been down to the p’int whar you ’n’ I used to go, an’ I bid that good-bye,” he added, seating himself near her. “Ye ’member it, don’t ye, Abby, ’n’ them days when we went thar to watch the waves?”
“I do, Cyrus,” she answered, her voice trembling. “I remember all the old days only too well.”
“They all come back to me, too,” he continued in a lower tone, “an’ I wish I could skip back to ’em, but I can’t. I’m an old man now, an’ no use to nobody, ’n’ not much to myself. I’ve been a wanderer many years–ye know why, Abby. I’ve had a short spell o’ joy, kinder helpin’ this boy ’n’ gal into sunshine ’n’ a home. They’ve gone their way now ’n’ sure to forgit me an’ you. It’s nat’ral they should, ’n’ all that’s left me is to go back to the woods ’n’ stay.”
He paused a moment, glancing up the narrowpond to where it ended in shadow, and then continued: “It’s curis, Abby, how life begins with how-de-do’s ’n’ smilin’ friends ’n’ cheerin’ prospects, ’n’ then ends with good-byes ’n’ bein’ forgot. It’s what we must callate on, though, an’ a good deal like a graveyard is left to weeds and bushes.”
Once more he paused, closed his eyes, and remained silent for a time.
“Wal, I might as well be goin’,” he said finally, rising and extending his hand, “so good-bye, Abby. I wish ye well in life.”
“But is there any need of it?” she answered, turning her face to hide the tears as his hand clasped hers.
“Why, no, only to fergit my sorrer,” he answered; “I can’t do it here.”
“But who will care for you there–at last–and–must you go?” Then she turned to him again.
And then he saw, not the gentle, saddened face upraised to his, but the tender face of sweet Abby Grey of the long, long ago.
“Must you leave us–me?” she whispered once again.
“Wal, mebbe not,” he answered.
THE END
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TO HAVE AND TO HOLD
It was something new and startling to see an author’s first novel sell up into the hundreds of thousands, as did this one. The ablest critics spoke of it in such terms as “Breathless interest,” “The high water mark of American fiction since Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” “Surpasses all,” “Without a rival,” “Tender and delicate,” “As good a story of adventure as one can find,” “The best style of love story, clean, pure and wholesome.”
AUDREY
With the brilliant imagination and the splendid courage of youth, she has stormed the very citadel of adventure. Indeed it would be impossible to carry the romantic spirit any deeper into fiction.–Agnes Repplier.
PRISONERS OF HOPE
Pronounced by the critics classical, accurate, interesting, American, original, vigorous, full of movement and life, dramatic and fascinating, instinct with life and passion, and preserving throughout a singularly even level of excellence.
Each volume handsomely bound in cloth. Large 12 mo. size. Price, 75 cents per volume, postpaid.
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GROSSET & DUNLAP EDITIONS
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Mingles the romance of the forest with the romance of man’s heart, making a story that is big and elemental, while not lacking in sweetness and tenderness. It is an epic of the life of the lumbermen of the great forest of the Northwest, permeated by out of door freshness, and the glory of the struggle with nature.
THE SILENT PLACES
A powerful story of strenuous endeavor and fateful privation in the frozen North, embodying also a detective story of much strength and skill. The author brings out with sure touch and deep understanding the mystery and poetry of the still, frost-bound forest.
THE CLAIM JUMPERS
A tale of a Western mining camp and the making of a man, with which a charming young lady has much to do. The tenderfoot has a hard time of it, but meets the situation, shows the stuff he is made of, and “wins out.”
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THE GROSSET & DUNLAP EDITIONS OF STANDARD WORKSA FULL AND COMPLETE EDITION OF TENNYSON’S POEMS.Containing all the Poems issued under the protection of copyright. Cloth bound, small 8 vo. 882 pages, with index to first lines. Price, postpaid, seventy-five cents. The same, bound in three-quarter morocco, gilt top, $2.50, postpaid.THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON AND HER TIMES, by Mrs. Roger A. Pryor.The brilliant social life of the time passes before the reader, packed full of curious and delightful information. More kinds of interest enter into it than into any other volume on Colonial Virginia. Sixty illustrations. Price, seventy-five cents, postpaid.SHAKESPEARE’S ENGLAND, by William Winter.A record of rambles in England, relating largely to Warwickshire and depicting not so much the England of fact, as the England created and hallowed by the spirit of her poetry, of which Shakespeare is the soul. Profusely illustrated. Price, seventy-five cents, postpaid.THEODORE ROOSEVELT THE CITIZEN, by Jacob A. Riis.Should be read by every man and boy in America. Because it sets forth an ideal of American Citizenship. An Inspired Biography by one who knows him best. A large, handsomely illustrated cloth bound book. Price, postpaid, seventy-five cents.GROSSET & DUNLAP,Publishers52 DUANE STREET :: :: NEW YORK
THE GROSSET & DUNLAP EDITIONS OF STANDARD WORKS
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Containing all the Poems issued under the protection of copyright. Cloth bound, small 8 vo. 882 pages, with index to first lines. Price, postpaid, seventy-five cents. The same, bound in three-quarter morocco, gilt top, $2.50, postpaid.
THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON AND HER TIMES, by Mrs. Roger A. Pryor.
The brilliant social life of the time passes before the reader, packed full of curious and delightful information. More kinds of interest enter into it than into any other volume on Colonial Virginia. Sixty illustrations. Price, seventy-five cents, postpaid.
SHAKESPEARE’S ENGLAND, by William Winter.
A record of rambles in England, relating largely to Warwickshire and depicting not so much the England of fact, as the England created and hallowed by the spirit of her poetry, of which Shakespeare is the soul. Profusely illustrated. Price, seventy-five cents, postpaid.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT THE CITIZEN, by Jacob A. Riis.
Should be read by every man and boy in America. Because it sets forth an ideal of American Citizenship. An Inspired Biography by one who knows him best. A large, handsomely illustrated cloth bound book. Price, postpaid, seventy-five cents.
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THE GROSSET AND DUNLAP SPECIAL EDITIONS OFPOPULAR NOVELS THAT HAVE BEEN DRAMATIZED.BREWSTER’S MILLIONS: By George Barr McCutcheon.A clever, fascinating tale, with a striking and unusual plot. With illustrations from the original New York production of the play.THE LITTLE MINISTER: By J. M. Barrie.With illustrations from the play as presented by Maude Adams, and a vignette in gold of Miss Adams on the cover.CHECKERS: By Henry M. Blossom, Jr.A story of the Race Track. Illustrated with scenes from the play as originally presented in New York by Thomas W. Ross who created the stage character.THE CHRISTIAN: By Hall Caine.THE ETERNAL CITY: By Hall Caine.Each has been elaborately and successfully staged.IN THE PALACE OF THE KING: By F. Marion Crawford.A love story of Old Madrid, with full page illustrations. Originally played with great success by Viola Allen.JANICE MEREDITH: By Paul Leicester Ford.New edition with an especially attractive cover, a really handsome book. Originally played by Mary Mannering, who created the title role.These books are handsomely bound in cloth, are well-made in every respect, and aside from their unusual merit as stories, are particularly interesting to those who like things theatrical. Price, postpaid, seventy-five cents each.GROSSET & DUNLAP,Publishers52 DUANE STREET :: :: NEW YORK
THE GROSSET AND DUNLAP SPECIAL EDITIONS OFPOPULAR NOVELS THAT HAVE BEEN DRAMATIZED.
BREWSTER’S MILLIONS: By George Barr McCutcheon.
A clever, fascinating tale, with a striking and unusual plot. With illustrations from the original New York production of the play.
THE LITTLE MINISTER: By J. M. Barrie.
With illustrations from the play as presented by Maude Adams, and a vignette in gold of Miss Adams on the cover.
CHECKERS: By Henry M. Blossom, Jr.
A story of the Race Track. Illustrated with scenes from the play as originally presented in New York by Thomas W. Ross who created the stage character.
THE CHRISTIAN: By Hall Caine.
THE ETERNAL CITY: By Hall Caine.
Each has been elaborately and successfully staged.
IN THE PALACE OF THE KING: By F. Marion Crawford.
A love story of Old Madrid, with full page illustrations. Originally played with great success by Viola Allen.
JANICE MEREDITH: By Paul Leicester Ford.
New edition with an especially attractive cover, a really handsome book. Originally played by Mary Mannering, who created the title role.
These books are handsomely bound in cloth, are well-made in every respect, and aside from their unusual merit as stories, are particularly interesting to those who like things theatrical. Price, postpaid, seventy-five cents each.
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