“The biggest fool thing–an’ we all do it–is shakin’ hands with trouble ’fore ye meet it.”–Old Cy Walker.
Fortwo months life at Birch Camp much resembled that of a woodchuck or a squirrel. Now and then a day came when the crusted snow permitted a gum-gathering trip into the forest, or a few midday hours at ice-fishing; and never were the first signs of spring more welcome than to those winter-bound prisoners. The wise counsel and patient example of Old Cy had not been lost upon Ray, either; and that winter’s experience had changed him to an almost marvellous degree. He was no longer a moody and selfish boy, thinking only of his own privations, but more of a man, who realized that he had duties and obligations toward others, as well as himself.
With the returning sun and vanishing snow, animal life was once more astir, and a short season of trapping was again entered upon, and mingled with that a few days more of gum-gathering. It was brief and at a disadvantage, for ice still coveredthe lake, and until that disappeared no use of the canoes could be made.
Once well under way, however, spring returned with speed, the brooks began to overflow, the lake to rise, and one morning, instead of a white expanse of watery ice, it was a blue and rippled lake once more.
And now plans for Ray’s return to Greenvale were in order, and the sole topic of discussion. He was as eager as a boy anxious for the close of school, and for a double reason, which is self-evident.
It was agreed that Old Cy and himself should make the trip out together in two canoes, and convey their stores of gum and firs. At the settlement these were to be packed, to await later sale and shipment. Old Cy would then return to camp, and Ray would go on to Greenvale.
A change in this plan came in an unexpected manner, however, for a few days before the one set for departure, Old Cy, always on watch, saw a canoe enter the lake, and who should appear but Levi, Martin’s old guide.
“I’ve been cookin’ up at a lumber camp on the Moosehorn,” he explained, after greetings had been exchanged, “an’ I thought I would make a trip up here an’ call on ye ’fore I went out.”
How welcome he was, and how all, even Amzi, of those winter-bound prisoners vied with each other in making him the guest of honor, need not be asserted. He had been a part of their life here the previous summer, with all its joys and dangers, and now seemed one of them.
When mutual experiences and their winter’s history had been exchanged, of course Chip’s rescue, the half-breed’s escape, and the whereabouts of her father came up for discussion that evening.
“I’ve heard from Tim’s Place two or three times this winter,” said Levi, “an’ neither Pete nor old McGuire has been seen or heard on since early last fall. Pete got thar all safe, but vowed revenge on McGuire, as Martin and I found, when we went out. He stayed round a week or so, I heard later, and then started for his cabin on the Fox Hole, ’n’ since then hain’t never been seen or heard of by nobody. Tim an’ Mike went over to his cabin ’long in the winter, but no signs of him was found, or even of his bein’ thar since snow came. McGuire also seems to hev dropped out o’ business and ain’t been heard on since in the summer. We’ve expected him all winter at the lumber camp, but he didn’t show up.”
“We’ve seen him,” put in Old Cy, flashing a smile at Ray, “leastwise I callated ’twas him, though I never let on to that effect. He was trappin’ over beyond a big swamp last fall, ’n’ he paid us a visit, stole a half-dozen o’ our catches ’n’ left his trade-mark on our canoe.” And then Old Cy told the story of their adventure, omitting, however, any reference to the supposed cave.
“It’s curis what has become o’ him,” Levi said, when the tale was told, “and our camp crowd all believe that thar’s been foul play, with Pete at the bottom on’t. Nobody’s shed any tears, though, an’ I’m thinkin’ the woods is well rid o’ him. He’s been a terror to everybody long enough.”
Much more of this backwoods gossip and change of experience filled in the evening, and next morning Old Cy gave Ray a word of caution.
“I kept whist ’bout our findin’ what we callated was a cave,” he said, “an’ I want you to. This matter o’ McGuire and the half-breed ain’t blowed over yit, an’ we don’t want to git mixed up in it. Ez fer the cave, if we ’lowed we found one, the folks at Tim’s Place ’ud go huntin’ fer it, sure, ’n’ I’ve my reasons for not wantin’ they should go. So mum’s the word to Levi ’bout it.”
Levi’s arrival, however, changed their plans,for he at once offered to convoy Ray out of the woods, thus relieving Old Cy, and three days later these two, with well-laden canoes, started on the out-going journey.
It was not without incident, for when the main stream was reached, it was dotted with floating logs and the red-shirted drivers with the bateaux and spike shoes were in evidence. A monster jam was met at the first rapid, the bags of gum nuts, bundles of firs, and canoes had to be carried around it, and when Tim’s Place was reached, a score of the good-natured woodsmen were in possession.
Levi discreetly avoided all questions as to what Tim knew of Chip, her father, or the half-breed. Ray’s lips were also sealed, and so both escaped much questioning. Here, also, they learned what both had guessed–that McGuire and Pete had either left the wilderness or had perished that winter. Where and how, if such was the case, no one seemed to know or care, and a close observer would have said that every one at Tim’s Place hoped that these two outlaws had met their fate.
Old Tomah was also found at Tim’s Place, and he was undeniably glad to see both Ray and Levi, and to learn that Chip was likely to be well cared for.
When these two voyagers were ready to start, he joined and kept with them until the settlement was reached. Knowing full well the value of gum and furs, he soon found a purchaser for Ray’s store and stock at its full value; and when that youth, now elated as never before, was ready to start for Greenvale, this fine old Indian showed almost a white man’s emotion.
“Take this to little girl,” he said, handing Ray a package, “and tell her Old Tomah not forget. He hope she come back to see him soon.”
“Tell Mr. Frisbie I shall be here, waitin’ to meet him, when he sends word,” Levi said; and shaking hands with both of his good friends, Ray now bade them good-by with many thanks for all they had done.
Of his homeward trip and all the charming anticipations now his, no mention need be made. They are but the flowers wisely strewn in the pathway of youth, and Ray–now more a man than when he entered the woods–full well deserved all that lay before him.
But Old Tomah’s heart was sad, and far away beside a rippled lake was another who felt the same.
“When ye see two hearts tryin’ to beat ez one, gin ’em the chance.”–Old Cy Walker.
Chip’ssuccess and popularity in Greenvale was practically nullified by Hannah, who from wounded vanity and petty jealousy became her enemy from the outset.
Aunt Comfort did not know it. Angie was not conscious of the facts, or, busy with her own social duties and home-making, gave them no thought. And yet, inspired by Hannah’s malicious tongue, Greenvale looked upon poor Chip as one it was best to avoid.
With Angie as sponsor, she had been made one of the Christmas church decorators, and had been twice invited to parties, only to exasperate Hannah all the more and cause an increase of sneers.
“She’s nobody an’ an upstart,” Hannah said at the first meeting of the village sewing circle after Chip’s advent, “an’ I’ve my doubts about her father an’ mother ever bein’ married. Then she’s an infiddle an’ believes in Injun sperrits an’hobgoblin things she calls spites, an’ is a reg’lar heathen. I don’t trust her a minit, an’ never leave the house ’thout I lock up my things.”
Much more of this sort fell from Hannah’s lips whenever occasion offered, though never within hearing of Aunt Comfort or Angie. Neither did the townspeople enlighten them, and so the undercurrent of innuendo and gossip, once started by Hannah, spread until all Greenvale looked askance at Chip.
There was also some color for this ill repute, for Angie had concealed nothing, and Chip, foolishly perhaps, had asserted her belief when it would have been better to conceal it.
The parson also, chagrined at his failure to make a convert of the girl, referred to her as “rebellious, obstinate in her ideas, and one who needed chastening.”
Her teacher, however, was her stanch friend. Aunt Comfort beamed upon her morning and night, while Angie, having provided her with home, raiment, opportunity for schooling, escort to church, and much good advice, felt that she had fulfilled her duty. And in a way, she had.
But social recognition in a country village can be made or marred by such a person as Hannah, and quite unknown to those most interested,Chip’s popularity was not decreed. Neither was she conscious of this undercurrent. Each day she went to and returned from school in a sturdy sort of way. A most devoted pupil, she never failed to thank her teacher for every word of help, and if–thanks to Hannah–she failed to make friends about the village, she won a place near to Aunt Comfort’s heart.
But somehow Aunt Comfort, who loved everybody alike, good or bad, or at least spoke no ill of the bad ones, didn’t count. That she must inevitably take Chip under her motherly wing, all recognized. She had taken Hannah, then Angie and Nezer, and now this waif who, as Hannah insisted, was all bad; and according to Greenvale’s belief, Aunt Comfort would keep on “taking in” homeless waifs and outcast mortals as long as she lived, or house room held out. And it was true.
By midwinter Martin’s new house was all furnished, and social obligations began to interest Angie, which made matters all the worse for Chip, for now Hannah could persecute her with less danger of exposure.
But Chip was hard to persecute. She had known adversity in its worst form. Her life at Tim’s Place had been practical slavery, and theworst that Hannah could do was as pin pricks compared to it.
It is certain, also, if Chip had “spunked up,” as Hannah would call it, now and then, it would have been better for her; but it wasn’t Chip’s way. To work and suffer in silence had been her lot at Tim’s Place. Angie had said, “You must obey everybody and make friends,” and impelled by experience, and this somewhat broad order, Chip was doing her best.
One hope cheered her all that long, hard winter of monotonous study–the return of Ray, and possibly Old Cy, when summer came. Somehow these two had knit themselves into her life as no one else had or could. Then she wondered how Ray would seem to and feel toward her when he came, and if the little bond–a wondrous strong one, as far as her feelings went–would still call him to her side.
Of love and its real meaning she was scarce conscious as yet. She simply felt that this youth with his sunny face and brown eyes was the one being on earth she wished to please. All the romance and pathos of that summer idyl, all the moonlight and canoeing, all the songs he had charmed her with, and every word and act of his from that first evening when, ragged and starving, she hadstumbled into the camp, until she had parted from him with misty eyes, had been lived over by her countless times.
It had all been a beacon of hope to her in the uphill road toward the temple of learning; and how hard she had studied, and how patiently she had tried to correct her own speech, not even her teacher guessed.
Few of us can see ourselves as others see us, and yet Chip, mature of mind as one just entering womanhood, realized somewhat her own condition. Perhaps, also, she was conscious in some degree as to why she was not more popular, but that was a matter of scant interest to her. All she wished and all she strove for was to learn what others knew, speak as others spoke, and act as they acted; and all for one end and purpose–to win favor in the eyes of Ray.
And so no one, not even Hannah, whose prying eyes saw all things, guessed her secret.
A little of gall and bitterness was now and then meted out to Hannah in return for all her sneers, for Chip’s teacher occasionally spent an evening at Aunt Comfort’s, and every word of praise she let fall for her pupil was a thorn to Hannah. But she revenged herself, as might be expected.
“I think that Injun gal’s a witch,” she said once to her bosom friend after one of these unpleasant evenings, “the way she pulls wool over Miss Phinney’s eyes by pretending she’s so anxious to learn. You’d think to hear her go on that learnin’ was all she was livin’ for, and her teacher almost an angel. I think Angie must ’a’ ben spellbound the same way when she fetched her here to crowd out her betters.”
But Chip, fortunately, was still unconscious of the extent and injury of Hannah’s malice.
With the coming of springtime and green grass, life for Chip assumed a more smiling face, for now she could fly to the hillsides, and for the time being imagine herself at the lake once more. Somehow Greenvale as a whole had impressed her as cold and unloving, and to escape it was a relief. Her teacher was dear to her, Aunt Comfort a kindly mother, Angie a good friend; but none were kin to her and never could be, as she more and more realized.
Then, too, poor Chip, in spite of Tim’s Place, was growing homesick for the wilderness again; or, to be more accurate, for the little lake where her heart had been touched by the wand of love.
With some insight into books and a developingmind came a keener sensitiveness, and what people thought of her and how they felt toward her became of more consequence. Her life was simple. She rose early, assisted as a housemaid in Aunt Comfort’s home, departed at a set time for school with its six hours of almost unbroken study, and, most prized of all, a few moments’ companionship with her teacher. To her Chip had confided all her joys and sorrows and most of her history as well. And be it said to Miss Phinney’s credit, she had discretion and honor enough not to betray Chip’s confidence.
It is also possible, in fact almost certain, that that unfortunate waif’s somewhat pitiful tale had won her teacher’s interest and affection as naught else could. Only one reservation was made by Chip–her own feelings toward Ray. All else became an open book to Miss Phinney.
When school was out, the two walked homeward together as far as their ways permitted, and then Chip obtained the one hour of the day which she felt was quite her own. At first, during the autumn days, she had used it for a scamper through the nutbrown woods. When winter came and it was not too cold, she occasionally visited the mill pond above the village, where, if the conditions were right, all the skating and sliding youth were gathered; andwhen blessed spring returned, it was away to the hills and fields once more.
On Saturdays she seldom left the house, unless sent on an errand, and Sunday became a day of penance.
“I don’t know why folks watch me so much when I go to meetin’,” Chip complained once to her teacher, “but they do, and I don’t like it. I can see now why they did when I first came. I guess they thought I was an Injun, maybe; but what do I do now to make ’em so curious?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind them,” Miss Phinney answered soothingly, “no one intends to annoy you; but it takes a long time for people here to become accustomed to a stranger.”
Miss Phinney dared not tell her pupil that her somewhat wild belief and unquestionably rude origin and early life formed the basis of this curiosity.
And now, when the flowers and birds had once more returned to Greenvale, and Ray might return any day, a little plan that Chip had had in mind for many weeks took shape. She knew Ray must come on the stage, and eager for a sight of his face as only love can make one, she meant to be the first to meet and greet him.
A mile down the village street and beyond the last house was a sharp hilltop. The stage usually reached here about an hour after the close of school, and to this vantage point, where she could hide behind a stone wall, Chip now betook herself each day.
Her plans for meeting her young hero were well considered. She was sure he would, like herself, prefer a seat with Uncle Joe. That important person, whose heart she had won by her admiration of his horses on her arrival, would surely invite her to ride into the village, if he saw her. If he was alone, she would remain hid; but ifsome onewas with him, she would then disclose herself and the coveted invitation and meeting with Ray would follow.
It was a vague, uncertain plan. No one in Greenvale had the remotest idea when Ray would return. Chip only knew that he was expected in the spring. The day, or even week, was a long-range guess. But even that slim chance poor, lonesome, heart-longing Chip would not miss, and so each day at close of school she hurried to her lookout point to watch and wait.
It was a silly, almost hopeless sentinelship, as she knew well enough; but with the dog’s heart that was hers, she would keep her vigil, and like one ofthose dumb brutes, wait weeks, months, ay, years even, for a master coming.
It was mid-April when Chip began her daily watch, and missed no day unless a pelting rain prevented. It was June ere she won her reward, and then one balmy afternoon when she saw the stage afar, there, perched beside Uncle Joe, was–a companion!
How sure that weary, waiting waif was that her heart was not mistaken! How her pulses leaped and thrilled as the slow-moving stage crept up the hill; and how Ray, eager to catch the first glimpse of his native village, saw a winsome, smiling face shaded by a flower-decked hat, peeping at him over a wall, was but a minor episode in the lives of these two; yet one to be recalled many, many times afterward and always with a heartache.
None came to them now, for on the instant Ray saw who was waiting for him he halted the stage, and the next moment he was beside his sweetheart. And Uncle Joe, with the wisdom and sympathy of old age, discreetly averted his face, and said “Go-lang” to his horses, and drove on alone.
“There ain’t but few folks smell woollen quite quick enough.” –Old Cy Walker.
Duringall the long weeks while Chip had awaited her lover’s coming, one hope had been hers–that his return would end all her loneliness and begin a season of the happy, care-free days like those by the lake once more.
And there were many reasons for it.
In this quiet, strictly religious, gossip-loving village, a dependant upon charity, as it were, and with Hannah’s sneers, Chip had slowly but surely learned how little akin she was to them all, and how distrustful they all were of her. This knowledge had come by degrees: first, from the way in which the older pupils at school regarded her, having always kept aloof; then the insistent staring she received each Sunday at church; the somewhat chilly reception she had met in a social way; and lastly, a seeming indifference on Angie’s part. There was no reason for it all, so far as Chip could understand. She walked in the straight and narrow path laid out forher each day, made herself useful between school hours at Aunt Comfort’s, studied hard, thanked Angie for every trifle, and after her first unfortunate experience in defending her belief in spites and Old Tomah’s hobgoblins, she had never referred to them again. But the seeming fact that she was disliked and unwelcome here had slowly forced itself upon her and added to her loneliness.
It was all to end, however, when Ray came. In him or from him she would find a welcome. He knew her as she was, and what she was. He had not been distrustful, but tender and loving, and all clouds and sorrow and all humiliations would fade away when he came.
She had pictured to herself, also, how much they would be together and where; how he would come to Aunt Comfort’s the first evening and tell all about his winter in the wilderness and Old Cy,–all about the trap-setting, gum-gathering, and the deep snows she knew so much about. Maybe he would bring his banjo now and then and play and sing the darky songs she had hummed so many times. Possibly he might come and meet her occasionally on the way home from school; and when vacation came, how many long rambles they would take in the dear old woods, with no such ogre as the half-breed tospoil them. It had all been a rosy-hued dream with her, while she waited his coming. And now he was here!
For the first few moments after he kissed her upraised lips, she could not speak for very joy; and then, as hand in hand they started toward the village, her speech came.
“I’ve been so lonesome,” she said simply, “I’ve counted the days, and come down here to meet you daily, for over a month. I don’t like it here, and nobody likes me, I guess. I’m so glad you’ve come, though. Now I shan’t be lonesome no more. I’ve studied hard, too,” she added, with an accent of pride. “I can read and spell words of six syllables. I’ve ciphered up to decimal fractions, an’ begun grammar.”
“I’m glad to get home, too,” answered Ray, as simply. “It was lonesome in the woods all winter, when we couldn’t tend the traps. But I’ve made a lot of money–’most five hundred dollars–all mine, too. How is everybody?” And so they dropped from sentiment into commonplace.
At the tavern he secured his belongings. At the corner where their ways parted, he bade Chip a light good-by, and with an “I’ll see you soon,” left her.
Her hero had arrived. They had met, kissed aslovers should, and the lonely waiting and watching days were at an end and a new life was to begin for Chip.
Little did she realize what it would mean for her, or how utterly her hopes were to fail.
“He will come to-night,” her heart assured her, and that evening, without a word to Aunt Comfort or Hannah as to whom she expected, she arrayed herself in her one best dress and awaited his expected visit.
And what a propitious and all-favoring evening it was! The June night was balmy. Blooming lilacs and syringas half hid, as well as adorned, the porch of Aunt Comfort’s home. Aunt Comfort had just departed to make a call, Hannah was away at prayer meeting, and “no one nigh to hinder.”
But Chip waited in vain!
The drowsy hum of the Mizzy Falls, up the village street, came to her; the fireflies twinkled amid the dense-growing maples and over the broad meadows; whippoorwills called across the valley; but no lover came to Chip. One, two, almost three hours she waited and watched. Then came Aunt Comfort and Hannah, and heavy-hearted and lonesome once more, poor Chip retired.
At school next day her mind and heart were atwar. The parts of speech and rules of subtraction and division seemed complete chaos, and when homeward bound, she loitered slowly along, hoping Ray would make amends and meet her on the way. But again he failed to appear.
And that night, when alone with Hannah, a worse blow came.
“I heerd young Stetson got back yesterday,” she said, fixing her steely blue eyes on Chip, “an’ you went down the road to meet him. I should think you’d be ’shamed o’ yourself. If you’re callatin’ on settin’ your cap for him, ’twon’t do a mite o’ good. His aunt wouldn’t think o’ havin’ sich an outcast ez you for him–that I can tell ye.”
But not a word of reply came from poor Chip. Such speeches were not new to her, and she had long before ceased to answer them. But this one, from its very truth, hurt more than all others had, and, crushed by it, she stole away out of the house.
No thought that Ray might call came to her. She only wished to escape somewhere, that she might cry away her misery and shame in solitude.
The evening was but a repetition of the previous one. The same sweet influence and silvered light was all about, but no heed of its beauty came to Chip. Instead, she felt herself a shameful thingof no account. Her lover had failed her–now she knew why, and as she sped along the lonely way to the schoolhouse, scarce conscious of her steps, all hope and all joy left her. Why or for what purpose she was hurrying toward this deserted little building, she knew not. Hot tears filled her eyes. Shame surged in her heart. She was a nobody in the eyes of all her world, and once she had reached the worn sill, so often crossed by her, she threw herself upon it and sobbed in utter despair.
For a long hour she sat there while the tide of feeling ebbed and tears came unchecked, and then the reaction came. With it, also, came something of the old courage and defiance that had once led her to face night, danger, and sixty miles of wilderness alone.
“I have made a mistake,” she said, sitting up, “and Hannah was right. I am a nobody here, and Ray has been told so and has kept away.”
And now with returning calm, and soothed, maybe, by the still, ethereal night, she saw herself, her past and present, as it all was. Back in an instant she sped in thought to the moment when, kneeling to these people, she begged for food; back to that first prayer she ever heard in the tent, and the offer of rescue that followed.
And then her life here, with all its hopes and humiliation, rose before her.
“It was all wrong, my coming here,” she said, looking away to the village where lights twinkled; “I am not their sort, nor they mine. I’d better go away.”
Then, lifted a wee bit by this new resolve, she rose and returned to the house.
The tall clock in the sitting room was just chiming ten when she entered, and Aunt Comfort was there alone.
“Raymond was here this evening,” she said kindly, “and waited quite a spell. Where have you been?”
“Oh, nowhere,” answered Chip, pleasantly, “only I was lonesome and went out for a walk.”
Little did good Aunt Comfort realize what a volcano of hope, despair, shame, and tender love was concealed beneath that calm answer, or the new resolve budding in Chip’s heart.
No more did Ray suspect it when he met her coming home from school the next afternoon.
For during those two wretched hours when she was alone on the worn schoolhouse step, poor Chip McGuire, the low-born, pitiful waif, had become a woman and put away girlish impulses.
“I couldn’t come to see you that first evening,” he said at once, “for uncle and aunty kept me talking till bedtime. Where were you last night?”
“Oh, I didn’t much think you would come,” answered Chip, calmly, smiling at him in a far-off way. “I am a nobody here, as you will soon find out, and I don’t expect–anything. I got lonesome last night and went off for a walk.”
Ray looked at her in wide-eyed astonishment. And well he might, for only two short days since she had met him, an eager, simple girl, and now she spoke like a woman. No word, no hint of his neglect, escaped her; but a cool indifference was apparent.
“Tell me about the woods and Old Cy,” she said, not waiting for him to speak again, “and how is the hermit? I want to know all about them.”
“Oh, I left ’em all right,” answered Ray, sullenly, for like a boy he wanted to be coaxed. And then, urged a little by Chip, he told his winter’s experience.
One episode interested her most of all–the strange trapper’s doings, his theft of their game, their pursuit of him and discovery of his hiding spot.
“I know who that was,” she said, when it was all described. “It was my father, and if he had caught you spying upon him, I guess he’d shot you both.He always used to go somewhere trapping every fall; but nobody could ever find where.”
This return to the memories of the wilderness wore away something of Chip’s cool reserve, and when the house was reached her eyes had grown tender.
“I shall be glad to see you often–as–as your folks will let you come,” she said, somewhat timidly when they parted; and scarce understanding this speech, Ray left her.
“Chip has changed a whole lot,” he said to his aunt a little later, “and I wish she hadn’t; she don’t seem the same any more.”
“I’m glad of it if she has,” answered Angie, smiling at him. “There was need enough of it.”
Old Cyhad builded wiser than he realized when he coaxed Ray to spend a winter in the woods.
The long tramps through the vast wilderness; the keen hunt for signs of mink, fisher, otter, and wildcat, with constant guard against danger; the unremitting though zestful labor of gum-gathering; the far-sighted need for winter preparation; and last but not least Old Cy’s cheerful philosophy, had broadened the lad and developed both muscle and mind.
His success, too, had encouraged him. He was eager to try another season there, and planned for hiring men to gather gum, and saw in this vocation possible future.
But the change in Chip puzzled him. He had returned, expecting to find her the same timid, yet courageous little girl, ready to be his companion at all times and to kiss him when he chose–a somewhat better-educated girl, of course, using more refined language, but otherwise the same confiding child, as it were.
She was all this the day of his return; and then, presto! like a sudden blast of cold air came a change. Too loyal to her to question any one, he could only wonder why this change.
He called again soon after that first, unsatisfying walk home with her, to find her the same cool, collected young lady. She was nice to him, induced him to talk of the woods once more and his own plans; but it was not the Chip of old who listened, but quite another person.
“I am going back to the lake with uncle and aunt,” he said at last, “and I mean to coax them to take you along. You have been shut up in school so long, it will do you good.”
“Please don’t say a word to them about it,” she urged, in hurt tone, “for it will do no good. I wouldn’t go, anyway.”
“Not go to the woods if you could,” he exclaimed in astonishment; “why, what do you mean?”
“Just what I say,” she returned firmly, and then added wistfully, “I’d fly there, if I had wings. I’d give my life, almost, for one more summer like the last. But I shall not go again now, and maybe never.”
It was unaccountable and quite beyond Ray’s ken–this strange decision of hers–and her“Please don’t say any more about it,” closed the subject.
Another and even greater shock came to Ray when late that evening, on the porch, he essayed to kiss her.
“No, no; please don’t,” she said with almost a sob, pushing him away. “It’s silly now, and–and–you mustn’t.”
A week later school closed, and Chip’s conduct was then also a puzzle to Miss Phinney. As usual on these occasions, when the hour came, each pupil, young and old, filed past the teacher at her desk, the boys to shake hands, the girls to be kissed, and all bade good-by, after which they trooped away, glad to escape.
This ceremony now took place as usual. All departed except Chip, and she remained at her desk. Some intuition of pity or sympathy drew Miss Phinney to her at once; and then, at the first word from her, Chip gave way to tears–not light ones, but sobs that shook her as a great grief. Vainly Miss Phinney tried to cheer and console her, stroking the bowed head until her own eyes grew misty.
“I didn’t mean to give way,” Chip said at last, looking up and brushing away the tears, “but you’ve been so good and patient with me, I couldn’t helpit. I hain’t many friends here, I guess, and–” choking back another sob–“I shall be more lonesome’n ever.”
It was true enough, as Miss Phinney well understood, and somehow her heart went out to this unfortunate girl now, as never before.
“You mustn’t think about that,” she said at last, in her most soothing voice, “but come and see me as often as you can–every day, if you like, for I shall always be glad to have you. I’d keep on studying, if I were you,” she added, as Chip brightened, “it will help you on, and I will gladly hear you recite every day.”
Then hand in hand, like two sisters, they left the dear old schoolhouse. Little did Miss Phinney, good soul that she was, realize how recently poor Chip had cried her heart almost out on its well-worn sill, or that never again would this strange, winsome, woman-grown pupil enter that temple.
At the parting of their ways the two embraced, kissed, and with tear-dimmed eyes separated.
“I can’t account for it,” Miss Phinney said to herself when well away. “It may be a love-affair with young Stetson, or it may be something worse.”
That evening she called on Angie. The result was fruitless, so far as obtaining any light upon thispuzzling matter was concerned, for Angie was either blind to the situation, or feigned ignorance.
“They were together all last summer, of course,” she said, “in fact, they were forced to be like two children, you know. I was glad to have it so, feeling it would benefit the girl. If any love flame was started then, it has had ample time to die out since.”
“There is something else the matter with Chip, then,” Miss Phinney rejoined, “she has been moody and quite upset at times for the past few weeks, and to-day when school closed, she sobbed like a brokenhearted woman. It was quite pathetic, and I had to cry myself.”
That night Angie took counsel of her husband.
“Well, what if it is so,” he responded, to her suggestion that a love-affair might have started between them. “It won’t harm either. So far as I’ve observed, the girl couldn’t have been better behaved since she came here. She has never missed an hour at school all winter, no matter how cold it has been. Her teacher says she has made wonderful progress. She has attended church with you every Sunday, and as for Ray–well, if I were in his shoes, I’d be in love with her myself.”
It was clear enough that Angie’s fears were not shared by Martin.
“But think of her origin and parentage,” answered Angie, “and that outlaw father who might appear at any time! The very idea of Ray marrying her is preposterous. It would wreck his life.”
“But what about Chip?” returned Martin, who had broader views of life. “You brought her here to Christianize and educate her; do you propose to turn her adrift because she has a pretty face and the boy sees it? She isn’t to blame for her origin. As for Ray, if he shows that he is able to support a wife and wants her, I honor him for it, and I’ll give him a house to start with.”
At Aunt Comfort’s, however, no signs of love troubles were visible; in fact, no signs of any sort, except the malicious “hanging around” interference of Hannah whenever Ray was there. She seemed to feel it her duty to remain on guard at such times, much to Ray’s disgust. No annoyance at this was apparent in Chip. She helped at housework, studied at odd hours, and when Ray came she met and talked with him as if he were a brother.
The day he was to leave Greenvale was close at hand, however, and the evening before he came early, bringing his banjo, and by tacit consent, perhaps to escape Hannah, they both left the house at once.
Just above the village there was a long, narrow pond, wooded upon one side and around its upper end, with partially cleared land and scattered trees along the opposite bank. One of these trees was a monster beech near the water’s edge, the trunk of which was scarred by many entwined initials.
To this lovers’ trysting tree now came Ray and Chip.
The evening was not one for romance, for no moon graced it–only stars were reflected from the pond’s motionless surface, while fireflies twinkled above it.
The shadow of the near parting also hovered over these two as, hand in hand, they picked their way up and along the bank; and once seated beneath the tree, it seemed to forbid speech.
“I wish you’d play some of the songs you used to,” Chip said at last hurriedly, “I’d like to think I’m back at the lake again.”
Glad to do so, Ray drew out his banjo and began to tune it. He started a song also–one of the “graveyardy” ones which Old Cy had interdicted, but choked at once and stopped abruptly.
“I can’t sing to-night,” he said, “I’m too blue about going away.”
There were two in this frame of mind, evidently,for Chip made no protest, and for another long interval they watched the fireflies and listened to the whippoorwills.
“I wish you were going back with us,” Ray said at last. “It breaks my heart to go away so soon and leave you. Why won’t you let me ask my uncle to take you? He might be glad to do it, just for me.”
“No,” answered Chip, firmly, “you mustn’t. It would shame me so that I couldn’t look them in the face.” Then, as if this subject and their own feelings must be avoided, she added hurriedly, “Tell me what you will do when the folks come back–whether you will come with them or stay at the lake?”
“Stay there, I suppose,” answered Ray, somewhat doggedly, for money-making and love were in conflict. “Old Cy says we can make a lot of money if I will. I wish I were rich,” he added with a sigh.
He was not the first young man to whom that wish had come at such a moment. But converse between them was at ebb tide just now, and the parting moment, ever creeping nearer, overshadowed all else. To Chip–known only to herself–it meant forever. To Ray, another long isolation from all the world and young associates, and all for a few hundred dollars sorely needed by him, yet seemingof scant value compared to the sweet companionship of this maid.
Then Chip’s feelings and the reason for them were quite beyond him. He could not see why she was unwilling to ask to be taken to the woods again, nor why she held herself aloof from him. She had not done so at the lake, or when they met again, and why should she now?
Something of this might have been inferred by Chip, for she suddenly arose.
“I think we’d best go back,” she said. “It’s time, and Hannah will be watching for me.”
What Ray might have said had he been a world-wise man, does not matter. What he did was to pick up his useless banjo, and clasping Chip’s arm, led her along the winding walk.
Below the falls and near the house they paused, for now the last moment alone together had come, and with it the real parting.
“Tell Old Cy I–I haven’t forgot him,” whispered Chip, her voice quivering, “and–and–you won’t forget me either, will you, Ray?”
That little sob in her speech was all that was needed to break away the barrier between them, for the next instant Ray’s arms were about the girl.
No words of love, no protestations, no promises.Only one instant’s meeting of soul and impulse, fierce as love of life, sacred as the hand of death.
Love consecrated it. The shadowing maples blessed it. The stars hallowed it.
And yet it was a long, long parting.
When Ray rode away next morning, he watched for her at the first sharp hilltop.
It was in vain, for Chip’s resolve had been taken, and he never saw the forlorn figure crouching behind that bush-topped wall, or knew that two wistful, misty eyes had seen him depart.
Few of us ever see even a faint image of ourselves as others see us; and yet, calm reflection spurred to self-analysis by a hungry heart occasionally effects that almost miracle.
In Ray’s case it did; for after his eager eyes had scanned every rod of that roadside trysting-place in vain, a revelation came to him–not a wide open one, such as he deserved, but a glance at himself and his conduct as it had been. First he saw Chip just as she entered their camp that night in the wilderness, so pitiful in appearance, so pathetic in her abject gratitude. Once again he looked at her appealing eyes growing misty while he played and sang his old-time love songs. He remembered that during all the days, weeks, and months following,he had never failed to find the love-light of admiration when his eyes met hers. It had all been a summer idyl, so sweet, so romantic, so tender, and so unexpected that he had scarce realized its value–not at all then, but faintly now.
For all that up-hill, down-dale journey to Riverton, he lived over this moonlit lake and wilderness camp episode, and every hour and every thought shared with him by this girl–a playmate and lover combined–returned again like echoes of past and gone heart throbs, each time a little sweeter, each time a trifle more piercing, until his own self-complacency faded quite away and an abject penitence began to replace it. For the first time in his callow youth he began to reflect, and once started on this beneficial course, the barometer of his vanity fell rapidly. It was not long ere his own conduct since he returned to Greenvale also added an assault. He had utterly failed to realize the meaning of Chip’s abject devotion–her pitiful first-hour confessions of how hard she had studied, and all for his sake; how she had counted days and hours until he was likely to return; how many times she had gone to the hilltop to watch for him; and even the eagerness of her arms and the warmth of her lips at that first moment of meeting, now came back to him.
Another and even a more painful self-reproach followed this–his own neglect of opportunities and the result.
He had returned to Greenvale feeling that Chip was his devoted slave and had found that she was. Like many another arrogant youth, he had plumed himself upon that fact, taking everything for granted. He had yielded to his aunt’s and other friends’ coaxings to tell his past winter’s history of life in the woods, feeling that Chip could and would wait; and then, an unexpected and most vexatious frost had fallen upon his little love-garden, and presto! his confiding sweetheart, his almost abject slave, was one no longer.
At the moment of starting, that wildwood camp and charming lake had seemed a Mecca which he must hasten to reach once more. When he again beheld it, it had lost its fairness, and to return to Greenvale and beg and implore Chip’s forgiveness–ay, even kneel to her, if need be–seemed the only duty life held.
His punishment had only just begun.
PART IIVERA RAYMOND
Fora few more days, Chip lived the life that had now become unbearable, and then the end came. It was hastened, perhaps, by Hannah, for that ill-tempered spinster had been ever watchful, and with shrewd insight had seen or guessed all that had transpired.
“I s’pose ye know why the Frisbies hurried away so soon after Ray got back,” she said to Chip that last day. “If you don’t, I can tell ye. It was ’cos they noticed the goin’s on ’tween you an’ him, an’ wanted to head it off.”
Not a word of protest came from the poor child in response to this sneer, and that night she wrote two notes, one to Miss Phinney, the other to Aunt Comfort. Then, making a bundle of the few belongings she could call her own–the beaded moccasins, cap, and fur cape old Tomah had given her, and other trifles–she waited until almost midnight and stole out of the house.
Once before she had left her only shelter, in a more desperate mood. Now the same impulsenerved her, and for ample reason. Dependent upon the bounty of those in no wise kin to her, tortured by the sarcastic tongue of Hannah, her heart hungering for a love she believed could never be hers, no other outcome seemed possible; and defiant still, yet saddened beyond all words, she set out to escape it all.
Where to go, she knew not nor cared–only to leave Greenvale and all the shame, sorrow, and humiliation it held for her, and make her own way in the world as best she could.
The village street was as silent as midnight always found it. The low murmur of the Mizzy Falls whispered down the valley. A half-moon was just rising, and as Chip reached the hilltop where she had waited for Ray, she halted. From here must be taken the last glance at Greenvale, and as she turned about a sob rose in her heart, in spite of her stern resolve, for ties cannot be sundered easily.
And how vivid and life-lasting was that picture! The two long rows of white houses facing the broad street, the tall-spired church in the middle of them; scattered dwellings to the right and left; away to one side the little brown schoolhouse that had been her Mecca; the stream that wound through the broad meadows; and over all the faint sheen of the rising moon.
Only for a moment she paused for this good-bye look, then turned and ran. On and on she sped mile after mile, up hill, down hill, halting now and then for breath until a cross-road was reached, and here she stopped. Here also came the question of direction. To follow the main road was to reach Riverton, between which and Greenvale the stage journeyed. To go there meant being recognized perhaps. In her study of geography, she had found that the village which was her birthplace lay northeast from Greenvale. She meant sometime and somehow to reach that spot and visit her mother’s grave once more, and also, if possible, to send word to Old Tomah. And so guided by this vague plan, she turned to the left.
From now on the road became narrow. Miles elapsed between houses, and Chip, wearied and heavy-eyed, could only creep along. The way became more devious now, bending around a wooded hill and then crossing a wide swamp to enter a stretch of forest. Direction became lost in these turnings, the road grew hilly and less travelled. The moon scarce showed it; and Chip, almost exhausted, stumbled over stones and felt that she was becoming lost in an unsettled country. And then, just as she emerged from a thicket and ascended a low hill, thelight of coming dawn faced her, and with it the need of sleep and concealment.
Full well she knew she must avoid all observing eyes and place many more miles between herself and Greenvale to be certain of escape. And then, as the daylight increased, she caught sight of an old, almost ruined dwelling half hid among bushes just ahead. Even if empty, as it appeared, it would serve for shelter, and finding it so, she crept in, so wearied that she fell asleep at once on the warped and mouldy floor.
It was only a brief nap, for soon the rattle of a passing farm wagon woke her, but refreshed somewhat by it, she again pushed on.
Soon a brook, singing cheerfully as it tumbled down a ledge, was reached, and here Chip bathed her face and hands and drank of the sweet, cool water.
Hunger also asserted itself, but that did not daunt her. She had faced it once before.
Then something of a plan as to her future movements began to shape itself in her mind, following which came an increased courage and self-reliance. Not a cent did she now possess. Food she could not have until she had made good her escape and could earn it somewhere.
But the sun was shining, the birds were singing, her young, supple body was strong, life and the world were ahead; and, best of all, never again would she have to feel herself a dependent upon any one.
With these blessings, scant to most of us, hardened as she had been by servitude at Tim’s Place, came a certain buoyancy of spirit and defiance of all things human.
No wild beasts were here to menace, no spites to creep and crawl along fence or hedgerow, no hideous half-breed to pursue, and as she counted her blessings, while her spirits rose, a new life and new hope came to her.
And now another feeling came–the certainty that she had come so far that no one would recognize her. At first that morning, when she heard a team coming or overtaking her, she had hidden by the roadside until it passed. When a house was sighted ahead, she made a wide detour in the fields to avoid it. Now this sense of caution vanished, and she strode on fearless and confident.
When night came again she crept into an unused sheep barn, and when daylight wakened her, she hurried on once more.
During all that first day’s journey, her one fearhad been that some one she would meet might recognize her and report the fact in Greenvale. To avoid that had been her sole thought. Now that feeling of danger was vanishing, and when people were met, she looked at them fearlessly and kept on. When cross-roads were reached and a choice in ways became necessary, she followed the one nearest to northeast, and for the reason that her school map had shown that her birthplace lay in this direction. How far away it was, she had not the faintest idea, or whether she could live to reach it. Her sole thought was to escape Greenvale and the humiliating life of dependence there, and when she was so far away that no one could find her, obtain work at some farm-house.
All that second day she plodded on that same patient up-hill, down-dale journey, never halting except to pick a few berries, or where a brook crossed the road to obtain a handful of watercress or some sweet-flag buds.
Now and then villages were passed, again it was country sparsely settled, where farm-houses were wide apart, and when this day was waning, even these had vanished and she found herself in almost a wilderness once more.