“Good luck comes now ’n’ then; bad luck drops ’round frequently.”–Old Cy Walker.
WhenOld Cy emerged from the cave, his face glorified and heart throbbing with the blessings now his to give Chip, he looked about with almost fear. The two abandoned canoes and the trusty rifle had seemed an assurance of tragic import, and yet no proof of this outlaw’s death. That this cave had been his lair, could not be doubted; and so momentous was this discovery, and so anxious was Old Cy to rescue this fortune, that he trembled with a sudden dread.
But no sign of human presence met his sweeping look.
The lake still rippled and smiled in the sunlight. Two deer, a buck and doe, were feeding on the rush-grown shore just across, while at his feet that rusty rifle still uttered its fatal message.
Once more Old Cy glanced all about, and then entered the cave again. Here, in the dim light and with trembling hands, he filled the cans once more,and almost staggering, so faint was he from excitement, he hurried to the canoe, and packing them in its bow, covered the precious cargo with his blanket.
Then he ran like a deer back to the cave, closed it with the slab, grasped his rifle, and not even looking at the rusty one, bounded down the path to his canoe again, launched it, and pushed off.
Never before had it seemed so frail a craft. And now, as he swung its prow around toward the outlet, a curious object met his eyes.
Far up the lake, and where no ripple concealed it, lay what looked like a floating log, clasped by a human arm.
What intuition led him hither, Old Cy never could explain, for escape from the lake was now his sole thought. And yet, with one sweep of his paddle, he turned his canoe and sped across the lake. And now, as he neared this object, it slowly outlined itself, and he saw a grewsome sight,–two bloated corpses grasping one another as if in a death grapple. One had hair of bronze red, the other a hideously scarred face with lips drawn and teeth exposed.
Hate, Horror, and Death personified.
Only for a moment did Old Cy glance at this ghastly sight, and then he turned again and sped back across the lake.
The bright sun still smiled calm and serene, the morning breeze still kissed the blue water, the two deer still watched him with curious eyes; but he saw them not–only the winsome face and appealing eyes of Chip as he last beheld them.
And now in the prow of his canoe lay her fortune, her heritage, which was, after all, but scant return for all the shame and stigma so far meted out to her.
It was almost sunset ere Old Cy, his nerves still quivering and wearied as never before, crossed the little lake and breathed a sigh of heart-felt gratitude as he drew his canoe out on the sandy shore near the ice-house. No one was in sight, nor likely to be. A thin column of smoke rising from the cabin showed that the hermit was still on earth, and now for the first time, Old Cy sat down and considered his plans for the near future.
First and foremost, not a soul, not even his old trusted companion here, not even Martin, or Angie, and certainly not Ray, must learn what had now come into his possession. Neither must his journey to this far-off lake or aught he had learned there be disclosed.
But how was he to escape from the woods and these people, soon to arrive for their summer sojourn?And what if Chip herself should come? Two conclusions forced themselves upon him now: first, he must so conceal the fortune that none of these friends even could suspect its presence; next, he must by some pretext leave here as soon as Martin and his party arrived, and cease not his watchful care until Chip’s heritage was safe in some bank in her name.
And now, with so much of his future moves decided upon, he hurried to the cabin, greeted Amzi, urged him to hasten supper, and, securing a shovel, returned to his canoe.
In five minutes the cans of gold were buried deep in the sand, not two feet from where the half-breed had once landed, and upon Old Cy’s person the bills found concealment. How much it all amounted to, he had not even guessed, nor scarce thought. To secure it and bear it safely away from this now almost accursed lake had been his sole thought, and must be until locks and bolts could guard it better. That night Old Cy hardly slept a moment.
And now began days of waiting and watching, the slow course of which he had never before known. He dared not leave the cabin except to fish close by and within sight of the one focal point of his interest.Each midday, for not sooner would the expected ones be apt to arrive, he began to watch the lake’s outlet, and ceased not this vigil until darkness came. A dozen times a day he covertly visited the ice-house to be certain no alien footprints had been stamped upon the sand near his buried treasure, and had the hermit been an alert and normal man, he must have noticed Old Cy’s strange conduct.
This burden of care also began to haunt his sleep, and in it he saw the open cave, and himself watched by vicious, leering faces. Once he saw those ghastly corpses still clasped together, but hovering over him, and then awoke with a sense of horror.
A worse dream than this came later, for in it he saw the half-breed creeping along the lake’s shore, and then, stooping where the gold was buried, he began to dig, at which Old Cy sprang from his bed in sudden terror.
“I’ll go crazy if I don’t git rid o’ that money ’fore long,” he said to himself; and the next day another place of concealment occurred to him.
There was, beneath the new cabin, a small cellar entered through a trap-door. It was some ten feet square, and had been used to store potatoes, pork, and the like. To carry out his new plan, which was to hide the gold in this cellar, it became necessary tokeep Amzi out of sight until its transfer was made. That was an easy task, for Amzi, docile as a child, was sent out on the lake to fish, and then Old Cy, hastily constructing a bag of deerskin, hurried to the beach, dug up the treasure, poured the glittering coin into this bag, hid it in the cellar, nailed the trap-door down, and that night slept better.
Two days after, just as the sun was nearing the mountain top, Martin, Angie, Levi, and Ray entered the lake.
How grateful both Old Cy and Amzi were for their arrival, how eagerly they grasped hands with them at the landing, and how like two boys Martin and Ray behaved needs no description.
All that had happened in Greenvale was soon told. Chip’s conduct and progress were related by Angie. Ray’s plans to remain here another winter were disclosed by him; and then, when the cheerful party had gathered about the evening fire, Martin touched upon another matter.
“I met Hersey as we were coming in,” he said, “and he says that neither McGuire nor the half-breed has been seen or heard of since early last fall. Hersey came in early this spring with one of his deputies; they visited a half-dozen lumber camps, called twice at Tim’s Place, and even went over toPete’s cabin on the Fox Hole, but nowhere could they learn anything of these two men. More than that, no canoe was found at Pete’s hut, and there was no sign of occupation at all this past winter. Nothing could be learned from Tim, either, although not much was expected from that source. It is all a most mysterious disappearance, and the last that we can learn of Pete was his arrival and departure from Tim’s Place after we rescued Chip.”
“I think both on ’em has concluded this section was gittin’ too warm for ’em,” remarked Levi, “an’ they’ve lit out.”
“It’s good riddance if they have,” answered Old Cy, “an’ I’m sartin none on us’ll ever set eyes on ’em agin.”
And Old Cy spoke the truth, for none of this party ever did. In fact, no human being, except himself and Martin, ever learned the secret that this mountain-hid lake could tell.
But another matter now began to interest Old Cy–how Ray and Chip stood in their mutual feelings. That all was not as he wished, Old Cy soon guessed from Ray’s face and actions, and he was not long in verifying it.
“Wal, how’d ye find the gal?” he said to Ray when the chance came. “Was she glad to see ye?”
“Why, yes,” answered Ray, looking away, “she appeared to be. I wasn’t in Greenvale but two weeks, you know.”
“Saw her ’most every evenin’ durin’ that time, I s’pose?”
“No, not every one,” returned Ray, vaguely; “her school hadn’t closed when I got home, and she studied nights, you see.”
Old Cy watched Ray’s face for a moment.
“I ain’t pryin’ into yer love matters,” he said at last, “but as I’m on your side, I’d sorter like to know how it’s progressin’. Wa’n’t thar nothin’ said ’tween ye–no sort o’ promise, ’fore ye come ’way?”
“No, nothing of that sort,” answered Ray, looking confused, “though we parted good friends, and she sent her love to you. I’m afraid Chip don’t quite like Greenvale.”
Old Cy made no answer, though a smothered “hum, ha” escaped him at the disclosure of what he feared.
“I wish ye’d sorter clinched matters ’fore ye left,” he said, after a pause; “that is, if ye’re callatin’ to be here ’nother winter. It’s ’most too long to keep a gal guessin’; ’sides, ’tain’t right.”
Ray, however, made no defence, in fact, seemed guilty and confused, so Old Cy said no more.
A few days later he made a proposal that astonished Martin.
“I’ve been here now ’bout two years,” he said, “an’ I’m gittin’ sorter oneasy. I callate ye kin spare me a couple o’ weeks.”
No intimation of his real errand escaped him, and so adroitly had he laid his plans and timed his movements, that when his canoe was packed and he bade them good-bye, no one suspected how valuable a cargo it carried.
But Old Cy was more than “sorter oneasy,” for the only spot where he dared close his eyes in sleep during that three days’ journey out of the wilderness was in his canoe, with his head pillowed on that precious gold.
“A miser was created to prove how little real comfort kin be got out o’ money.”–Old Cy Walker.
“A miser was created to prove how little real comfort kin be got out o’ money.”–Old Cy Walker.
WhenOld Cy joined the little party at the lake again, he seemed to have aged years. His sunny smile was gone. He looked weary, worn, and disconsolate.
“Chip’s run away from Greenvale,” he said simply, “an’ nobody can find hide nor hair on her. They’ve follered the roads for miles in every direction. Nobody can be found that’s seen anybody like her ’n’ they’ve even dragged the mill-pond. She left a note chargin’ it to that durn fool, Hannah, and things she said, which I guess was true. I’d like to duck her in the hoss-pond!”
Such news was like a bombshell in the camp, or if not, what soon followed was, for after a few days Old Cy made another announcement which upset the entire party.
“I think I’d best go back to Greenvale,” he said, “an’ begin a sarch for that gal. I ain’t got nobody in the world that needs me so much, or Ithem. I’m a sorter outcast myself, ez you folks know. That little gal hez crept into my heart so, I can’t take no more comfort here. Amzi don’t need me so much as I need her, ’n’ I’ve made up my mind I’ll start trampin’ till I find her. I’ve a notion, too, she’ll head for the wilderness ag’in, ’n’ I’m most sartin she’ll fetch up whar her mother was buried. I watched that gal middlin’ clus all last summer. She’s true blue ’n’ good grit. She won’t do no fool thing, like makin’ ’way with herself, ’n’ I’ll find her somewhar arnin’ her own livin’ if I live long ’nuff. From the note she left, I know that was in her mind.”
Martin realized that there was no use in trying to change Old Cy’s intent–in fact, had no heart to do so, for he too felt much the same toward Chip.
“I’ll give you all the funds you need, old friend,” he made answer, “and wish you Godspeed on your mission. I’ll do more than that even. I’ll pay some one to watch at Grindstone for the next year, so if Chip reaches there, we can learn it.”
That night he held a consultation with his wife.
“I suspect we are somewhat to blame for thisunfortunate happening,” he said to her, “or, at least, some thoughtless admissions you may have made led up to it. It’s a matter we are responsible for, or I feel so, anyway. I think as Old Cy does, that this girl must be found if money can do it, and I propose that we break camp and return to Greenvale. If Amzi can’t be coaxed to go along, I must leave Levi with him. No power on earth can keep Old Cy here any longer.”
But the old hermit had changed somewhat since that night he broke away and returned to this camp, and when the alternative of remaining here alone, or going out with them all, was presented, he soon yielded.
“If Cyrus is goin’, I’ll have to,” he said. “I’d be lonesome without him.” And to this assertion he adhered.
Ray, however, was the most dejected and unhappy one now here, though fortunately Old Cy was the only one who understood why, and he kept silent.
Old Cy’s defection had influenced all alike, and wood life was no longer attractive. It was a pity, in a way, for no more charming spot than this sequestered lake could be found. The trout leaping or breaking its glassy surface night and morningseemed to almost urge an angler; not an hour in all the day but two to a dozen deer might be seen along its shore, and blueberries were ripening over in the “blow down.” Amzi’s garden, now doubled in size, was well along, and it seemed a sin to leave so many attractions.
But Martin had lost heart for these allurements. The thought of poor, homeless Chip begging her way somewhere, spoiled it all. Conscious that her own neglect might have invited this calamity, Angie was almost heart-broken, and it was a saddened party that closed and barred the new cabin and left this rippled lake one morning.
They were even more sad when Aunt Comfort showed them Chip’s message, and Angie read it with brimming eyes.
And now came Old Cy’s departure, on a quest as hopeless as that of the Wandering Jew and as pathetic as the Ancient Mariner’s.
But the climax was reached when Old Cy gave Martin his parting message and charge:–“Here’s a bank book,” he said, “that calls fer ’bout sixty thousand dollars. It’s the savin’s o’ McGuire, ’n’ belongs to Chip. I found the cave whar ’twas hid. I found McGuire ’n’ the half-breed, both dead ’n’ floatin’ in the lake clus by,an’ ’twas to keer fer this money I quit ye three weeks ago.
“If I never come back here,–an’ I never shall ’thout I find Chip,–keep it fer her. Sometime she may show up. If ever she does, tell her Old Cy did all he could fer her.”
“Those who hev nothin’ but a stiddy faith the Lord’ll provide, never git fat.”–Old Cy Walker.
Lifeat Peaceful Valley and the home of Judson Walker fell into its usual monotony after Chip’s departure.
Each day Uncle Jud went about his chores and his crop-gathering and watched the leaves grow scarlet, then brown, and finally go eddying up and down the valley, or heap themselves into every nook and cranny for final sleep.
Existence had become something like this to him, but he could no longer anticipate a vernal budding forth as the leaves came, but only the sear and autumn for himself, with the small and sadly neglected churchyard at the Corners for its ending.
Snow came and piled itself into fantastic drifts. The stream’s summer chatter was hushed. The cows, chickens, and his horse, with wood-cutting, became his sole care. Once a week he journeyed to the Corners for his weekly paper and Mandy’serrands, always hoping for a message from Chip. Now and then one came, a little missive in angular chirography, telling how she longed to return to them, which they read and re-read by candlelight.
Somehow this strange wanderer, this unaccounted-for waif, had crept into his life and love as a flower would, and “Pattycake,” as he had named her, with her appealing eyes and odd ways, was never out of his thoughts.
And so the winter dragged its slow, chill course. Spring finally unlocked the brook once more, the apple and cherry blossoms came, the robins began nest-building, and one day Uncle Jud returned from the corner with a glad smile on his face.
“Pattycake’s school’s goin’ to close in a couple o’ weeks more, ’n’ then she’s comin’ home,” he announced, and Aunt Mandy, her face beaming, made haste to wipe her “specs” and read the joyous tidings.
For a few days Uncle Jud acted as if he had forgotten something and knew not where to look for it. He lingered about the house when he would naturally be at work. He peered into one room and then another, in an abstracted way, and finally Aunt Mandy caught him in the keeping room,with one curtain raised,–a thing unheard of,–seated in one of the haircloth chairs and looking around.
“Mandy,” he said, as she entered, “do you know, I think them picturs we’ve had hangin’ here nigh on to forty year is homely ’nuff to stop a horse, ’n’ they make me feel like I’d been to a funeral. Thar’s that ‘Death Bed o' Dan'l Webster,’ an’ ‘Death o' Montcalm,’ ’specially. I jest can’t stand ’em no longer, an’ ‘The Father o’ his Country.’ I’m gittin’ tired o’ that, ’n’ the smirk he’s got on his face. I feel jest as though I’d like to throw a stun at him this minute. You may feel sot on them picturs, but I’d like to chuck the hull kit ’n’ boodle into the cow shed. An’ them winder curtains,” he continued, looking around, “things so blue they make me shiver, an’ this carpet with the figgers o’ green and yaller birds, it sorter stuns me.
“Now Pattycake’s comin’ purty soon. She must ’a’ seen more cheerful keepin’ rooms’n ourn, ’n’ I’m callatin’ we’d best rip this ’un all up an’ fix it new. Then thar’s the front chamber–in fact, both on ’em–with the yaller spindle beds ’n’ blue curtains, an’ only a square of rag carpet front o’ the dressers. Say, Mandy,” he continued,looking around once more, “how’d we ever happen to git so many blue curtains?”
His discontent with their home now took shape in vigorous action, and Aunt Mandy came to share it. Trip after trip to the Riggsville store was made. Two new chamber sets and rolls of carpeting arrived at the station six miles away, and came up the valley. A paper-hanger was engaged and kept busy for ten days. The death-bed pictures were literally kicked into the cow shed, and in three weeks four rooms had been so reconstructed and fitted anew that no one would recognize them.
Meanwhile Uncle Jud had utterly neglected his “craps,” while he worked around the house. The wide lawn had been clipped close. A new picket fence, painted white, replaced the leaning, zigzag one around the garden. Weeds and brush disappeared, and only Aunt Mandy’s protest saved the picturesque brown house from a coat of paint.
And then “Pattycake” arrived.
Nearly a year before she had been brought here, a weary, bedraggled, dusty, half-starved waif. Now Uncle Jud met her at the station, his face shining; Aunt Mandy clasped her close to her portly person; and as Chip looked around andsaw what had been done in her honor and to make her welcome, her eyes filled.
“I never thought anybody would care for me like this,” she exclaimed, and then glancing at Uncle Jud, her eyes alight, she threw her arms about his neck and, for the first time, kissed him.
And never in all his life had he felt more amply paid for anything he had done.
Then and there, Chip resolved to do something that now lay in her power–to face shame and humbled pride and all the sacrifice it meant to her in the end, and reunite these two long-separated brothers. But not now, no, not yet.
Before her lay two golden joyous summer months. Aunt Abby was coming up later. She could not face her own humiliation now. She must wait until these happy days were past, then tell her wretched story, not sparing herself one iota, and then, if she must, go her way, an outcast into the world once more.
How utterly wrong she was in this conclusion, and how little she understood the broad charity of Uncle Jud, need not be explained. She was only a child as yet in all but stature. The one most bitter sneer of malicious Hannah still rankled and poisoned her common sense. Its effect uponChip had been as usual on her nature and belief, and this waif of the wilderness, this gnome child, must not be judged by ordinary standards. Like reflections from grotesque mirrors, so had her ideas of right and duty been distorted by eerie influences and weird surroundings. There was first the unspeakable brutality of her father; then the menial years at Tim’s Place, with no more consideration than a horse or pig received, her only education being the uncanny teachings of Old Tomah. Under this baleful tuition, coupled with the ever present menace and mystery of a vast wilderness, she passed from childhood into womanhood, with the fixed belief that human kind were no better than brutes; that the forest was peopled by a nether world of spites, the shadowy forms of both man and beast; and worse than this, that all thought and action here must be the selfish ones of personal gain and personal protection. Like a dog forever expecting a blow, like any dumb brute ever on guard against superior force, so had Chip grown to maturity, a cringing, helpless, almost hopeless creature, and yet one whose inborn impulses and desires revolted at her surroundings.
Once removed from these, however, and in apurer atmosphere, she was like one born again. Her past impressions still remained, her queer belief of present and future conditions was still a motive force, and the cringing, blow-expecting nature was yet hers.
For this reason, and because this new world and these new people were so unaccountable and quite beyond her ken in tender influence and loving care, what they had done and for what purpose seemed all the more impressive. But it was in no wise wasted; instead, it was like God-given sunshine to a flower that has never known aught except the chilling shadow of a dense forest.
And now ensued an almost pathetic play of interest, for Chip set herself about the duty of giving instead of obtaining pleasure.
She became what she was at Tim’s Place,–a menial, so far as they would let her,–and from early morning until bedtime, some step, some duty, some kindly care for her benefactors, was assumed by her. She worked and weeded in the garden, she drove and milked the cows, she followed Uncle Jud to the hay-field, insisting that she must help, until at last he protested.
“I like ye ’round me all the time, girlie,” he assured her, “for ye’re the best o’ company, ’n’I’d rather see yer face’n’ any posy that ever grew. But you’ve got to quit workin’ so much in the sun. ’Twill get yer hands all calloused ’n’ face freckled, an’ I won’t have it. I want ye to injie yourself, read books, pick flowers, ’n’ sit in the shade. I see ye’ve got into the habit o’ workin’, which ain’t a bad ’un, but thar ain’t no need on’t here.”
One day a stranger happened up this valley, so seldom travelled that its roadway ruts were obscured by grass. Chip noticed him that morning where the brook curved almost to the garden, a fair-haired young man with jaunty straw hat, delicate, shining rod, and new fish basket. He was garbed in a spick-span brown linen suit. He saw her also, looking over the garden wall, and raising his hat gracefully, strode on.
His appearance, so neat and dainty and so like pictures of fishermen in books, his courteous manner of touching his hat, without a rude stare or even a second glance at her, caught her attention, and she watched him a few moments.
He did not look back until he had cast his line into a few eddies some twenty rods away; and then he turned, looked at her, the house, barns, garden, all as one picture, and then continued up the brook.
He was not seen again until almost twilight by her, and then he and Uncle Jud entered the sitting room.
“This is Mr. Goodnow, Mandy,” Uncle Jud explained, nodding to the newcomer and glancing at Aunt Mandy and Chip. “He says he follered the brook further up’n he figgered on. It’s four miles to the Corners, ’n’ he wants us to keep him over night. I ’lowed we could, if you was willin’.”
“I shall be most grateful if you kind ladies will permit my intrusion,” the stranger added. “I have been so captivated by this delightful brook that I quite forgot where I was or the distance to the village until I saw that the sun was setting. If you can take care of me until morning, any payment you will accept shall be yours.”
“I guess we can ’commodate ye,” responded Aunt Mandy, pleasantly. And so this modern Don Juan found lodgement in the home of these people.
“I am an enthusiast on trout-catching,” he explained, after all had gathered on the vine-enclosed porch and he had presented Uncle Jud with an excellent cigar. “About all I do summers is to hunt for brooks. I came to the village below here yesterday, having heard of this stream, and never before have I found one quite so attractive.”
Then followed a more or less fictitious account of his own station and occupation in life, all very plausible, entirely frank, and quite convincing.
“I am unfortunate in one respect,” he said, “in that I have no fixed occupation. My father, now dead, was a prominent physician. I was educated for the same profession and had just begun its practice when he died. An uncle also left me a large bequest at about the same time. My mother insisted that I give up practice, and now I am an enforced idler.”
He was such an entirely new specimen of manhood, so charming of manner, so smooth of speech, that Chip watched and listened while he talked on and on, quite enthralled. She had seen similar gentlemen pass and repass Tim’s Place, not quite so dainty and suave, perhaps, but dressed much the same. She had now and then noticed a pictured reproduction of one in some magazine. Insensibly, she compared this Mr. Goodnow with Ray, to the latter’s discredit, and when the evening was ended and she was alone in her room, this new arrival’s delicately chiselled face, smiling blue eyes, slightly curled mustache, and refined manners followed her.
“He’s a purty slick talker,” Uncle Jud admittedto his wife later on, “a sorter chinaware, pictur-book feller ’thout much harm in him. I kinder felt sorry for him, so I ’lowed we’d keep him over night. Guess he ain’t much use in the world.”
How little use and how much harm he was capable of may be gleaned from a brief résumé of this stranger’s history.
He was, as he stated, without occupation and with plenty of money. He also, as stated, loved trout brooks and wildwood life–not wildwood life in its true sense, but the summer-day kind, where, clad as he was, he could follow some meadow brook or sit in the shade and watch it while indulging in day-dreams and smoking. He loved these things, but he loved fair ladies–collectively–still more. He had stumbled upon Peaceful Valley by accident, coming to it from a fashionable resort to escape an intrigue with a foolishgrande dameand consequent irate husband. Chip’s face and form had caught his eyes as he strolled by that day, and admission to the home of Uncle Jud and opportunity to meet, and, if possible, impress this handsome country lass, had been a matter of shrewd calculation with him. He had purposely remained up the brook until nightfall. He watched for and intercepted Uncle Judin the nick of time, persuaded that confiding man that he was too tired to reach the village, and with all the blandishments of speech at his command, had obtained entry to this home.
But he failed to impress Chip as he had hoped. She was no fool, if she had been reared at Tim’s Place. A certain shiftiness in his eyes when he looked at her, a covert, sideways glance, never firm but ever elusive, was soon noted and awoke her suspicion. Then the glib story he had told of himself was soon contradicted by him in a few minor details. Like all liars, he lacked a perfect memory, and, talking freely, he occasionally crossed his own tracks.
Unfortunately for him, he also showed more interest in her than in the brook the next day, and the following one he capped the climax by asking her to go fishing with him–an invitation which she promptly refused.
“I don’t like that Mr. Goodnow,” she asserted to Uncle Jud a little later. “I think he’s a deceitful man. He pesters me every chance he can, and I wish he’d go away.”
That was enough for Uncle Jud, and after supper he harnessed his horse and politely but firmly requested Mr. Goodnow’s company to the village.
Formany weeks now Chip had suffered from a troubled conscience, and, like most of us, was unable to face its consequences and admit her sin.
Time and again she had planned how she could best evade it and yet bring those two brothers together without first confessing. Old Cy must be told, of course. She could explain her conduct to him. He would surely forgive her, she thought, and then, maybe, find another home for her somehow and somewhere. Oversensitive as she was, to now confess her cowardly concealment and her deception of those who had loved and trusted her, seemed horrible.
But events were stronger than her will, for one day in the last of August, Uncle Jud returned from the village store, bringing dress materials and startling information. “Cap’n Bemis is failin’ purty fast,” he said, “so Aunt Abby writes, an’ she ain’t comin’ up here. It won’t make no difference to you, girlie,” he continued, turning to Chip.“I’ve brought home stuff to rig ye out fer school. Miss Solon the dressmaker’s comin’ to-morrer, ’n’ we’ll take keer o’ ye in good shape. We’ve made up our minds ye belong to us fer good, me ’n’ Mandy,” he added, smiling at Chip, “an’ I shall go with ye to Christmas Cove, if Cap’n Bemis ain’t improvin’, ’n’ find ye a boardin’ place.”
“I’m awful sorry to hear ’bout the Cap’n,” interrupted Aunt Mandy, as if the other matter and Chip’s future were settled definitely; “but if he drops off, Aunt Abby must come here fer good. I dunno but it’ll be a relief,” she added, looking at Uncle Jud and sighing. “’Twa’n’t no love-match in the first place, ’n’ Abby’s mind’s always been sot on your brother Cyrus, ’n’ she never quite gin up the idee he was alive.”
And now a sudden faintness came to Chip as the chasm in her own life was thus opened. Only one instant she faltered, and then her defiant courage rose supreme and she took the plunge.
“Oh, your brother Cyrus isn’t dead, Uncle Jud,” she exclaimed, “he’s alive and I know him. I’ve known it all summer and dare not tell because I’m a miserable coward and couldn’t own up that I lied to you. My name isn’t Raymond, it’s McGuire; and my father was a murderer, and I’mnobody and fit for nobody. I know you’ll all despise me now and I deserve it. I’m willing to go away, though,” and the next instant she was kneeling before Uncle Jud and sobbing.
It had all come in a brief torrent of pitiful confession which few would be brave enough to make.
To Chip, seeing herself as she did, it meant loss of love, home, respect, and all else she now valued, and that she must become a homeless wanderer once more.
But Uncle Jud thought otherwise, for now he drew the sobbing girl into his lap.
“Quit takin’ on so, girlie,” he said, choking back a lump; “why, we’ll all love ye ten times more fer all this, an’ ez fer bein’ a nobody, ye’re a blessed angel to us fer bringin’ the news ye hev.” And then he kissed her, while Aunt Mandy wiped her eyes on her apron.
The shower, violent for a moment, was soon over; for as Chip raised her wet eyes, a sunshiny smile illumined Uncle Jud’s face.
“If Cyrus is alive,” he said, “as ye callate, I’ll thank God till I set eyes on him, and then I think I’ll lick him fer not huntin’ me up all these years.”
“But mebbe he found Abby was married ’n’didn’t want to,” interposed Aunt Mandy. “We mustn’t judge him yet.”
“No, I won’t judge him,” asserted Uncle Jud; “I’ll jest cuff him, good ’n’ hard, an’ let it go at that.
“Ez fer you, girlie, an’ jest to set yer mind at rest, we found out what your right name was and where ye run away from last fall, but never let on to nobody. ’Twas your business and nobody else’s, an’ made no difference in our feelin’s, ez ye must see; an’ now I’ll tell ye how I found out.
“I was down to the Corners one day arter ye went to Christmas Cove, ’n’ a feller–nice-lookin’ feller, too, with honest brown eyes–was askin’ if anybody had seen or heard o’ a runaway girl by the name o’ McGuire. Said she’d run away from Greenvale–’That’s ’bout a hundred miles from here,’ he said–an’ he was huntin’ for her. Nobody at the Corners knew about ye ’n’ I kept still, believin’ ye had reason fer not wantin’ to be found out.”
And now another tide–the thrill of love–surged in Chip’s heart, and her face became glorified.
And so the clouds rolled away. That night Chip wrote a brief but curious letter, so odd, in fact, it must be quoted verbatim:–
“Quit takin’ on so, girlie,” he said.
“Quit takin’ on so, girlie,” he said.
Mr. Martin Frisbie,“Please send word at once to Mr. Cyrus Walker that his brother Judson, who lives in Riggsville, wants to see him. No one else must be told of this, for it’s a secret.“One who Knows.”
Mr. Martin Frisbie,
“One who Knows.”
But Chip’s secret was a most transparent one, for when this missive reached Martin three days later, he recognized its angular penmanship and similarity to the note Aunt Comfort still treasured, and knew that Chip wrote it.
It startled him somewhat, however, for Old Cy’s youthful history was unknown to him, and suspecting that some mystery lay beneath this information, he told no one, but started for Riggsville at once.
The tide of emotion that had upset the even tenor of Uncle Jud’s home life slowly ebbed away, and a keen sense of expectancy took its place.
Chip, after giving him her letter, explained that Old Cy was most likely in the wilderness, and that the letter might not reach him for weeks.
And then one day a broad-shouldered, rather commanding, and somewhat citified man drove up to the home of Uncle Jud.
“Does Mr. Judson Walker live here?” he inquired of Aunt Mandy, who met him at the door.
Her admission of that fact was scarce uttered when there came a rustling of skirts, a “Why, Mr. Frisbie!” and Chip was beside her, at which Martin, collected man of the world that he was, felt an unusual heart-throb of thankfulness.
A little later, when Uncle Jud had been summoned into their newly furnished “keeping room,” disclosures astonishing to all followed.
“We have been searching for you, Chip, far and near,” Martin assured them, “and Old Cy is still at it. He left us at the camp, almost a year ago, came to Greenvale, found you had run away, and came back to tell us. It upset us all so that we broke camp at once, taking Amzi with us, and returned to Greenvale. Old Cy there bade us good-bye and started to find you. Ray also began a search as well. I’ve advertised in dozens of papers, have kept Levi on watch for you at Grindstone ever since, and now I hope you will return with me to Greenvale.”
“I thank you all, oh, so much,” answered Chip, scared a little at this proposal, “but I don’t want to. I’m nobody there and never can be. I’d be ashamed to face folks there any more.”
“I guess she best stay with us,” put in Uncle Jud, “fer we sorter ’dopted her, ’n’ not meanin’ no disrespect to you folks, I callate she’ll be more content here. I’d like ye to get word to Cyrus, though, soon’s possible. I hain’t sot eyes on him fer forty years, ’n’,” his eyes twinkling, “I’m jest spilin’ to pull his hair ’n’ cuff him.”
“I will help out in that matter at once, and more than gladly,” replied Martin, again looking at Chip and noting how improved she was; “but I still think Miss Runaway had better return with me. We need you, Chip,” he continued earnestly, “and so does some else I can name, more than you imagine, I fancy, and my wife will welcome you with open arms, you may be sure. As for that foolish Hannah, she’s the most penitent person in Greenvale. There’s another reason still,” he added, glancing around with a smile, “and no one is more glad of it than we all are. It’s a sixty-thousand-dollar reason–your heritage, Miss Vera McGuire, for your father is dead, and that amount is now in the Riverton Savings Bank awaiting you.”
Martin had expected this news to be overpowering, and a “Good God!” from Uncle Jud, and a gasping “Land sakes!” from Aunt Mandy, proved that it was.
Chip’s face, however, was a study. First she grew pale, then flashed a scared glance from one to another of the three who watched her, and then almost did her shame and hatred of this vile parent find expression.
“I’m glad he–no, I won’t say so, for he was my father,” she exclaimed; “but I want Old Cy to have some of the money, and Uncle Jud here, and you folks, all. I was a pauper long enough,” and then, true to her instinct of how to escape from trouble, she ran out of the room.
“She’s a curis gal,” asserted Uncle Jud, looking after her as if feeling that she needed explanation, “the most curis gal I ever saw. But we can’t let her go, money or no money, Mr. Frisbie. I found her one night upon top o’ Bangall Hill. She was so starved an’ beat out from trampin’ she couldn’t hardly crawl up on to the wagon, ’n’ yet she said she wouldn’t be helped ’thout she could arn it. I think she’s like folks we read about, who starve ruther’n beg. But she kin have all we’ve got some day, an’ we jest can’t let her go.”
And Martin, realizing its futility, made no further protest.
Something of chagrin also came to him, for, broad-minded as he was, he realized how partialneglect, the narrow religious prejudice of Greenvale, and unwise notice of her childish ideas about spites and Old Tomah’s superstitions had all conspired to drive her away. She was honest and self-respecting, “true blue,” as Old Cy had said, grateful as a fawning dog for all that had been done for her, and in spite of her origin, a circumstance that carried no weight with Martin, she was one, he believed, who would develop into splendid womanhood. That she was well on her way toward that goal, her improved speech and devotion to these new friends gave ample evidence.
And now Ray’s position in this complex situation occurred to Martin; for this young man’s interest in Chip and almost heart-broken grief over her disappearance had long since betrayed his attachment.
“I suppose you may have guessed that there was a love-affair mixed up with this episode,” he said to the two somewhat dazed people.
“I callated thar was, that fust night,” Uncle Jud responded, his eyes twinkling again, “an’ told Mandy so. ’Twas that more’n anything else kept us from quizzin’ the gal. I knowed by her face she had heart trouble, ’n’ I’ve seen the cause on’t.”
“You have,” exclaimed Martin, astonished in turn, “for Heaven’s sake, where?”
“Oh, down to the Corners, ’most a year ago, ’n’ a likely boy he was, too.”
“And never told her?”
“No, why should I, thinkin’ she’d run away from him. We didn’t want to spile her plans. We found out, though, her name was McGuire, but never let on till she told us a spell ago.” And then Uncle Jud told the story of Ray’s arrival in Riggsville in search of Chip.
“That fellow is my nephew, Raymond Stetson,” rejoined Martin with pride, “he also is an orphan, and I have adopted him. Chip has no cause to be ashamed of his attachment.”
“I don’t callate she is,” replied Uncle Jud. “’Tain’t that that jinerally makes a gal kick over the traces. Mebbe ’twas suthin some o’ you folks said.” And then a new light came to Martin.
“Mr. Walker,” he answered impressively, “in every village there is always a meddlesome old maid who invariably says things she’d better not, and ours is no exception. In this case it was a dependent of our family who took a dislike to Chip, it seems, and her escapade was its outcome.”
“Wal, ye’ve got to hev charity for ’em,” replied Uncle Jud with a broad smile. “Never havin’ suffered the joys ’n’ sorrows o’ love, they look at itsorter criss-cross, an’ mebbe this ’un did. Old maids are a good deal like cider–nat’raly turn into vinegar. What wimmin need more’n all the rest is bein’ loved, ’n’ if they don’t get it, they sour up in time an’ ain’t no comfort to themselves nor nobody else. Then ag’in, not havin’ no man nor no babies to look arter, they take to coddlin’ cats ’n’ dogs ’n’ parrots, which ain’t nat’ral.”
“I think,” continued Uncle Jud, “now that we’ve turned another furrow, you’d best stop a day or two with us, ’n’ sorter git ’quainted. We’ll be mighty glad to hev ye, me an’ Mandy, an’ then ag’in thar’s a lot o’ good trout holes up the brook. We hev plenty to eat, ’n’ mebbe a few days here in Peaceful Valley’ll sorter reconcile ye to leavin’ the gal with us.” And nothing loath, Martin accepted.
Aunt Mandy and Chip now bestirred themselves as never before. The dressmaker was left to her own resources, Martin and Uncle Jud rigged fish-poles and started for the brook. Chip, with pail in hand, hurried away to the fields, and when teatime arrived, the big platter of crisp fried trout, saucers filled with luscious blackberries, and ample shortcake of the same with cream that poured in clots, assured Martin that these people did indeed have plenty to eat.
“How did this come to be named Peaceful Valley?” he queried, when they had all gathered around the table. “It’s very appropriate.”
“Wal,” answered Uncle Jud, “we got it from a feller that come up here paintin’ picturs one summer, an’,” chuckling, “’twas all we got for a month’s board, at that. He was a sort o’ skimpy critter, with long hair, kinder pale, and chawed tobacco stiddy. He ’lowed his name was Grahame, that he was in the show business ’n’ gittin’ backgrounds, as he called ’em, fer show picturs. He roved up ’n’ down the brook, puttin’ rocks ’n’ trees ’n’ waterfalls on paper, allus gittin’ ’round reg’lar ’bout meal-time–must ’a’ gained twenty pounds while here. An’ then one mornin’ he was missin’, ’n’ so was Aunt Mandy’s gold thimble ’n’ all her silver spoons. She’d sorter took to him, too, he was that palaverin’ in his way.”
There now ensued a series a questions from Uncle Jud in regard to Old Cy–how long Martin had known him, and all that pertained to his history.
It was gladly recited by Martin, together with all the strange happenings in the wilderness, the finding of Chip, the half-breed’s pursuit and abduction of her, and much else that has been told.
It was almost midnight ere Martin was shown tothe best front chamber, and even then he lay awake an hour, listening to the steady prattle of a near-by brook and thinking of all that had happened.
A tone of regret crept into his voice, however, when, after thanking Uncle Jud and Aunt Mandy, and bidding them good-bye, he addressed Chip.
“I wish I could take you back with me,” he said, “your return would be such a blessing to Aunt Comfort and my wife. You may not believe it, but you are dear to them both. I must insist that you at least pay us a visit soon. Here is your bank book,” he added, presenting it. “You are rich now, or at least need never want, for which we are all grateful. And what about Ray?” he added, pausing to watch her. “What shall I say to him? Shall I tell him to come and see you?”
Chip shook her head firmly. “No, no,” she answered, “please don’t do that. Some day I may feel different, but not now.”
Sadnews arrived in Peaceful Valley a week later, for Captain Bemis had passed on, Aunt Abby was in lonely sorrow, and wrote for Chip to come at once.
Her fate was now linked with these people. Aunt Abby had been kind and helpful, and Chip, more than glad to return a little of the obligation, hurried to Christmas Cove.
It was a solemn and silent house she now entered. Aunt Abby, despite the fact that it was not a love-match, mourned her departed companion. The mill’s pertinent silence added gloom, and Chip’s smiling face and affectionate interest was more than welcome to Aunt Abby.
And now that concealment was no longer needed, Chip hastened to tell her story in full.
How utterly Aunt Abby was astonished, how breathlessly she listened to Chip’s recital, and how, when the climax came and Chip assured her that good Old Cy Walker was still alive, Aunt Abby collapsed entirely, sobbing and thanking God all at once, is but a sidelight on this tale.
“I couldn’t tell you before,” Chip assured her, while her own tears still flowed. “I was so ashamed and guilty all in one, I couldn’t bear to. I never did so mean a thing in all my life, and never will again. But when Uncle Jud told me what you didn’t, and how much he cared for me, and how you once cared for Uncle Cy, I went all to pieces and told the whole story and sent word to Uncle Cy that day. I feel so guilty now, and so mean, I don’t see how you can forgive me.”
But Aunt Abby’s forgiveness was not slow in coming. The past ten days of sorrow had left her heart very tender. In spite of being “book-larned,” she was very humane. Chip’s sad life and misfortunes appealed to her, as they had to Uncle Jud, and true Christian woman that she was, her heart opened to Chip.
“I hope we shall never be parted while I live,” she said, as the tears came again. “I have no children, and no one to live for but my sister. I am so wonted to Christmas Cove, I could not feel at home anywhere else. If Uncle Jud will consent, I will adopt you legally, and when I am laid away, all I have shall be yours.”
And so Chip McGuire, waif of the wilderness, child of an outlaw, once sold to a human brute, yetfighting her way upward and onward to a better life, despite every drawback, now found a home and mother.
No light of education had illumined her pathway, no Christian teaching and no home example, only the inborn and God-given impulse of purity, self-respect, and gratitude; and yet, like a bud forcing its way up out of a muck heap and into the sunshine, so Chip had emerged to win respect and love.
But all her history is not told yet. She still lacked even a common education. There was still an old man seeking to find her, who was yet wandering afar. A homeless, almost friendless old man was he, whose life had gone amiss, and whose sole ambition was to do for her and find content in her happiness. A wanderer and recluse for many years, he was still more so now, and out of place as well among the busy haunts of men. More than that, he was an object of curiosity to all grown people and the jest of the young, as he tramped up and down the land in search of Chip.
And what a pitiful quest it was,–this asking the same question thousands of times, this lingering in towns to watch mill operatives file out, this peering into stores and marts, to go on again, and repeat it for months and months.
There was still another link in this chain,–a boy, so far as experience goes, who was only deterred from unwise haste by a cool-headed man.
“You had better not go to Chip now,” Martin said to him on his return from Peaceful Valley. “She is an odd child of nature, and you won’t lose by waiting. My advice to you is to forget her for the present, find some profitable occupation, and then, when you have made a little advancement in life, go and woo her if you can. To try it now is foolish.”
It was cold comfort for Ray.
One of Chip’s first acts of emancipation was to write to Aunt Comfort and Angie, assuring both of her love and best wishes, and thanking them for all they had done. Both letters were cramped in chirography but correct in spelling, and in Angie’s was a note for Martin, asking that he draw one hundred dollars of her money and send it to her, and as much more to pay some one to follow Old Cy. The latter request Martin ignored, however, for he had already set the machinery of newspaperdom at work, and an advertisement for information of that wanderer was flying far and wide.
Of the money sent her, Chip made odd and quite characteristic uses, only one of which needs mention,–thepurchase of a banjo. Had Ray known this, and that the tender memory it invoked was the reason for this investment, he would have had less cause for grief. But Ray did not, which was all the better for him.
And now, while she is in good company at Christmas Cove, with Mr. Bell, syntax, decimal fractions, the planetary system, and divisions of the earth six hours of each school day, or with Aunt Abby sewing, or picking at the banjo, or attending church, we must leave Chip and follow Old Cy.
With a hunter’s instinct he had calculated that Chip would head for the place of her birth, and then, if possible, send word to either himself or the Indian. That she had made way with herself he did not consider probable. She was not of that fibre, he felt positive; but instead, would make her own way across country, working, if need be, to obtain food and shelter until she at last reached the one spot nearest her heart,–her mother’s grave.
Believing this of her, and judging rightly, he left Greenvale, and, as it happened, twice crossed and once followed the very route she had taken for miles. That he failed to hear of her from the many he asked was solely due to accident, added to her own caution in avoiding all observant eyes.
And what an almost hopeless and interminable tramp he took! Back and forth across the section of country she was likely to follow for weeks and weeks, halting a day in every village and two or three in each city, asking the same question over and over again, until his indomitable courage and almost deathless faith slowly ebbed away.
Autumn came, the leaves grew scarlet and brown, snow followed, and winter locked all streams, and still Old Cy journeyed on. Spring and sunshine once more warmed the earth into life, the fields grew green, and yet he paused not.
With June and the real beginning of summer, however, came a new inspiration, which was to go at once by rail and stage to Chip’s native town and learn if, perchance, she, or any news of her, had reached this village.
Another thought also came with this,–that Martin might soon again visit the woods and perhaps he could intercept him.
A little satisfaction was obtained by this advance move, for when this village was reached, Levi was found waiting.
“I’ve been watchin’ for the gal over eight months now, under pay from Mr. Frisbie,” he assured Old Cy when they met. “I also sent word to Old Tomahlate last fall, ’n’ he came out o’ the woods ’n’ stayed here two months, but nothin’s been heard o’ poor Chip by any one, ’n’ I doubt ever will be.”
“Mebbe not yet,” answered Old Cy, “but thar will be some day, an’ here, too. She hadn’t a cent when she left Greenvale–only grit, ’n’ it’s a long ways here fer a gal what’s got to arn her vittles while she’s trampin’. It may be one year, it may be two, but some day Chip’ll show up here, if she lives to do it. I callate I’d best wait here a few weeks tho’, an’ then, if nothin’ turns up, I’ll start ag’in.”
Nothing did, however; but during his stay, Old Cy learned that Chip’s entire history, from the night she left Tim’s Place until she ran away from Greenvale, was known at this village. This fact was of no value whatever, except to prove the universal interest all humanity has in the fate and fortune of one another.
“I never told what happened in the woods,” Levi responded when Old Cy questioned him, “an’ didn’t need to, for it got here ’fore I did. I jest ’lowed it was true, ’n’ that I was hired to wait and watch here for Chip. It’s curis, too, how everybody here feels ’bout it. They’re a poorish sort here, families o’ lumbermen, men that work in the sawmills, some farmin’, an’ all findin’ it hard work to gita livin’. An’ yet they’re so interested in Chip ’n’ so sorry for her, if she shows up now she’d be carried ’round the village like some queen ’ud be, with everybody follerin’. Thar’s ’nother curis thing happened since I’ve been here that I’d never believed o’ these people neither. I told them, of course, who I was, ’n’ what I was here for, ’n’ who was payin’ me, when I come, an’ then as time kinder went slow, I began huntin’ some ’round here. Wal, thar’s a little graveyard up back o’ the village ’n’ all growed up to weeds ’n’ bushes, an’ one day last fall I happened to be lookin’ it over ’n’ somebody come ’long. It was a man that keeps store here, an’ I asked him if ’twas here Chip’s mother was buried. He said ’twas, an’ pointed out the spot ’way up in one corner, ’thout any stone, ’n’ the mound most hid in a tangle. I didn’t say nothin’–jest looked, an’ went on, ’n’ that was all. Wal, the curis part is last spring they sot a couple o’ men to work cleanin’ up the graveyard o’ bushes an’ laid out walks ’n’ built a new fence ’round it. That one unmarked grave got the most attention o’ all, for they turfed it over nice and built a little fence ’round it. I kinder callated how ’n’ why it all come ’bout, ’n’ feelin’ I oughter do suthin, I had a little stun sot up with Chip’s mother’s name on it.”
But time also went “kinder slow” for Old Cy, and as the date for Martin’s probable coming had now passed, he finally yielded to Levi’s suggestion and the call of the wilderness as well, and the two started for Martin’s camp.
It was almost like a pilgrimage to one’s boyhood home; for while scarce a year had elapsed since Old Cy and Martin’s party left it, Nature, always seeking to hide human handiwork, had been busy, and the garden was a tangle of weeds. Amzi’s old cabin was almost hid by bushes, the walks were choked with them, and a colony of squirrels frisked about, and now, alarmed at human presence, added a touch of pathos.
One act of vandalism was in evidence, for some wandering trappers had apparently used the larger cabin the previous season. Its floor was littered with all manner of débris, the bones of a deer mouldered in the woodshed, and a family of porcupines had also found the premises available. The impression conveyed by the entire spot and its surroundings made even Levi gloomy, while Old Cy scarce spoke the entire first day there, except to exclaim at “varmints” who would break locks, use the cabin for months, and then leave a litter of garbage to draw vermin.
“It’s curis how near to hogs ’n’ hyenas a few humans are,” he said as he looked around and saw how these vandals had behaved. “They wa’n’t satisfied with burglin’ the cabin, turnin’ it into a pig-pen, stealin’ all they could carry off, but they was so durned lazy, they smashed up the furniture to burn.”
For a few days only these two fine old backwoodsmen tarried here, and then Old Cy proposed departure.
“I can’t take no comfort here, nohow,” he said, “for the premises seem ha’nted. Whichever way I turn I ’spect to meet Amzi with his moon eyes, or see Chip watchin’ me, or Angie steppin’ out o’ the cabin. If I stayed here long, I’d see Chip’s spites crawlin’ out o’ the bushes soon ez it got dusky. I’m used to the woods, but this spot seems like a graveyard.
“I never done no prayin’,” he added sadly. “I don’t b’lieve in’t. But if I could set eyes on Chip this minit, I’d go right down on my knees ’n’ say, ’Thank God for this blessin’.’ I’m ’fraid I never will, though.”
The next morning these two friends left this abode of unseen forms, more disconsolate than ever. They halted at Tim’s Place long enough to learn that notidings of McGuire or the half-breed had even reached that filthy station, and then returned to the settlement once more. Here Old Cy waited until the summer waned, vainly hoping each day would at least bring some word from Martin or Chip, and then bade Levi good-bye, and departed.
He had been gone a week, a wandering tramp once more, when Ray appeared, bearing the glad news that Chip had been found. And also another and a more astounding fact.
But Old Cy was not there.