Life, always colorless at Christmas Cove, except in midsummer, now became changed for Aunt Abby. For all the years since her one girlish romance had ended, she had been a patient helpmate to a man she merely respected. Religion had been her chief solace. The annual visit to her sister’s gave the only relief to this motionless life, monotonous as the tides sweeping in and out of the cove; but now a counter-current slowly flowed into it.
Chip, of course, with her winsome eyes and grateful ways, was its mainspring, and so checkered had been her career and so humiliating all her past experiences, that now, escaped from dependence and feeling herself a valued companion, she tasted a new and joyous life. So true was this, that hard lessons at school, the regularity of church-going, and the unvarying tenor of it all seemed less by comparison.
Another undercurrent, aside from Chip’s devotion, also swept into Aunt Abby’s feelings,–the strange emotions following the knowledge that her former lover was still alive. For many years shehad waited and hoped for this sailor boy’s return; then her heart had grown silent, as hope slowly ebbed, and then, almost forgetfulness–but not quite, however, for the long, lily-dotted mill-pond just above had now and then been visited by them. A certain curiously grown oak which was secluded near its upper end was once a trysting-place, and even the old mill with its plashing wheel held memories.
And now after forty years, during which she had become gray-haired and slightly wrinkled, all these memories returned like ghosts of long ago. No word or hint of them fell from her lips, not even to Chip, who was now nearest to her; and yet had that girl been a mind-reader, she would have seen that Aunt Abby’s persistent interest in all she had to tell about Old Cy meant something. Where he was now, how soon he would learn that his brother was still alive after all these years, was the one most pertinent subject oft discussed.
How Chip felt toward him, not alone for the heritage he had secured for her, but for other and more valued heart interests, need not be specified. He had seemed almost a father to her at the lake. He was the first of her new-found friends whose feelings had warmed toward her, and Chip was nowmature enough to value these blessings at their true worth.
A certain mutual expectancy now entered the lives of Chip and Aunt Abby. Nothing could be done, however. Old Cy had gone out into the wide, wide world, as it were, searching for the little girl he loved. No manner of reaching him seemed possible; and yet, some day, he must learn what would bring him to them as fast as steam could fetch him.
“I know that he loved me as his own child there at the lake,” Chip said once in an exultant tone. “His going after me proves it; and once he hears where I am, he will hurry here, I know.”
Whether Aunt Abby’s heart responded to that wish or not, she never disclosed.
But the days, weeks, and months swept by, and Old Cy came not. Neither did any message come to Chip from Greenvale. At first, rebelling at Ray’s treatment of her, Chip felt that she never wanted to see him again. She had been so tender and loving toward him at the lake, had striven so hard to learn and to be more like him, had waited and watched, counting the days until his return, only to be told what she could not forget and to find him so neglectful, so cool to her, when her girlish heart was so full of love, that her feelings had changedalmost in one instant, and pride had made her bitter.
Hannah had told an unpleasant truth, as Chip knew well enough; but truth and confiding love mixed illy, and Ray’s conduct, leaving her as he did with scarce a word or promise, was an episode that had chilled and almost killed Chip’s budding affection. As is always the case, such a feeling fades and flares like all others. There would now be a brief space when Chip hoped and longed for Ray’s coming, and then days when no thought of him came.
It was perhaps fortunate for him that Christmas Cove contained no serious admirer of Chip the while, else his cause and all memory of him would have been swept away. But that quaint village was peopled chiefly by old folk, those of the male persuasion being quite young, with a few girls of Chip’s age. Few young men remained there to make their way, and so no added interest came to vary Chip’s life.
The coming of summer, however, brought the annual influx of city boarders once more. First came elderly ladies, more anxious about suitable rooms and food than aught else, and then came the younger ones, whose gowns and their display appearedthe only motive for existence. A few young men followed in their wake. Now and then a small yacht anchored in the mouth of the cove. The long wharf became a rendezvous for promenaders, tennis courts were established, and gay costumes, bright parasols, and astounding hats were in evidence.
It was all a new and fascinating panorama for Chip. Never before had she seen such butterflies of fashion, who glanced at her and her more modest raiment almost with scorn, and scarce conscious of them, she looked on with awe and admiration.
The old mill, the quaint house where she dwelt, and especially the long pond, now sprinkled thickly with lilies, became a Mecca for these newcomers, and not a pleasant day passed but from two to a dozen of them came trooping about and around it. They peered into the mill, exclaimed over the great dripping wheel, and almost shouted at the sight of the white blossoms on the pond.
One day a bevy of laughing and chattering girls with one gallant in white flannels approached the mill while Chip in calico was kneeling beside a flower-bed. She looked up at once and saw her erstwhile admirer at Peaceful Valley, Mr. Goodnow. One instant only their eyes met, his to turn quickly away, and then Chip, coloring at the slight, roseand entered the house. Once safe in this asylum, womanlike, she hastened to peep out at the arrivals. They halted for only a glance about and then, their protector (?) still in the lead, vanished behind the mill.
The next afternoon, just as Chip was returning from the village store, she met Mr. Goodnow again, this time alone.
With a bow and smile he raised his hat and halted.
“Why, Miss Raymond,” he exclaimed eagerly, “I am so glad to meet you again. Are you visiting here, and when did you leave Peaceful Valley?”
“I am living here now,” returned Chip, coolly, continuing on her way, “where you saw me yesterday.”
“Oh, yes,” he answered, not the least abashed, “and you must pardon me for not recognizing you then. It’s been a year, you know, since I saw you, and you have changed so in that time.”
“Of course,” responded Chip, her eyes snapping, “you couldn’t remember me so long. Why don’t you tell the truth and say you didn’t dare know me before those ladies?”
“Why, Miss Raymond, you wrong me; but I admire your frankness–it is so unusual among your charming sex!”
“Then you did know me,” she returned sarcastically, “I knew well enough, and if they were with you now, you wouldn’t know me. I’m no fool, if I do wear calico.”
It was blunt. It was truthful. It was Chip all over; but this polished rake never winced.
“I never dispute a lady,” he answered suavely; “it doesn’t pay. Besides, I have found they all prefer sweet lies instead of truth. And now I will admit you looked so charming as you raised your face from among the flowers that I was dazed and didn’t think to bow.”
“You weren’t so dazed but that you managed to get away in a hurry.”
“Why, of course, I was piloting my friends up to the lily pond,” he returned, still unruffled, “and much as I desired, I couldn’t pause to visit with you.”
They had now reached Chip’s home. She halted at the gate, turned, and looked at him.
“I hope we may be friends, now that you have scolded me enough,” he added. “I had a delightful week with you last summer. I’ve lived it over many times. May I not call here to-morrow, and you and I will gather some of the lilies?”
A droll smile crept over Chip’s face at this.
“Yes, if you will bring your lady friends also,” she answered. And with a “Thank you,” and raising his hat once more, this smooth-spoken fellow, impervious to sarcasm, turned away.
“Who was the young man?” Aunt Abby queried, when Chip entered the house.
“It’s a Mr. Goodnow, who spent a week with Uncle Jud,” she answered, smiling. “He came by here yesterday with three ladies and was close to me when I was working in my posy bed. He made out he didn’t remember me then, when I met him this afternoon. I guess I was saucy to him. I meant to be. He wouldn’t take it, and walked home with me.”
Aunt Abby looked surprised.
“I hope you weren’t really saucy,” she answered, “that wouldn’t have been becoming.”
Mr. Goodnow appeared next day, not at all disturbed, and Chip, a little more gracious, consented to gather lilies with him. The leaky punt that had served for that purpose many years was bailed out. He manned the oars. Chip bared one rounded arm, and, thus equipped, two really enjoyable hours were passed.
As Uncle Jud had said, he was a “slick talker.” Truth was not considered by him; instead, subtileflatteries were his stock in trade, and Chip, for the first time in her life, felt their insidious influence. She was in no wise deceived. Her woman’s wit and good sense detected the sham, and caring not one whit for him, she responded as saucily as she chose. It was not, perhaps, quite ladylike, but Chip was not as yet a polished lady; instead, she was a decidedly blunt-spoken girl who enjoyed exasperating this fashionable Lothario.
And never before had he met her like or one so fearless of speech.
“You are the sauciest girl I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,” he said, as they drew up to the landing and began sorting the lilies. “I didn’t notice it so much last summer; and yet you are no less charming, mainly because you are so frank. Most ladies whom I know are not so. They are arrant hypocrites and not one assertion in ten can be taken at its face value.”
“You seem to have been an apt scholar,” Chip responded, smiling. “If you like my blunt speech, as you say, why don’t you imitate it and be truthful for once in your life?”
“I dare not. No man ever yet won a woman’s favor by plain speech.”
“And so you want my favor. What for? I amnot of your sort. I do not spend my life playing golf and tennis and wearing fine clothes.”
“But you ought to. You have the face and form required, and once you got into the swim of society, you would become a leader.”
Chip greeted this with a laugh. “Do you plaster it on as thick as that with every one,” she queried, “and will they stand it?”
“Why, yes,” he chuckled, “and almost beg for more. My ladies thrive on flattery, and unless a man doles it out to them, they think him stupid.”
When he had helped her out of the boat, holding and pressing her hand unduly long she thought, he gathered up the lilies and, with a graceful bow and “Sweets to the sweet,” offered them to her.
“I don’t want them,” she answered bluntly. “Take them to your arrant hypocrites and tell them a girl you couldn’t fool sent ’em.” And nonplussed a little at this speech, but still smiling, he followed Chip to the house. At the gate he halted and their eyes met.
“I’ve had a most charming morning, for which I thank you,” he said. And drawing two of the largest blooms from the bunch of lilies, he laid the rest on the gate-post. “You will have to take them,” he added. “And now I have something else topropose. I own a small yacht. It is anchored down near the wharf. How would you like a sail to-morrow? I shall be highly pleased to have you for my guest. Will you go?”
But Chip was not caught so easily.
“I’ll go if you will ask Aunt Abby also,” she answered, “not otherwise.”
“Why, of course,” he responded graciously, “that is understood.”
And still unruffled by this parting evidence of distrust, he bowed himself away.
“A girl with a new ring allus hez trouble with her hair.” –Old Cy Walker.
Asmight be expected, Chip gave Aunt Abby a full recital of her morning’s episode as soon as she entered the house, and with it her comments upon this smooth-spoken young man.
“He reeled off flattery by the yard,” she said, “and no matter how I took it, or how sharply I set him back, he kept at it. The way he piled it on was almost funny, just as though he thought I believed it. Of course I didn’t, not a word, and what’s more I wouldn’t trust him farther than I could see him. He’s got shifty eyes, and Cy once told me never to believe a man with such eyes. He wants me to go sailing with him to-morrow, and I said I would go if you were asked. I knew you wouldn’t go, however.”
“Of course not,” answered Aunt Abby, severely, “and his asking you in such a way was almost an insult. If he had meant well, he would have said he was taking other friends out and would haveasked us both to join them. I should not have consented to that even, however. These summer people are not our sort, and to accept such favors from them is to put ourselves in a fair way of being laughed at. I would advise, also, that you have no more to say to this young man. It will not reflect credit upon you if you do.”
That afternoon, while Chip practised upon her banjo, it being vacation time, Aunt Abby called upon several neighbors with news-gathering intent. She succeeded to the fullest, and that evening related it to Chip.
“This Mr. Goodnow has been here about two weeks,” she said, “and is boarding at Captain Perkins’s. He came in a small steam yacht he claims he owns, and has been going about with three ladies who are stopping at the Mix House. Two of them are sisters, the Misses Wilson, and a Mrs. Simpson, a widow. He seems the most devoted to the widow. They have been out driving quite often, and once or twice she has been sailing with him alone. It’s all right, of course, only she being a good deal older than he is, makes it seem curious. When he calls here to-morrow, as I suppose he will, I’d better see him.”
He called quite early the next morning, as may beguessed, and a more picture-book yachtsman Aunt Abby never set eyes upon. His white duck shoes, trousers, and cap, white flannel coat, dark blue silk shirt, jaunty sailor tie and russet belt, all completed an attire so spick and span that it seemed that he must have just emerged from a tailor shop.
But Aunt Abby was not awed overmuch. She had seen his like before, and met him at her door with serene self-possession.
“I am Mr. Goodnow,” he explained with easy assurance, “and Miss Raymond has kindly consented to accept a few hours’ enjoyment in my yacht if you will also honor me.” And he bowed again.
“We thank you very much, sir,” Aunt Abby responded stiffly, “but I must decline for us both. We should hardly care to accept hospitalities which we could not return.”
“I regret it very much,” he answered in a hurt tone, “and assure you I am the one to feel obligated.” And then, as Aunt Abby drew back, and the door began to close very slowly, he bowed and retreated in good order.
But he was not to be thus checkmated, and from now on he began to watch for chances to intercept and accost Chip.
It was, and always had been, a part of her natureto be out of doors as much as possible, and since the close of school she was out more than ever. Somewhat akin to Old Cy in love of Nature, the fields, woods, and streams had always attracted her, and at Christmas Cove the sea added a new charm to which she yielded nearly every pleasant day. And her steps led her far and wide.
Down to the seldom-used wharf to watch the tide ebb and flow between its mussel-coated piles, over the broad-rippled sands of the cove when the tide left them bare, around to the long, rocky barrier beyond the cove where the sea waves dashed, were her favorite strolls.
The next afternoon she strayed to where the ocean spray was leaping. She had scarce reached her favorite lookout spot, a shaded cliff, when she saw Goodnow approaching.
Her first impulse was to return home at once, the next to remain.
She did not fear him, he seemed such an effeminate, foppish sort of man, that lithe and strong as she was, she felt she could outrun him, or, if need be, throw him into the sea. And so she waited, cool and indifferent. Although conscious that he was nearing her, she never turned her head until he was beside her. Then she looked up.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, raising his hat, “but may I share this cliff with you?” And he seated himself near.
“It isn’t mine,” answered Chip, rather ungraciously, “so there’s no need to ask.”
“But every lady has a right to decline a gentleman’s company wherever she is,” he responded in his usual suave tone. “I saw you coming here, and I’ll admit I was bold enough to follow.”
“And what for?” she answered, in her blunt way, “I never invited you.”
“No, you didn’t, and I never expect you will. But you are such a saucy, fascinating little wood-nymph that I couldn’t help it. I am sorry, though, that you and your worthy aunt refused my yacht yesterday. I wanted an opportunity to get better acquainted with her and yourself as well, and thought that a good way.
“Do you love the ocean,” he continued, as Chip made no response, “and is this village your real home, or do you reside at Peaceful Valley?”
“I live here now,” returned Chip, resolving to be brief in all her answers and hoping he would betake himself away.
She did not like him, nor his smooth, polished speech. She felt that it was all affected, and thatat heart he meant no good toward her. Then his failure to recognize her when with his lady friends still rankled. She knew well enough that he dared not admit acquaintance with a calico-clad country girl at that moment. And what the gossips of Christmas Cove insinuated about him and this widow awoke her contempt.
Totally unused to the ways of fashionable society as she was, for him to play court to a widow evidently ten or fifteen years his senior seemed unnatural.
His almost nauseating and persistent flattery of herself was equally objectionable. All this flashed over her now while he was talking.
“You must find it lonesome here,” he said, in response to her admission; “but perhaps you have a beau, a sweetheart, somewhere, whom you care for.”
Chip colored slightly, but made no answer.
“I’m sure you haven’t here,” he went on, “for I’ve not seen an eligible fellow native to this village since I came.” He paused a moment, awaiting an admission, and then continued: “How do you pass the time, anyway, and isn’t life here monotonous? Don’t you long for some excitement, some fun, some color to it all? I’ve watched these villagersnow for three weeks and their lives seem so prosy, so dead slow, it is painful. They get up, eat, chase the cows and chickens, hoe in the gardens, mow hay, and every blessed woman wears the same calico gown six days in the week. Sundays they all spruce up, go to meeting, and the next week repeat the programme. Isn’t it so?”
“I presume it is,” answered Chip, with rising ire; “but if folks here weren’t satisfied, they could move away, couldn’t they? And if it’s all so dull, what did you come here for? Nobody asked you, did they?”
“No,” he responded, laughing, “no one did, and no one will miss me when I go–not even you. The only redeeming feature is that they all seem willing to take my money.”
“Would you stay if they weren’t,” she returned, still more hotly, “would you sponge on us folks and sneer at us as well?”
“Keep cool, my dear girl,” he answered unruffled, “keep cool, and let your lovely hair grow. I’m not sneering at you or any one. I am merely stating facts. To us who live in the whirl of city life, a few weeks here is a delightful change, and we are glad to pay well for it. I am only speaking of how it must seem to live this way all the time.”
He paused a moment, watching Chip’s face turned half away, and then continued persuasively: “I am sorry you are so ready to believe ill of me or to think I am sneering at all things. In that you have changed very much since last summer. Then you seemed to enjoy talking with me; now you blaze up into wrath at my pleasantry. I am very sorry you feel as you do. I’d like to be better friends with you if possible, otherwise I wouldn’t have risked the rebuff I received from your excellent aunt yesterday. I’d like very much to call on you, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to entertain you and your aunt on my boat. I am an idle fellow, I’ll admit, with nothing to do but spend my time and money, but that is my misfortune, and you ought to have pity on me.”
And so this smooth-tongued, persuasive talker ran on and on while Chip, fascinated, in spite of her dislike of him, listened.
More than that, he grew eloquent and even pathetic at times in describing his hopes and ambitions in life. He even asserted that he longed to live differently and to become a useful man, instead of an idle one. It was all hypocrisy, of course, but Chip was scarce able to detect it, and lulled by his specious, pleading voice, she admitted that she hadno real reason for distrusting or disliking him. Also, that she would enjoy a sail on his boat, and would try to persuade her aunt to accept another invitation.
This especially was what he most wanted, for shrewd schemer that he was, he knew that if he could ingratiate himself with this guardian aunt, permission to call must follow, and with that, some opportunity to make a conquest of this simple country girl.
Sated as he was with the society of more polished and therefore artificial womanhood,blaséto all the purities of life and refined society, a roué and rake conversant with all vice, this fearless, wholesome, yet unsophisticated girl who seemed like a breath from the pine woods, attracted him as no other could.
And now he had her almost spellbound on this lonely shore, with the sea murmuring at their feet and the cool winds whispering in the pine trees shading them.
It was Don Juan and Haidee over again, only this Juan was a more selfish and heartless one, calculating on the ruin of this wood-born flower without thought of consequences.
He made one mistake, however, after he had lulledher into almost believing him to be both honest and worthy,–he sneered at religion.
“All that people go to church for is to see and be seen, ladies especially,” he said. “They live to dress and show off their new gowns and hats, and were it not for the chance church-going gives them, not one parson in a hundred would have a corporal’s guard for audience. As for the preaching, not one in ten understands a word of it, and most of those who understand fail to believe it. I don’t, I am sure. I consider a minister is a man who talks to earn his money. A few old tabbies, of course, are sincere and believe in prayer and all that sort of foolishness, but the rest only make believe they do. There may be a God and maybe there isn’t–I don’t know. I doubt it, however. As for the hereafter, that is all moonshine. When we go, that is the end of us.”
“And so you don’t believe in spirits and a future life,” answered Chip, with sudden defiance. “Well, I do, and I know that people have souls that live again, for I’ve seen them, hundreds of times. As for all church-going people being hypocrites, that’s a lie, and I know better. The best woman I ever knew believed in praying, and so did my mother, and I won’t hear them called such a name.”
It was Chip, blazing up again, in defence of her own opinions, and this smooth-spoken fellow saw his mistake on the instant.
“Oh, well, you may be right,” he admitted at once. “I wasn’t speaking of all womankind–only the fashionable ones whom I know. As for soul life, I want to believe as you do, of course, and wish you would convince me that it is true.” And so peace was restored, and once more the lullaby of his wooing talk began.
For two hours he spun to Chip the web of his blandishments, and then the sun warned her, and she rose to go.
“It would be delightful to escort you home,” he said, “but I fear I’d better not. Your aunt might see us returning, and scold you. Now if you will meet me here again to-morrow afternoon, and try to convince me that there is a future life, I shall be most happy. Will you?”
But Chip was alert.
“No, I don’t think I shall,” she responded bluntly; “I am not running after you–not a step. As for what you believe or don’t believe, that isn’t my lookout,” and with an almost uncivil “Good day, sir,” she left him.
The farther away she got from this snakelikecharmer, the more an intuitive belief in his real intentions possessed her. She was unskilled in the fine art of conversation, had only the inborn purity of her thoughts to protect her; and yet she half read this specious flatterer, and felt, rather than realized, his baseness.
A change in her own convictions that now served as a mantle of protection against his persuasions had come to her during these dreamy hours by the sea. Accepting at first Old Tomah’s superstitions, she had been led to contemplate the great question of future life and the existence of God. Aunt Comfort’s unselfish character, combined with perfect faith in the Supreme Power, had had its influence. Angie’s kindness and that first prayer Chip had heard in the tent were not lost. Aunt Abby’s consistent belief and devotion to duty also had had its effect; and all these pertinent examples, combined with the impress of the vast ocean, the solitude of this lonely shore, and the echo of its ceaseless billows, had awakened true veneration in Chip’s heart, and convinced her that some Unseen Power moved all human impulse and controlled all human destiny.
AfterChip had run away from Greenvale, concealment of her name and all else had forced itself upon her. It was not natural for her to deceive. She had kept it up for one unhappy year only under inward protest, which ended in abject confession and tears. Now recalling that unpleasant episode, she made haste to confess her long conversation with this fluent fellow.
“Mr. Goodnow followed me over to the point this afternoon,” she explained that evening to Aunt Abby, “and talked for two hours. He was nice enough, but he made me sick of him, he flattered me so much.”
Aunt Abby looked at her with a slight sense of alarm.
“He certainly has the gift of impudence, at least,” she said, “in view of the way I declined his invitation yesterday. I think you’d best discontinue your long rambles for the present, or until he leaves here. He is not our sort. He is not even a friend of ours, and if people see you together, they will say unkind things.”
That was warning enough for Chip, and from that time on she never even walked down to the village store except with Aunt Abby.
A curious and almost ridiculous espionage followed, however, for a week, and not a pleasant afternoon passed but this fellow was noticed strolling somewhere near the old mill or past the house.
Another amazing evidence of his intent was received a few days later, in the shape of a five-pound box of choicest candies, that came by express with his card. Aunt Abby opened this and saw the card, and the next day she commissioned the stage driver to deliver the box, card and all, to Mr. Goodnow at his boarding house.
A long and adroitly worded letter to Chip came a day later, so humble, so flattering, and so importuning that it made her laugh.
“I think that fellow must have gone crazy,” she said, handing the letter to Aunt Abby, “he runs on so about how he can’t sleep nights from thinking about me. He says that he must go away next week, and shall die if he can’t see me once more. What ails him, anyway?”
“Nothing, except evil intentions,” responded Aunt Abby, perusing the missive. “He must think you a fool to believe such bosh,” she added severely, afterfinishing it. “Honest love doesn’t grow like a mushroom in one night, and the difference between his position and yours gives the lie to all he says. I hope he will go away next week, and never come back.”
Whether Chip’s studied avoidance of him, combined with the snubbing, served its purpose, or he decided his quest was hopeless, could only be guessed, for he was seen no more near the mill, and the next week his yacht left Christmas Cove, and Chip felt relieved.
It had been an experience quite new to her, and, in spite of its annoyance, somewhat exciting. It also served another purpose of more value,–it recalled Ray to her by sheer force of contrast. She had felt hurt ever since the night she left Greenvale. She had meant to put him out of her thoughts and forget all the silly hours and promises at the lake; and yet she never had succeeded. Instead, her thoughts turned to him in spite of her pride.
And now, contrasting and comparing that honest, manly lad, a playmate only, and yet a lover as well, with this polished, fulsome, flattering, shifty-eyed fop, who sneered at everything good, only made Ray, with his far different ways, seem the more attractive.
Then conscience began to smite her. She hadyielded to pride and put him away from her thoughts. His uncle had almost pleaded for her to return to Greenvale, if only for a visit. She knew Ray had spent weeks in searching for her; yet not once in all the two years since they parted had she sent him a line of remembrance.
More mature now, Chip began to see her own conduct as it was, and to realize that she had been both ungrateful and heartless; but she could not confess it to any one, not even Aunt Abby.
Chip’s life had been a strange, complex series of moods of peculiar effect, and her conduct must be judged accordingly.
First, the dense ignorance of years at Tim’s Place, with its saving grace of disgust at such surroundings and such a life. Then a few months with people so different and so kind that it seemed an entrance into heaven, to be followed by weeks of a growing realization that she was a nobody, and an outcast unfit for Greenvale.
And then came the climax of all this: the bitter sneers of Hannah, Ray’s cool neglect, the consciousness that she was only a dependent pauper, and then her flight into the world and away from all that stung her like so many whips.
But a revulsion of feeling was coming. Chip, nolonger a simple child of the wilderness, was realizing her own needs and her own nature. Something broader and more satisfying than school life and the companionship of Aunt Abby was needed; yet how to find it never occurred to her.
With September came Aunt Abby’s annual visit to Peaceful Valley. A few days before their departure, Chip received a letter which was so unexpected and so vital to her feelings that it must be quoted.
It was dated at the little village of Grindstone, directed to Vera McGuire, care of Judson Walker, by whom it was forwarded to Christmas Cove.
“My dear Chip,” it began.“I feel that you will not care to hear from me, and yet I must write. I know I am more to blame than any one for the way you left Greenvale, and that you must consider me a foolish boy, without much courage, which I have been, and I realize it only too well now, when it is too late. But I am more of a man to-day, I hope, and sometime I shall come and try to obtain your forgiveness for being so blind. No one ever has been, and I know no one ever will be, what you are to me. As Old Cy says, ‘Blessings brighten as they vanish,’ and now, after this long separation, oneword and one smile from dear little Chip would seem priceless to me, and I shall come and try to win it before many months.“I am here with Uncle Martin’s old guide, Levi. We are going into the woods to-morrow to gather gum and trap until spring. I have hired two other men to help, and hope to do well and make some money. I think you will be glad to know that Old Cy was here this summer and was well. He does not know that you have been found, and is still hunting for you. Levi told me that the people here are much interested in you, that they have fixed up the yard where your mother is buried, and he put up a small stone.“I wish I could hear from you, but there is no chance now. Please try to forgive a foolish boy for being stupid, and think of me as you did during those happy days by the lake.
“My dear Chip,” it began.
“I feel that you will not care to hear from me, and yet I must write. I know I am more to blame than any one for the way you left Greenvale, and that you must consider me a foolish boy, without much courage, which I have been, and I realize it only too well now, when it is too late. But I am more of a man to-day, I hope, and sometime I shall come and try to obtain your forgiveness for being so blind. No one ever has been, and I know no one ever will be, what you are to me. As Old Cy says, ‘Blessings brighten as they vanish,’ and now, after this long separation, oneword and one smile from dear little Chip would seem priceless to me, and I shall come and try to win it before many months.
“I am here with Uncle Martin’s old guide, Levi. We are going into the woods to-morrow to gather gum and trap until spring. I have hired two other men to help, and hope to do well and make some money. I think you will be glad to know that Old Cy was here this summer and was well. He does not know that you have been found, and is still hunting for you. Levi told me that the people here are much interested in you, that they have fixed up the yard where your mother is buried, and he put up a small stone.
“I wish I could hear from you, but there is no chance now. Please try to forgive a foolish boy for being stupid, and think of me as you did during those happy days by the lake.
“Good-bye,“Ray.”
“Good-bye,
“Ray.”
How every word of this half-boyish, half-manly letter was read and re-read by Chip; how it woke the old memories of the wilderness and of herself, a ragged waif there; and how, somehow, in spite of pride and anger, a little thrill of happiness crept into her heart, needs no explanation.
But she was not quite ready yet to forgive him, and what he failed to say when he might, still rankled in her feelings.
But Old Cy, that kindly soul, so like a father! Almost did she feel that to meet him would be worth more than to see any one else in the world. And to think he was still hunting for her, far and near!
And now, quite unlike most young ladies, who deem their love missives sacred, Chip showed hers to Aunt Abby.
“It’s from Raymond Stetson,” she said, rather bashfully, “a boy who was in the woods with those people who were kind to me, and we became very good friends.”
Aunt Abby smiled as she perused its contents.
“And so he was the cause of your running away from Greenvale,” she said. “Why didn’t you write him a note of thanks after you learned he had been searching for you? I think he deserved that much, at least.”
“I wouldn’t humble myself,” Chip answered spiritedly, “and then I was ashamed to let any one know I had used his name. I hadn’t time to think what name to give when Uncle Jud asked me, and his was the first that came to mind,” she added naïvely.
Aunt Abby laughed.
“I guess Master Stetson won’t find forgiveness hard to earn,” she said, and then her face beamed at the disclosure of a romance while she read the letter a second time.
But there was more to tell, as Aunt Abby knew full well, and now, bit by bit, she drew the story from Chip, even to the admission of the tender scenes between these two lovers, in which they promised to love each other and be married.
“It was silly, I suppose,” Chip continued blushingly, “but I didn’t know any better then, and I was so happy that I didn’t think about it at all. I never had a beau before, you see, and I guess I acted foolishly. Old Cy used to help us, too, and took us away so we could have a chance to hold hands and act silly. I was so lonesome, too, for Ray all that winter in Greenvale, and nobody knew it. I walked a mile to meet the stage every night for a month, to be the first to see him when he came. I guess he must have thought he owned me. I wouldn’t do it now.”
Once more Aunt Abby laughed, a good, hearty laugh, and then, much to Chip’s astonishment, she took her face in her hands and kissed it.
“You dear little goose,” she said, “and to thinkyou ran away from a boy you cared for like that! I only hope he is good enough for you, for I can see what the outcome will be.”
That night when the tea-table had been cleared and the lamp lit, Aunt Abby once more began her adroit questioning of Chip; but this time it was of Old Cy, and all about him. For an hour, Chip, nothing loath, recited his praises, repeated his odd sayings, described his looks and ways and portrayed him as best she could, while Aunt Abby smiled content.
“It makes me feel young again to hear your story and about Cyrus,” she said when all was told. “I was just sixteen when he first came to see me. He was also my first beau, you know. I should judge he must have changed so I would never know him, and maybe he wouldn’t recognize me. Forty years is a long time!” And she sighed.
And now Aunt Abby closed her eyes, let fall her knitting, and lapsed into bygones.
No longer was she a staid and matronly widow–not young, it is true, yet not old, but with rounded face, few wrinkles, and slightly gray hair. Instead was she sweet Abby Grey of the long ago, and once more the belle of this quiet village and Bayport, and the leader at every dance, every husking, and everyparty. Once more she primped and curled her hair, and donned her best, and waited her sailor boy’s coming. Once more she heard the bells jingle and saw the stars twinkle as they sped away to a winter night’s dance–and once more she felt the sorrow of parting, the long years of waiting, waiting, waiting, and at last the numb despair and final conviction that never would her lover return.
And now he was still alive, though a wanderer, and some day he might–surely would come to see her, just once, if no more.
“Ah, me,” she said, rousing herself at last and looking at Chip’s smiling, sunny face, “life is a queer riddle, and we never know how to guess it.”
Then she sighed again.
“The milk o’ human kindness ’most allus turns out old cheese, ’n’ all rind at that.”–Old Cy Walker.
Somesneering critic once said that few young men ever start out in the world until they are kicked out, and there is a grain of truth in that assertion. It is seldom an actual kick, however, but some motive force quite as compelling.
In Ray’s case it was his uncle’s assertion that if he hoped to win Chip he must first show the ability to provide a home for her, which is excellent advice for any young man to follow.
“It won’t be a pleasure trip,” Martin said when Ray proposed to go to the wilderness and, with Levi and a couple of other assistants, make a business of gum-gathering and trap-setting, “but you can’t lose much by it. You are welcome to the camp; Levi will see that you have game enough to eat, and boss the expedition. I will loan you five hundred, and with what you have, that is capital enough and you ought to do well. It would be better if Old Cy couldtake charge, but as it is, you must go it alone.” And go it alone Ray did.
Levi’s services were easily secured. Two young fellows whom he knew were hired at Greenvale. A bateau was purchased, together with more traps and supplies, and after Ray had written Chip his plan, the party started for Martin’s camp. They had been established there a month and were doing well. The first ice had begun forming in shallow coves when one afternoon, who should enter the lake and paddle rapidly across but Old Cy.
“Ye can’t git rid o’ me when trappin’s goin’ on,” he said cheerily, as Ray and Levi met him at the landing. “I fetched into the settlement kinder homesick fer the woods last week. I heard the good news ’bout Chip’s bein’ found ’n’ you’d come here fer the winter, ’n’ I didn’t wait a minute ’fore I hired a canoe ’n’ started.” And then, in the exuberance of his joy, he shook hands with Ray and Levi once more.
That evening, Ray, who had hard work to keep the secret so long, told Old Cy who lived in Peaceful Valley.
It was like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, a shock of joyful news that made Old Cy gasp.
“Why, I feel jest like a colt once more,” he saidafter the exclamation stage had passed. “An’, do ye know, boys, I felt all the way comin’ in ez though good news was waitin’ fer me. I ’spose ’twas from hearin’ Chip was all right ag’in.”
That evening was one that none who were in that wildwood camp ever forgot, for Old Cy was the central figure, and told as only he could the story of his year’s wandering in search of Chip.
It was humorous, pathetic, and tragic all in one, and a tale that held its listeners spellbound for three delightful hours.
“I had dogs set on me, hundreds on ’em,” Old Cy said, in conclusion, “an’ I never knew afore how many kinds ’n’ sizes o’ dogs thar was in this world. I uster think thar warn’t more’n two dozen or so kinds. I know now thar’s two million ’n’ a few more I didn’t wait to count. I got ’rested a few times on account o’ not havin’ visible means o’ support. I’ve been hauled over the coals by doctors tryin’ to make me out a lunatic, ’n’ I’d ’a’ done time in jail if I hadn’t had money to show. I tell ye, boys, this is an awful ’spicious world fer strangers, ’n’ the milk o’ human kindness is mostly old cheese, ’n’ all rind at that. I had a little fun, too, mixed in with all the trouble, ’n’ one woman who owned a place where I ’plied for lodgin’ jest ’bout told me she’d bewillin’ to marry me if I’d stay ’n’ work the farm. She had red hair, hard eyes, ’n’ bossy sort o’ ways, an’ that’s a dangerous combination. I watched my chance when she wa’n’t lookin’, ’n’ lit out middlin’ lively.”
And now life at this wilderness camp, less restrained than when womankind were here, became one of work, and persistent, steady, no-time-wasted work at that. Martin had said that Levi could boss matters, but it was Ray who assumed management instead. Two years had changed him almost from boy to man. His new ambition was the controlling power. He was here to make his mark, as it were, and the half-hearted, boyish interest in work had changed into a tireless leadership. Then, too, an unspoken, tacit interest in his ambition was felt by those who helped. They knew what he was striving for, and that Chip was the ultimate object. Her history, known as it now was to all who came into the wilderness, influenced these woodsmen. She had been of them and from them, and as an entire village will gather to help at a house-raising, so these three, Levi and the two helpers, now felt the same incentive.
Success usually comes to all who strive for it, and now, with four willing workers to aid him, Ray wasrapidly making a success of this venture. Old Cy, the most valuable assistant, was indefatigable. He not only kept the larder well supplied with game, but tended and set traps, worked in the woods with the rest between times, and his cheerful optimism and droll humor bridged many a stormy day and shortened many a weary tramp. And he seemed to grow younger in this new, helpful life for others. His eyes were bright, his step elastic, his spirits buoyant, his strength tireless.
With Chip safe and provided for, with Ray succeeding in manhood’s natural ambition, Old Cy saw his heart’s best hopes nearing fruition, and for these two and in these two all his interest centred.
Only once was the bond of feeling between Ray and Chip referred to by Old Cy, and then in response to a wish of Ray’s that he might hear from her.
“I don’t think ye’ve cause to worry now, arter ye’ve sent her word what ye’re doin’ ’n’ who for,” he answered. “Chip’s true blue, not one o’ the fickle sort, ’n’ once she keers fer a man, she won’t give him up till he’s married or dead. I think ye’d orter sent her word sooner,–ye know she run ’way out o’ spunk,–but when ye go to her like a man ’n’ say, ‘I've been workin' 'n' waitin' fer ye all the time,’ thar won’t be no quarrellin’.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” responded Ray, soberly. “From what Uncle Martin said, my chance is gone with Miss Chip, and I don’t blame her for feeling so. Like every young fellow, I took it for granted that she was in love with me and ready to fall into my arms on call. Then I hadn’t any plans in life, anyway, and, like a fool, believed it made no difference to her. To mix matters up still more, Hannah crowded herself into our affairs and said things to Chip, with the result that Chip got mad, ran away, and you know the rest.”
“Wal,” asserted Old Cy, his eyes twinkling, “the time to hug a gal is when she’s willin’, ’n’ ye orter spunked up that night ’fore ye come away ’n’ told her ye was callatin’ to make yer fortin in the woods, an’ that ye wanted her to wait ’n’ share it–then hugged ’n’ kissed her a little more by way o’ bindin’ the bargain, an’–knowin’ that gal ez I do, she’d fought Hannah, tooth ’n’ nail, ’n’ walked through fire ’n’ brimstun fer ye. I think, ’stead o’ hidin’ herself fer two years, an’ changin’ her name, she’d ’a’ tramped clear to Grindstun jest to tell ye her troubles, ’n’, if need be, she’d ’a’ starved fer ye. I tell ye, boy, wimmin like her is scarce in this world, ’n’ when ye find oneyoung ’n’ pretty ez she is, hang on to her an’ hang hard.”
“I know it now well enough,” returned Ray, ruefully; “but that don’t help matters. Then that fortune you found for her makes my case all the worse, and Chip quite independent.”
“It do, it do,” chuckled Old Cy, as if glad of it, “an’ all the more need o’ you hustlin’. It’s a case o’ woodchuck with ye now. But don’t git discouraged. Jest dig. Chip’s worth it, ten times over, ’n’ no man ever worked to win a woman ’thout bein’ bettered by it.”
It was terse and homely advice, and not only convinced Ray that he had neglected one whom he now felt meant home, wife, happiness, and all that life might mean for him, but made him realize that all possible striving and self-denial must be made in atonement. With whom and what sort of people Chip had found asylum, he knew not. What influence they would have upon her feelings was an equally unknown matter; and worse than that, the ogre of another suitor for Chip’s favor now entered Ray’s calculations, and the slang truism, “There are others,” was with him every waking moment–a much-deserved punishment, all womankind will say.
Oneday while Aunt Abby and Chip were enjoying the newly furnished home of Uncle Jud, a capacious carriage drawn by a handsome pair of horses halted there and Martin and Angie alighted.
“We are taking a cross-country drive for an outing,” he explained, after Angie had kissed Chip tenderly and greetings had been exchanged. “We have waited for you, Miss Runaway, to come and visit us,” he added, turning to Chip, “until we couldn’t wait any longer and so came to look for you. We have also some news that may interest you. Old Cy has been heard from at last. He spent a year looking for you. He has now gone into the woods, to my camp, where Ray located for the winter, and when spring comes, I can guess where they will head for.”
How welcome this news was to Chip, her face fully indicated; but neither Martin nor Angie realized how much or for what reason it interested this soft-voiced, gracious lady whom Chip called Aunt Abby. They knew Uncle Jud was Old Cy’sbrother and that they had once been sailors from Bayport, but the long-ago romance of Aunt Abby’s life was unknown to them.
And now ensued a welcome to the callers such as only Uncle Jud and Aunt Mandy could offer.
“We sorter feel we robbed ye o’ Vera,” Uncle Jud explained, “though ’twa’n’t any intention on our part, an’ so ye must gin us some chance to make amends. We callate ’twa’n’t no fault of yourn, either, only one o’ them happenin’s that was luck for us.”
That evening was one long to be remembered by all who were present, for Chip’s history, as told by Martin and Angie, was the entertaining topic, and its humorous side was made the most of by Martin. Chip was in no wise annoyed by Martin’s fun-making, either. Instead, conscious of the good-will and affection of the friends who had rescued her from the wilderness, she rather enjoyed it and laughed heartily at Martin’s description of various incidents, especially her first appearance in their camp, and the language she used.
“I couldn’t help swearing,” she explained. “I never had heard much except ’cuss’ words. I think also now, as I recall my life at Tim’s Place,I would never have dared that desperate mode of escape had I not been hardened by such a life. I wish I could see Old Tomah once more,” she added musingly, “and I’d like to send him some gift. He was the best-hearted Indian I ever saw or heard of, and his queer teachings about spites and how they rewarded us for good deeds and punished us for evil ones was no harm, for it set me thinking. The one thought that encouraged me most during those awful days and nights alone in the woods was the belief that among the spites which I was sure followed me was my mother’s soul. I’ve never changed in my belief, either, and shall always feel that she guided me to your camp.”
Uncle Jud also obtained his share of fun at Chip’s expense, describing his finding of her with humorous additions.
“She was all beat out that night I found her on top o’ Bangall Hill, ’n’ yet when I asked her if she’d run away from some poor farm, she was ready to claw my eyes out, an’ dunno’s I blame her. I was innocent, too, fer I really s’posed she had.”
Martin’s visit at this hospitable home was not allowed to terminate for a week, for visitors seldomcame here, and Uncle Jud, as big a boy as his brother when the chance came, planned all sorts of trips and outings to entertain them, and quite characteristic affairs they were, too.
One day they drove to a wood-bordered pond far up the valley, fished a few hours for pickerel and perch, and had a fish fry and picnic dinner.
The next day they visited a strange, romantic grotto up in the mountains, known as the Wolf’s Den, and here a table was set, broiled chicken, sweet corn, and such toothsome fare formed the meal, with nut-gathering for amusement.
Squirrel and partridge shooting also furnished Martin a little excitement. When he and Angie insisted that they must leave, both host and hostess showed genuine regret. A few remarks made by Angie to her former protégée, in private, the last evening of this visit, may be quoted.
“I must insist, my dear child,” she said, “that you make us a visit in the near future. You left us under an entirely false impression and it has grieved me more than you can imagine. There was never a word of truth in anything that Hannah said. She was spiteful and malicious and desired to get even with you for a hurt to her pride. We had no thought of hurrying away to the woodsto separate you and Ray for any reason whatever. Of course, as you must know, I had no suspicion of any attachment between you, and if I had, I certainly should not have tried to break it off in that way. That is a matter that concerns only you and him. My own life experience shows that first love is the wisest and best, and while you were both too young then for an engagement, you must believe me when I tell you that I had no wish to interfere.”
And so the breach was healed.
This visit of the Frisbies to Peaceful Valley also awakened something of repentance in Chip’s mind, and more mature now, it occurred to her that leaving Greenvale as she did, was, after all, childish.
Then Angie’s part in this drama of her life now returned to Chip in a new light. Once she began to reflect, her self-accusation grew apace and her repentance as well. Now she began to see herself as she was at Tim’s Place.
“I think I treated my Greenvale friends very ungratefully,” she said to Aunt Abby one evening after they had returned to Christmas Cove once more, “and what Mrs. Frisbie said to me has made me realize it. I know now that few wouldhave done what she did for me. I was an ignorant, dirty, homeless creature and no relation of hers, and yet she took charge of me, bought me clothes, paid all my expenses going to Greenvale, clothed me there, and always treated me nicely without my even asking for it.
“The Frisbies certainly ran some risk by keeping me at their cabin when they knew that half-breed was after me. I don’t know why they should have done all this. I was nothing to them. And yet when I recall the night I stumbled into their camp, how Mrs. Frisbie dressed me in her own clothes, shared her tent with me, and even prayed for me, I feel ashamed to think of what I have done. I did think that Mrs. Frisbie despised me from what Hannah said. I know now that I was wrong, and running away as I did, was very ungrateful.”
“I think it was, myself,” responded Aunt Abby, “and yet believing as you did, Mrs. Frisbie ought not to blame you. I don’t think she does, either. She seems a very sensible woman, and I like her. You made your mistake in not confiding in her more. You should have gone to her as you would to a mother, in the first place, and told her just what Hannah had said to you and how you feltabout it. To brood over such matters and imagine the worst possible, is unwise in any one. I think from what you have told me, that this person who sneered against you so much must have had a spite against you.”
“Hannah was jealous, I know,” Chip interrupted, smiling at the recollection, “and I hurt her feelings because I asked her why she didn’t shave.”
“Didn’t shave!” exclaimed Aunt Abby, wide-eyed, “what do you mean?”
“Why, she has whiskers, you see,” laughed Chip, “almost as much as some men–a nice little mustache and some on her chin. I told her the next day after I got there I thought she was a man dressed as a woman. I snickered, too, I remember, when I said it, for she looked so comical–like a goat, almost–and then I asked her why she didn’t shave. I guess she laid it up against me ever after.”
“She revenged herself amply, it seems,” answered Aunt Abby.
When Christmas neared, and with it a vacation for Chip, new impulses came to her: a desire to visit Greenvale once more and make amends as best she could to her friends there; and her gift-givingdesire was quickened by the coming holidays. She now felt that she had ample means to gratify this latter wish. Day by day, since meeting Angie again, her sense of obligation had increased, and now it was in her power at Christmas-tide to repay at least a little of the debt.
Others were also included in this generous project: Uncle Jud, Aunt Mandy, her foster-mother, Aunt Abby, as well; and then there was Old Cy, whom most of all she now desired to make glad. That was impossible, however. He was still an absent wanderer, and so, as it ever is and ever will be, some thread of regret, some note of sorrow, must be woven into all joys.
A rapid and almost wonderful growth of this yule-tide impulse now swept over Chip, so much so that it must be told. At first it took shape in the intended purchase of comparative trifles,–a fishing-rod for Uncle Jud, a pipe for Martin, gloves for Aunt Abby, and so on. Then as that seemingly vast fortune, now hers to spend, occurred to Chip, and her sense of obligation as well, the intended gifts increased in proportion until a costly picture of some camp or wildwood scene for Angie and a valuable watch for Miss Phinney were decided upon.
Her plans as to how to obtain these presents also took shape. Riverton was the only place where they could be obtained. To that village she would go first, obtain the money needed, devote one entire day to making her purchases, and then go on to Greenvale and astonish these good friends from whom she was once so eager to escape.
It was all a most delightful episode which was now anticipated by Chip. Again and again she lived it over, especially her arrival in Greenvale, and how like a Lady Bountiful she would present her gifts to her friends.
So eager was she thus to make some compensation to them that lessons became irksome, the day seemed weeks in length, and she could scarce sleep when bedtime came.
But the slow days dragged by at last, and then Chip, happier than ever before in her life, dressed in her best, bade Aunt Abby good-bye and started on her journey alone.