CHAPTER LITHE MAUVAISE TERREThe second evening after our departure we were far on our way, stopping for the night at the hut of a lonely trapper hid away among the steep inclines that shelter the perverse and tortuous Kickapoo. The next morning, getting an early start, we rode into the little village of Peoria, crossing the placid Illinois as the morning sun tipped the forest on its eastern shore. The fourth night found us, without adventure, a few miles from Little Sandy, and here, worn out with our long ride, we put up at a wayside tavern, half hidden by the overhanging trees. The next morning, impatient to complete our journey, we were in the saddle while the east was as yet scarce tinted with the coming of the summer day. Riding forward into the great plain, the morning mists hung white and trembling on the distant horizon, and this as if to hide the beauties of nature that lay beyond. Above these shadowy curtains, serene and far off, the placid heavens, half disclosed, looked down upon us in gentle salutation. Going on, and the day advancing, the soft murmurings and babble of the prairie filled our ears as with the breath of life. Nothing indeed was lacking to complete nature's picture; the hum of insects, the chirruping of birds, the drone of wild bees gathering their winter stores. Inimitable throng! We felt its presence as we might that of the Great Creator."Surely God dwells here!" Fox exclaimed, half aloud, slowing his horse to a walk.To this I bowed my head without speaking, feeling, indeed, that we were in His very presence."The prairie has its life and mysteries, Gilbert, great and unfathomable as the silent sea, and not less grand," Fox went on, pulling up his horse.Stopping to contemplate the tranquil scene, the odor of flowers and fragrant grasses and the smell of the sweet earth came to our grateful senses on the soft air like a welcome and benediction."It is nature's breath, and with the perfume of all the ages," Fox exclaimed, removing his hat.Nor was this all, for round about us, and as if in welcome of our coming, the birds of the prairie and troops of meadowlarks in ecstasy of song flitted here and there, or with faces turned toward us perched swaying from some blossoming flower. Along the scarce-beaten path as we went slowly forward the midgets of the plain, emerging from their hiding-places, peered at us curiously from out the dew-laden grass, or sat bolt upright, staring beside their nests. Beyond these, in the quiet lakes, white with the morning mists, wild fowl watched from amid the reeds and round about them muskrats swam back and forth or sat perched on their housetops stroking their beards."See that old fellow with the pompadour!" Fox exclaimed, his mood changing; "there! sitting on the roof of his Queen Anne cottage. How much he resembles General Jackson! And I have no doubt will undermine every house in the pond, as the general has done with our finances, if any one dare make a face at him.""What foolish talk," I answered, paying little heed to what he said."No; the muskrat is as serious as Mr. Jackson, and knows just as much about finance and good government.""Nonsense, Fox! General Jackson is a great man," I answered, impatiently."Yes, in some things; but there never was a man in office who knew less of its duties.""Well, he is a fine soldier that you will admit," I answered, feeling about for some common ground on which we could stand."Yes; but all the air in heaven will not be enough to supply those who will sing his praises in the days to come, not as a soldier, but as a Statesman, with a great, big, fat, succulent S. He is to our liking, though—for if by chance freemen find a man with a genius for killing people, they straightway make him President or something of that kind. Fitness to the winds, my boy, tra la! Give me liberty or give me death, but in any event, something to worship, if it is only a seven-months' calf."Not agreeing with Fox in anything he said, and indeed not knowing much about it one way or the other, I made no reply, and so the subject dropped. Stopping farther on to refresh our animals in the sweet waters of the gentle Mauvaise Terre, its dainty fish hurrying from their hiding-places, swam in and out about our horses' feet, as if in greeting of these new monsters come to visit them in their quiet home. Beyond, on the sloping bank, a robin, old and gray, eyed us critically, and at last, as if seeing enough, gave a croak of warning and hopped briskly away. Farther up the steep incline, as if nature were determined to exhibit all her stores, a covey of quail ran scurrying across the way, but stopping on the other side, looked down on us, and curiously, as if having naught to fear. Abandoning ourselves to the dreamy sweetness of the hour, there came presently from out the topmost branches of a towering cottonwood the blackbirds' swelling chorus, rising and falling on the morning air like an anthem of praise and thanksgiving, as indeed it was."How is that, Gilbert, compared with our Appletop choir?" Fox asked, shaking his head.Not answering, I looked away; and far off, beneath an overhanging oak, a gentle doe, with her young beside her, stood drinking. Looking in that direction, Fox spoke again, but now soberly enough."See, Gilbert, in this Garden of Eden we are still thought to be harmless like the other animals; and to think," he went on without stopping, "that such a world should be bartered for an apple with a worm in it! But hark!" and as he ceased there came to us, as in farewell and from some far-off place, the soft cooing of the turtle-dove, sweetest and saddest of all country sounds and fittest note of its remote and restful solitudes. Listening, but without speech, we rode on, and regretfully, loath to leave a scene so full of beauty and the fragrant sweetness of life.CHAPTER LIILIFE AND DEATHRousing ourselves as we left the shadows of the Mauvaise Terre, we put spurs to our horses, and ere the sun was half-way up the sky, rode into the town of Little Sandy. This on a day like that upon which I left it years before, but now how changed! The Dragon, once the center of so much stir, stood forlorn and empty, its sign hanging half obliterated in the morning air, as if in shame of its abandonment. About the town, the houses once so full of life and sprightly gayety were now for the most part empty and fast falling to pieces for lack of care. The busy streets, too, were overgrown with grasses and sprouting trees, so that the footfall of our horses could scarce be heard as we rode slowly forward. No need to tell the reason of this decay, and that some new place was luring the people to other homes.Sorrowing over what I saw, we rode at a walk through the dying town into the country beyond. Here, nearing my aunt's house, we turned into a quiet path, and doing so, came full upon the lawyer Moth. He, keeping his horse at a gallop, raised his hat and saluted us with every show of kindness and good will as he passed, but without stopping or speech of any kind. Returning his salutation, we went on, and now more soberly, until presently our path brought us to the little churchyard where my father and mother lay buried. Here, giving my horse to Fox, I went forward alone, gathering as I crossed the intervening space the grasses and wild flowers my mother had loved when she was yet alive. Coming presently to the graves with throbbing heart, I found them not as I had thought, but covered with sweet verdure and such profusion of flowers that I could scarce believe my eyes. Seeing this, and being overwrought, I burst into a flood of tears, and throwing myself down upon the ground, rested my face upon my mother's grave. Calling to her aloud in agony of grief, as a child might have done, I repeated again her prayers and those that she had taught me kneeling at her side. At last, quieted in some measure, I yet lay still, and doing so, lived over my childhood days, tasted its sweet cares and blissful sorrows, heard again the voices of those I loved, called up anew their forms and smiling faces. Thus dreaming and mourning, I lingered, loath to leave, until the sun was high in the heavens. Nor would I yet have gone had not Fox come to draw me away. Then kneeling and kissing the mounds that covered the dear forms, I arose and followed him. Passing Wild Plum, I did not stay, except to note with throbbing heart that in everything it was as we had left it. Here again I saw Aunt Jane's loving hand, as in the flower-strewn graves, and seeing it, blessed her for her love and tender care.With my heart thus stirred with grateful thoughts, we spurred on to her home, and coming to the gate, there was no sign of bustle or life of any kind, but such quietness as no one had ever known in the olden time. For in those days the very trees and plants, so it was thought, meditated on the crops and the prospect of gain; but now how changed! Standing upright and staring, they seemed without life and as if awaiting some sad event which they had long foreknown. Thinking my aunt was dead, and yet believing Moth would have told me had this been so, I gave my horse to Fox, and going forward, knocked at the door. Scarce had I done this, when it opened, and the servant, knowing me before I spoke, took my hand, and kissing it, led me through the hall and up the winding stairs to my aunt's room. Here, opening the door, she motioned me to enter, and when I had done so closed it again and went away without having vouchsafed me a word. Gazing about in the dimly lighted room, I presently made out my aunt propped up in her bed, and intent, as if breathing a prayer. Surprised at her worn and altered look, I neither moved nor spoke. For of the robust form and commanding face of other days there lay before me only a shrunken body, with features worn and wasted so as to be scarce recognized as hers. Only the eyes retained something of the old look, but now lighted as if by some hidden and destructive fire. While I stood thus gazing upon her, my mind filled with sad thoughts, she turned toward the door, and catching sight of my form, gave a start, and stretching out her arms, cried, in a frenzy of fear and haste:"Gilbert! Gilbert! is it you? Come, come to me, quick! quick!"At this I ran to her, and she, clasping my neck, trembling and sobbing, drew me down upon her bosom. Thus we lay in each other's arms, my heart too full for speech and hers beating against my breast as if it would burst with the strain put upon it. When she had somewhat recovered herself, she did not speak, but murmuring half-articulate words of endearment, fell to stroking my hair and face as if I were a babe nursing at her breast. Having in this way in some measure satisfied her heart's longing, she took hold of my shoulders, and holding me off, fell to studying my face, as if she would read there all that it had to tell and more. Then softly, and oh, so differently from other days, she spoke:"Oh, my child, my sweet one, how it gladdens my tired heart to see you, and so soon, for I scarce expected you yet, if indeed you came at all.""I hope you did not think so badly of me as that, dear aunt, for I lost not a moment after getting your letter.""Yes, child, I thought you would come; and it was like your father to act quickly. In looks, though, how like you are to your sweet mother! Her color and face and eyes and hair! It is as if she stood beside me in life, so much do you resemble her.""I am glad to hear you say that," I answered, kissing her, pleased beyond everything at the gentle way in which she spoke of my dear mother."Yes, child; and I hope you will be like her in temper and sweetness of life.""No one can be that; but what you say makes me very happy, aunt," I answered, caressing her hand."You started right away, then, when you got my letter?" she asked, toying with my hair."Yes, within an hour; but I can never forgive myself for going away as I did, giving you no chance to speak, and on my knees, dear aunt, I ask you to forgive me," I answered, slipping down beside her bed and wetting it with my tears, so sorrowing was my heart at her forlorn state."Don't kneel to me, dear one," she exclaimed, lifting me up. "We were all mistaken, you least of all; but my whole life has been a mistake, and from the very beginning. Wrapped up in my strivings, I thought not of my acts, nor heeded how they appeared to others, only knowing that I loved you all and labored that you might some day be the better for it. How mistakenly, though, and oh, how bitterly God has punished me, till at last my prayer is answered, and He has led you back to me.""We were to blame, dear aunt, and should have read your heart better. Now how happy my mother must be, can she but hear your words and know your heart, for all her life long she wanted to win your love.""I know it, and she had it above all others on earth; and yet, oh, God, forgive my pride and wayward moods! I would make no sign. Not even when she was about to die—but of that, merciful heaven, I did not dream!" she cried in agony, pressing her hands against her tear-stained face. Recovering after a while, she went on, but now more gently: "Tell me, sweet child, how it is that you who were once so slight, yet have your height and strength at scarce sixteen?""I don't know, dear aunt, unless, as I have heard, all our people were the same.""Yes, your father had his growth at your age, and went about the world as if he were thirty." Then, as if hastening, she went on: "I hope your Uncle Job is well and happy. We greatly mistook him, and had you stayed with me, as I wanted, you would perhaps not have been the better for it. For you must know that all you have done, and all that has happened to you, I have known about as well as if I had been with you. This you will wonder at, but I have followed your wanderings as if you were my own son. My estrangement from your father and mother was all my fault, but I loved them none the less. When they died I thought to make some reparation by the care with which I would watch over your young life, but this failed, and unhappily, like all else. Then as I could not have you with me, I thought to watch over you and be near should you need my aid—not forcing myself upon you, but without your knowledge; and so your life since you left Wild Plum is known to me better than to any one save yourself.""I never dreamed of that, dear aunt, nor was I worthy of it!" I answered, greatly affected by what she said."Yes, you were; and I have grown to love you better because of your simple ways. For believing you were alone in the world, you yet kept on, not complaining nor going astray in any serious way.""I had help in that, dear aunt, of which you do not know," I answered, thinking of Constance."Yes, the help that comes from companionship with a gentle and pure heart; from Constance's sympathy and love for you. You see, I know all about her and your love for each other, you dear child. Yes, even while you were yet at Wild Plum, and children; and I shall die the happier for it, Gilbert, for she is worthy of your love though you were a thousand times better than you are.""Oh, aunt, how good of you to speak in that way; but you will not die, for no one of our family, save my father, was ever stricken down so young.""I am sorry if it grieves you, dear child, but in a little while, you cannot dream how soon, I shall be laid beside your sweet mother. Put me there, Gilbert, and when you place flowers on their graves, spare some for me. It is all I ask, save that you will remember me as kindly as you can when I am gone.""Don't talk that way, dear aunt, for you know I will love you always, and I loved you before I saw you, when I found the graves covered with flowers, and at Wild Plum, where everything was as it used to be.""Did you come that way, child? It was affectionate of you, and as it should be. When I am gone you can do as I have, if you wish, for I shall leave you enough for that, and much more to spend as you like.""Don't speak so, dear aunt, for you are not going to die," I answered, melted anew to tears by the sad pathos of her voice."I must speak, and about your future, for I have but a little time left me. I shall leave you all I have, my sweet child, and it is much more than any one dreams of, save Moth. Of him, too, Gilbert, I want to speak before it is too late. Everything he did was by my direction, save that his zeal for me made him sometimes forget what was due to others. That was only an excess of virtue, for in all things, great and small, he has been true to me; and much of my great fortune, and it is truly great, is due to his advice and never-failing friendship. Treasure him when I am gone, sweet one, for no matter what you have thought, he is a man to trust; pure gold tried over and over again in the furnace of life. It was he who reconciled me, in my heart, to your Uncle Job. For after the trial he came and confessed to me, almost on his knees, how grievously he had been mistaken, and that in all things Mr. Throckmorton's honor and good intentions were what they should be. Thus it has proven; for if you have struggled on seemingly alone, it was for your good, and has built you up as I could not have done, nor your uncle, had you looked to him. In this he has been wise, as you will see more plainly as the years pass.""He would have aided me more than he has had I let him," I answered, anxious to do him justice."I know; and you have been a little headstrong, Gilbert, but only that you might provide for yourself. I don't treasure it against you, for only good has come of it, and I love you all the more. Now, Gilbert, let me say a word about other things, for I have but little strength, and may never be able to speak to you again. All my life, as you know, I have occupied myself with business. What else could I do? Had I married, as I might, and happily, it would have been different. Determining otherwise, and most unwisely, I set out to build up our fortune, and for your good, hoping to transmit our name, not as it is known in this distracted country, but as it was in another and more peaceful land. In this I have succeeded beyond all my hopes, but much of my success has been due to Moth. Wild Plum I redeemed, as I could under your father's deed, and you will treasure it, and keep this place too, I hope, in remembrance of me. Beneath these farms, and underlying all the many thousand acres I leave you, there lie boundless fields of coal, the worth of which no one dreams of now. For in a little while our young state will have filled with people, and with them will come factories, and the furnaces of these you will help to feed. These lands I leave to you, and other things for your present wants, so that you may spend all your life and still be rich; but do this in moderation, Gilbert. Others will come after you. Leave something for them. Do not be idle, but occupy yourself not less fully now that you will be rich. For idleness is like a foul distemper that destroys the mind and saps the character of men, leaving only shreds and patches not worth any one's respect. Remember always that the greatest of God's gifts is the opportunity to occupy our minds and bodies in the attainment of honorable ends. Thus busied, men never grow old, but remain buoyant and fresh to the very end.""What am I, dear aunt, that you should have planned like this? Surely, men are but little children compared with you.""No; the most foolish among them have been wiser than I, for their lives have had some ray of sunshine, while mine has not had one gleam to brighten it.""Oh, aunt, Constance and I will make your life happy if our love will be enough, for we will love you as if you were our mother.""It is too late, Gilbert," she answered, with a sad smile; "but I shall die happy in being reconciled to you and in thinking you will grow to love me when I am gone. Kiss me again, sweet one, and may the good Lord have you in His keeping, and forgive me all my sins.""Oh, aunt! we will be more to you than you can think; and Constance will come, and you will love her and she will love you! Don't speak again of dying," I cried, my heart filled to overflowing.At this her face brightened as with some ray of happiness, but she made no response save to pull me to her and kiss me, sobs filling her throat as she pressed me in her arms. Then, faint and gasping, she fell back on her pillow, and in a little while, as if comforted, fell into a sweet and restful sleep. Sorrowing over her sad life and on all she had told me, I sat beside her, her hand clasped in mine, not moving lest she should awake. This till the shadows of the night were gathering in the room, and then, she not stirring, I arose and leaned over her bed, and doing so gave a startled cry. For while I had sat thus unconscious, her spirit, so great and so unhappy, had taken its flight to the good Lord whose forgiveness she had asked with her last breath.* * * * *Thus this most unhappy lady, so capable of love, passed away with a smile on her sad face and a prayer upon her lips. I, following her wishes, lovingly and with tears placed her beside the other two, and spreading flowers over all their graves, knelt beside them and prayed that the lives and hearts of the dear ones so long separated might be thus reunited in heaven above.CHAPTER LIIIWHERE ALL THE ROADS MEETAfter Aunt Jane's death, Uncle Job came on to Little Sandy, and together we spent several months acquainting ourselves with her affairs, for among other things it was provided in the will that he should be trustee of the estate until I was come of age. In regard to this, however, she was at pains to express the wish that I should have my way from the start, being a man grown, she said, and not likely to abuse her confidence in any respect. Thus it fell out that at seventeen, through her great wisdom and love, I was no longer poor and without a home, but rich beyond anything I could have dreamed of.When, finally, there was nothing further to keep us, and I had visited the graves of those dear to me for the last time, we bade good by to the place, leaving Moth and Fox in charge. Of their stewardship I never had cause to regret, for through their wise and faithful management my affairs prospered in the years that were to come beyond anything I could have thought possible. Taking our departure, we passed through Little Sandy, and now for the last time. For when I came again there was no house to mark the spot, and where the streets had been a young forest grew, and birds flew in and out or hid themselves in its silent depths. Passing the Dragon, I saluted it, and with reverent sadness, as one might a departing friend, for in its silent rooms and deserted halls it treasured memories that only death could lessen or efface.Our journey home was without event, and so filled with the sweetness of the country that when we reached Appletop we were rested in body and mind as from a refreshing sleep. Constance, as if to set my heart in a greater flame, was grown taller and more beautiful, if that could be, but otherwise had not changed; or if she had, it was to my advantage, for when I asked her if she had greatly missed me, she answered that my absence only added to her love; at which sweet confession I kissed her and was content.Some time after our return Mr. Seymour gave a dinner at the Dragon in my honor, but quite informally, so the announcement ran. At the table I sat next to Constance, and, truth to tell, to the great loss of my appetite; for much of the time my food was untasted and my fork lay idle on my plate that I might be the more free to pay her some compliment or press her hand beneath the cloth. There being no one but friends present, my affairs were much discussed, and this with such excess of joy and good nature that I was many times in tears, so greatly was I affected by their kind speeches and the recollection of their goodness to me in the past. Mr. Seymour I never saw in better spirits, for my good fortune was as if it had come to him, or as if I had, indeed, been his own son. When the evening was somewhat advanced, he filled his glass, and looking into the faces of those about him, said, in his amiable way:"I leave it to you, good friends, whether we may not properly toast our young friend here before we part." Then stopping, as if to await their answer, a great shout went up that made the room ring with its good-natured heartiness. "That is as it should be, and expresses some part of our love and happiness at his good fortune. I say good fortune, and this I know it will prove; for when he was poor he bore himself with such modesty that I am sure he will not lose in amiability now that riches have come to him. For arrogance, as every one knows, is not peculiar to the rich or those high in station, but crops up oftentimes like a foul weed, born of envy, among the more lowly in life, who, except for this deformity, would be very agreeable companions and neighbors. It is peculiarly happy that this stroke of fortune has come to Gilbert, for some of you will not have forgotten the belief I expressed that Mr. Throckmorton's marriage destroyed all his hopes of preferment in that direction. This has come about as I expected, for Mrs. Betty's two fine boys, if she will excuse my familiar form of speech, would have left little for our young friend. You can see that for yourself now, Gilbert," he concluded, turning to me."Yes, nothing could be plainer," I answered; "though I had forgotten what you said, and because, I suppose, I have never wanted for anything, thanks to the goodness of my friends." This response was greatly applauded by all present, and so, encouraged by their smiles, as beginners are apt to be, I went on: "I am glad I have come into what I have, and not altogether on my own account, either," and here I gave Constance's hand such a squeeze that she came near to crying out with the pain of it. "Aunt Betty's boys it is not likely will ever want for anything, but if they do I shall be glad to share what I have with them, and this because of their father's and mother's many kindnesses to me in the past.""I know you mean that, Gilbert," Aunt Betty cried; "and if it were not for disturbing everybody I would come around and give you a kiss for your sweet speech."This, every one agreed, quite repaid me, and I thought so too, for Aunt Betty was a most affectionate and lovable woman, and had been to me from the very first as if I were a dear brother. Mrs. Singleton, who in the years that had passed was forever looking me up to see, she said, if I kept my good temper or was not in need of some kindness, now turned to me, and smiling as a mother might on her child, asked:"What do you intend doing, Gilbert, now that you are rich, if you have a mind to tell us?""I don't know," I answered, truly enough."That is not strange; but where will you complete your education?" she went on."In Appletop, I hope, if Mrs. Hayward thinks I need to know more about books," I answered, turning to her.At this the sweet lady blushed like a girl, so confused was she at the reference, but pleased withal, I thought, at the compliment. Recovering herself directly, she answered in her pleasant way:"I was but a poor instructor, I fear, Gilbert, and taught you but little, and that not well. William and I have talked about it a great deal since the day you left us, for the ferry is not the same to us now that you are gone.""I will never again find friends who will be half as indulgent, and not all the money in the world would repay the debt I owe you and Mr. Hayward," I answered. "You taught me all I know, and with such forbearance and gentleness that I shall love you for it as long as I live," I went on, and yet not expressing the half I felt. For of all women I ever knew, save Constance and my dear mother, there was never one like her for goodness and every womanly virtue. Of Mr. Hayward, if he was different, he was not less kind-hearted and true to those near him. "About schools," I kept on, determined to have it out now that the subject was up, "I never liked them when a boy, and less so to-day than then. That is the way I feel, and except for the necessity of it I would never look in a book again unless it referred to something I liked. An education, though, I suppose, is as needful as plowing before a crop, and so I must go on and finish mine whether I like it or no.""You never liked to plow very well," Mr. Hayward responded, as if it fell to him to answer, "but still you went at it resolutely enough when there was need. You will do the same about finishing your education, I know. The labor ought not to be very great, for most men are overeducated. Nine-tenths of those who go to the higher schools had better spend their time boiling soap or hoeing corn. The few who are really great get along very well without so much cramming, and in the case of others the preparation only makes them the more dissatisfied with their real place in life," he concluded, soberly, and as if not speaking altogether from hearsay."What studies do you like best, Gilbert, if any?" Mr. Seymour asked, as if quizzing me."History and novels; things that have to do with men and women and the like," I answered, truly."History is a fine study, and novels are a help to young men when they refer to real things and not the imaginings of authors," Mr. Seymour answered, mildly."I once wrote a story," Mrs. Singleton here spoke up, much to our astonishment—"and you need not laugh. There were some beautiful things in it, too, I know; but on reading them over I became at last possessed of a horrible fear that I had seen them elsewhere, though I couldn't be certain, and so in the end burned the manuscript.""That is not strange," Mr. Seymour remarked, "for if we happen to say something that is beautiful, we are as conscious of it as others; but reflecting on the subject, it in time becomes common, and so assumes the air of being old. Immediately this is so, we suspect it is not ours, but something we have treasured in our memory, and so at last cannot distinguish between the two.""I am surprised at what you say, Mrs. Singleton," Uncle Job interposed; "for I have heard the disposition to write was so intense that it could not be appeased.""It was not so in my case, for I have never had any disposition to make a second attempt," she answered, amiably."If a man must write a novel, let him go ahead, and the Lord have mercy on his soul," Mr. Seymour went on. "The taste, however, that leads some to select the worst types of men and women to exploit, as if such people made up the rank and file of society, or any considerable portion of it, is beyond me. What earthly interest, for instance, have refined or decent people in the doings of the social drabs that some of our authors are at such infinite pains to portray?""There are such people, you will admit?" Uncle Job answered, as if to draw him on."Yes; and there are cataclysms in the sea and quicksands on the land, but neither the currents of the sea nor the highways by land lead to them. It is only the casual wayfarer who suffers through their existence, and so the impress of the disgusting creatures these novelists depict would be slight if not thus widely advertised.""Then you think it does harm?" Uncle Job answered."Of course it does harm. I may say a foolish word and it counts for nothing. I myself will not remember it; but if some busybody or malicious person repeats it, then it circulates and has enduring life, as if stamped in bronze. So it is with the acts of those who disregard the moral ethics of society; but these authors give the reader the impression that the sun only shines by fits and starts, whereas the shadows are as nothing compared with its eternal radiance.""They exaggerate the situation, you think?" Uncle Job insinuated."Of course they do; for there are no such men and women in real life. Even the worst have good qualities; and if plots are hatched to the undoing of mankind, it is not among the young in life, for they are always trusting and of fair dealing. No, the pathos and tragedies come after marriage, for beyond that point the sea is strewn with wreckage. To go back, though, to what we were speaking about, Gilbert," he went on, soberly enough; "you will not find it disagreeable to finish your education along the lines you mention. Nor will you, I think, in other and more necessary ways.""Thank you, sir; I will not lose time in making a beginning, anyway," I answered. "What would you say, Uncle Job," I asked, turning to him, "to Cousin Rolland's coming here to act as my instructor?""He would do very well, for he has a fine mind and is a university man; but how about Cousin Angeline?" he responded, looking at me with a twinkle in his eyes."I think we could manage that some way; and Cousin Rolland is such agreeable company that study would not be hard under him.""No, I don't think it would," Uncle Job answered, but in what sense I could not make out."Where will you live meanwhile, Gilbert? I hope with us," Setti here broke in for the first time, it never being in her nature to talk much, as I have told you."I would like it better than any place on earth, Setti, but the house would not be big enough for two such students as Constance and I. We would be jealous of each other's learning before a month had passed. I have an idea what I will do, though, if Uncle Job agrees to it.""What is it, Gilbert? I agree beforehand to everything you do or say, as I ought, for that was what your Aunt Jane said, you know," Uncle Job answered, good-naturedly."Well, I have a mind to buy the Appletop place, and as the owner is dead and it is for sale, I can't see that there is anything to prevent," I answered, hurrying through, not knowing how the company would take it.Of Constance I was at once assured by the pressure of her hand. The others at first looked up in surprise, but after a while, reflecting on the matter and thinking how fine it would be to have the great place owned by a friend, there was such clapping of hands and shouting as left no doubt whatever of their opinion in the matter. Turning to Constance, I read in her eyes and heightened color how pleased she was to think I should be so near her, and in such a home, surrounded by trees and lawns and opening vistas, in the quiet of the country and yet among my friends."If you buy it, Gilbert, and ever build a house, let it be something like a manor, for that will be in keeping with the place," Mrs. Singleton, who greatly admired the old-fashioned houses of the South, spoke up."Yes; and I would like to suggest a name for it, Gilbert, if you have a mind," Mr. Seymour interposed."I should be glad to have you, sir," I answered, in great spirits, delighted to find my plan met with every one's approval."Call it Black Hawk Lodge, in honor of that great man and much maligned savage," Mr. Seymour responded."I will build the house if only to name it in remembrance of him, and in gratitude for his having saved the lives of my father and mother," I answered, the image of the great savage rising like a specter before my eyes.Afterward it fell out as I had proposed; and not waiting to make any change in the Appletop house, I went there to live, bringing Cousin Rolland from Rock Island, as we had talked. Now, having a good deal of time on my hands, for my studies were not so much of a burden as I had thought, I soon began to think of building the new home, the old one being hardly fit to live in. The planning of this, however, I found required more time and study than I had thought, and being in doubt about nearly everything pertaining to such a place, I was compelled to seek Constance's aid, and this almost every hour of the day. First of all we had to locate the building, and this with reference to the trees and lawns and the streets that ran past the park. This required a deal of time and much walking back and forth, for we were both agreed that the matter of location was everything. The labor, too, being tiresome in the extreme, we to rest ourselves would oftentimes have refreshments brought and served on the lawn, or in some friendly arbor. Thus, not being in any hurry, a thing I thought very simple at first grew each day more difficult, so that in the end it required quite a year for its fulfillment.When we had fixed upon the location, the plans had next to be drawn, and that there might be no mistake or lack of attention we kept them in our own hands. As we were new to such things, and yet aware how important it was, we found it necessary to make many changes, often tearing up the plans we had made and beginning anew, so little satisfied were we with what we had done. At the start we determined that the house should have a wide veranda supported by pillars, as Mrs. Singleton had said. Then the hall came next; and this, as regards width and depth and the location of the stairs, caused us a world of planning. After that the reception-room had to be agreed upon, and this with reference to the drawing-room; but both of these we got fixed finally to our liking. The living-room, most important of all, you will say, after making the circuit of the building in search of a fit place, we at last located on the sunny side of the house, where we should have put it at first. The dining-room we determined from the very beginning to make extra big, in the belief that entertaining one's friends tends to keep people young, if not carried to an excess; and thus it was. The sleeping-rooms and closets and things of that sort, as regards number and arrangement, occasioned us a deal of study, but finally all were arranged to our liking. The stable, last of all, we hid away behind a clump of pines, and so constructed that we could add to it, and this without destroying the symmetry of the structure, for we thought that a barn, being almost as conspicuous as the dwelling, should be gracefully planned, so far as it was possible to have it.When finally the plans were arranged to our liking, and we could think of nothing more, we called the architect to go on with the work; but now some two years had gone by, so much time had it taken to locate and plan the structure to our liking. At last, just before my twentieth birthday, the whole was turned over to me complete. Then, not waiting for furnishings, but calling on Mr. Seymour, and he bringing every needed thing, we celebrated the event with a dinner, and afterward a great ball, to which all the people of Appletop and thereabouts were invited. This last was thought to be a great event, and to surpass by far anything of the kind ever before attempted in the new country. Certainly it passed off with great spirit; and one of the things that pleased me most about it was having the Haywards and Blakes to stay with me during the week of the celebration.Now, being free and the house in readiness, Constance and I began to talk more seriously of our marriage, but still as a thing some way off. Not, indeed, that we thought it needful to wait till I was of age, but being separated by only a step a few days more or less did not so much matter. Thus it would have turned out, except for the most surprising and unheard-of thing that happened just at this time, and that was the need that arose for Mr. Seymour's immediate return to England. For, so it appeared, he was not the obscure Englishman we all had thought, but the son of a great lord; and now, his two elder brothers dying without issue, and his father being already dead, he had come into the title and estate, and so must return to his own home. Of his coming to America, and the reason therefor, it appeared, so the story ran, that when a young man and hot-headed, being greatly disheartened and angered by the obstacles his father placed in the way of his union with the lady of his choice, he had married her whether or no, and gathering together all his belongings, had come to this country, and finally to Little Sandy and the Dragon, as you know. Of all this I had not a hint till one afternoon when Constance and her father were to dine with me, and she, coming early, told me the story as I have related."Surely you have known before to-day that your father was the son of a nobleman?" I answered, when she had finished, surprised out of my senses at what she said."Not always, but since we came to Appletop," she answered."As long ago as that, Constance, and you have never said a word about it to me! Do you think it was quite generous to keep it back?" I asked, in some humiliation that I should have been kept in the dark about so important a matter."What good would it have done, Gilbert? You knew us as we are, and was that not enough? What difference did his being the younger son of a lord make?""I don't know; but have you not known he was to fall heir to the title?" I asked, bewildered."Not certainly till to-day, though it has been likely these four years.""These four years!" I answered, astonished at what she said; "and never a hint of it to me or any one.""No, for papa did not want it known; and besides, his surviving brother, although an invalid, might still have outlived him.""Now that you are what you are—and have been all along—Constance!" I answered, stammering and hardly conscious of what I was saying."Well, what about it?" she asked, in her simple way."Well, our plans—our marriage. Surely I am not going to hold you to it now that you have come into such prominence in the world," I answered, with a sinking heart."For shame, you silly boy, to speak that way! What difference does it make. You know papa has always looked on you as his son and has told you so a hundred times.""I know, but he was not a lord then.""Yes, he was. A man noble born is always a noble, though he may not have a title; and do you think papa is any different now from what he was a month ago? You know better, Gilbert. Besides, you cruel boy, did it make any difference with you when you came into your fine fortune and found yourself betrothed to a poor tavernkeeper's daughter? For shame! I would not have believed you so full of pride.""That was different, Constance, for without anything you were always too good for me, and so Aunt Jane said, though I knew it before.""No, it is not different at all. You loved me, and that was enough, you dear, silly goose, and I would not give you up for all the titles in the world. Nor would papa have me. There now, kiss me, and let us never speak of it again, for you know what you have always said, 'I have you and you have me, and what more is there?'" And the sweet creature, not waiting for me to do as she said, put her arms about my neck and kissed me on both my cheeks."You are an angel, Constance, and a thousand times too good for me," I answered, returning her caress; "but if your father is going to return to England at once, it will put off our marriage," I added, disturbed at the thought."Yes, I suppose so, though I had not thought of that.""Why should it, though? Why can't we be married before he goes—now, if there is no objection?" I added, to clinch it."Why, what a hurry you are in, Gilbert," she answered, but not as if displeased at what I said."Yes, for if we put it off, it may be for a long time, and I see no need of such delay," I replied, thinking of my many years of waiting."Why, you are only twenty, Gilbert, you know," she answered, looking at me in the most quizzical way."Yes, but I have been a man these ten years, and have loved you always, you know.""Yes, you have, you sweet boy, and I will marry you to-day if it will please you," she answered, putting her arm through mine as if there were no other."Then we will be married before he goes, if he is agreed," I answered, kissing her. Now, seeing Mr. Seymour coming across the road, we ran forward to greet him at the gate."So you have heard the news, Gilbert?" he asked, as he approached, seeing our smiling faces."Yes; Constance has told me, and I wish you joy of your good fortune, for there is no one in the world half so worthy of it, or who would honor it as you will," I answered, kissing his hand."Then you still think well of me, a lord born and bred, hot republican that you are?""Yes, and a thousand times more than I ever did before," I answered, remembering his great goodness to me always; "but are all lords like you?""Yes, only better, though none of them have made the success I have as a tavernkeeper. And about that, what will Appletop do, I wonder, when I am gone?" he added, as if the leaving carried with it some pang of regret."It will never find anybody to take your place in the tavern or elsewhere, and your going will fill every one with sorrow, for there is not one who does not love you," I answered, thinking of his true heart and gentle kindness all these years."Ah, Gilbert, you have the making of a fine courtier, it comes so easy for you to say pleasant things," he answered, smiling. "Constance has told you, I suppose, that I must go back to England at once?" he added, caressing her hand."Yes; and I am both glad and sorry.""You understand that I shall want to take her with me?""No, not that, surely!""You wouldn't have me leave her here, would you?" he asked, smiling."Yes, if we were married first," I answered."Why, you have not thought of marrying for a year yet.""I know; but your going changes everything; and why should we put it off longer, if you have no objection?""I have no objection, but don't you think it would be better to have it occur in her new home?""Not unless she wishes it, or you desire it, for this is her home and country, and always will be, I hope," I answered, thinking it best to put the matter squarely."Well, do as you like, children. It is never wise for old people to meddle too much in such affairs," he added, as if thinking of his own youth. "Only I wish Constance to go with me now, for I have to meet new conditions, and want her by my side. Afterward I will come back with you if only for a month, for this is now my country, Gilbert, as well as hers. Its streams and slumbering depths," he went on, as he looked across the intervening plain to the great river and the dark forest beyond, "belong to all of us without reference to our place of birth. Nature claims this love and kinship from her children everywhere, but in my case there are other ties, as you know. So do not fear, my children, but that I shall return many times in the days to come to visit you in your home, in the country of my adoption."Thus it was concluded as we stood holding each other's hands in the shadows of the spreading trees, and it being left to Constance and me, we determined to celebrate our marriage without further delay—not, as you may suppose, in the new house, or in the church, but in the Treasure room of the Dragon, where there were so many reminders of things dear to us all, and now become a part of our lives. When this event that we had so long looked forward to had been consummated, and every hope and longing was thus happily fulfilled, we accompanied Mr. Seymour to England, as he desired. There, as Lady Constance, my sweet wife was received by her people in the most affectionate way possible, and afterward, when they came to know her better, with such striving to keep her among them that I came near abandoning my own country for theirs. For in my case they could not have been more kind had I been an Englishman and a lord, and this, you must know, is the feeling they have for all their descendants beyond the seas, however lightly the latter may prize their love.In this way, and amid surroundings every way delightful, we prolonged our stay for a year or more, but after a while, and with some sojourn on the continent, came back to our own home, where we stayed. This, though the town faded out after a little, as so many had done before, to reappear under other names on the banks of the great river. We were content to stay, and soon where the streets had been, meadows and trees took their place, for as the houses were torn down or moved away we acquired the property, and so added it to what we had before. Of the Dragon, it remained as of old, and the little garden Constance had looked after as a girl we kept as it was, and filled always with the flowers she had loved. This part of our domain, the most cherished of all, we left to Setti's tender care, and of the building she made a playhouse for our children, and here they grew to be men and women, all fair and with sweet tempers and gentle ways like their mother. Constance and I often visited the old home, sometimes with the children at the little feasts they spread, but often alone, when we wished to conjure up anew the faces and forms of other days. Thus we lived in the stillness of the country in happiness and contentment of mind, each year adding something to the great love we had borne each other from the first.
CHAPTER LI
THE MAUVAISE TERRE
The second evening after our departure we were far on our way, stopping for the night at the hut of a lonely trapper hid away among the steep inclines that shelter the perverse and tortuous Kickapoo. The next morning, getting an early start, we rode into the little village of Peoria, crossing the placid Illinois as the morning sun tipped the forest on its eastern shore. The fourth night found us, without adventure, a few miles from Little Sandy, and here, worn out with our long ride, we put up at a wayside tavern, half hidden by the overhanging trees. The next morning, impatient to complete our journey, we were in the saddle while the east was as yet scarce tinted with the coming of the summer day. Riding forward into the great plain, the morning mists hung white and trembling on the distant horizon, and this as if to hide the beauties of nature that lay beyond. Above these shadowy curtains, serene and far off, the placid heavens, half disclosed, looked down upon us in gentle salutation. Going on, and the day advancing, the soft murmurings and babble of the prairie filled our ears as with the breath of life. Nothing indeed was lacking to complete nature's picture; the hum of insects, the chirruping of birds, the drone of wild bees gathering their winter stores. Inimitable throng! We felt its presence as we might that of the Great Creator.
"Surely God dwells here!" Fox exclaimed, half aloud, slowing his horse to a walk.
To this I bowed my head without speaking, feeling, indeed, that we were in His very presence.
"The prairie has its life and mysteries, Gilbert, great and unfathomable as the silent sea, and not less grand," Fox went on, pulling up his horse.
Stopping to contemplate the tranquil scene, the odor of flowers and fragrant grasses and the smell of the sweet earth came to our grateful senses on the soft air like a welcome and benediction.
"It is nature's breath, and with the perfume of all the ages," Fox exclaimed, removing his hat.
Nor was this all, for round about us, and as if in welcome of our coming, the birds of the prairie and troops of meadowlarks in ecstasy of song flitted here and there, or with faces turned toward us perched swaying from some blossoming flower. Along the scarce-beaten path as we went slowly forward the midgets of the plain, emerging from their hiding-places, peered at us curiously from out the dew-laden grass, or sat bolt upright, staring beside their nests. Beyond these, in the quiet lakes, white with the morning mists, wild fowl watched from amid the reeds and round about them muskrats swam back and forth or sat perched on their housetops stroking their beards.
"See that old fellow with the pompadour!" Fox exclaimed, his mood changing; "there! sitting on the roof of his Queen Anne cottage. How much he resembles General Jackson! And I have no doubt will undermine every house in the pond, as the general has done with our finances, if any one dare make a face at him."
"What foolish talk," I answered, paying little heed to what he said.
"No; the muskrat is as serious as Mr. Jackson, and knows just as much about finance and good government."
"Nonsense, Fox! General Jackson is a great man," I answered, impatiently.
"Yes, in some things; but there never was a man in office who knew less of its duties."
"Well, he is a fine soldier that you will admit," I answered, feeling about for some common ground on which we could stand.
"Yes; but all the air in heaven will not be enough to supply those who will sing his praises in the days to come, not as a soldier, but as a Statesman, with a great, big, fat, succulent S. He is to our liking, though—for if by chance freemen find a man with a genius for killing people, they straightway make him President or something of that kind. Fitness to the winds, my boy, tra la! Give me liberty or give me death, but in any event, something to worship, if it is only a seven-months' calf."
Not agreeing with Fox in anything he said, and indeed not knowing much about it one way or the other, I made no reply, and so the subject dropped. Stopping farther on to refresh our animals in the sweet waters of the gentle Mauvaise Terre, its dainty fish hurrying from their hiding-places, swam in and out about our horses' feet, as if in greeting of these new monsters come to visit them in their quiet home. Beyond, on the sloping bank, a robin, old and gray, eyed us critically, and at last, as if seeing enough, gave a croak of warning and hopped briskly away. Farther up the steep incline, as if nature were determined to exhibit all her stores, a covey of quail ran scurrying across the way, but stopping on the other side, looked down on us, and curiously, as if having naught to fear. Abandoning ourselves to the dreamy sweetness of the hour, there came presently from out the topmost branches of a towering cottonwood the blackbirds' swelling chorus, rising and falling on the morning air like an anthem of praise and thanksgiving, as indeed it was.
"How is that, Gilbert, compared with our Appletop choir?" Fox asked, shaking his head.
Not answering, I looked away; and far off, beneath an overhanging oak, a gentle doe, with her young beside her, stood drinking. Looking in that direction, Fox spoke again, but now soberly enough.
"See, Gilbert, in this Garden of Eden we are still thought to be harmless like the other animals; and to think," he went on without stopping, "that such a world should be bartered for an apple with a worm in it! But hark!" and as he ceased there came to us, as in farewell and from some far-off place, the soft cooing of the turtle-dove, sweetest and saddest of all country sounds and fittest note of its remote and restful solitudes. Listening, but without speech, we rode on, and regretfully, loath to leave a scene so full of beauty and the fragrant sweetness of life.
CHAPTER LII
LIFE AND DEATH
Rousing ourselves as we left the shadows of the Mauvaise Terre, we put spurs to our horses, and ere the sun was half-way up the sky, rode into the town of Little Sandy. This on a day like that upon which I left it years before, but now how changed! The Dragon, once the center of so much stir, stood forlorn and empty, its sign hanging half obliterated in the morning air, as if in shame of its abandonment. About the town, the houses once so full of life and sprightly gayety were now for the most part empty and fast falling to pieces for lack of care. The busy streets, too, were overgrown with grasses and sprouting trees, so that the footfall of our horses could scarce be heard as we rode slowly forward. No need to tell the reason of this decay, and that some new place was luring the people to other homes.
Sorrowing over what I saw, we rode at a walk through the dying town into the country beyond. Here, nearing my aunt's house, we turned into a quiet path, and doing so, came full upon the lawyer Moth. He, keeping his horse at a gallop, raised his hat and saluted us with every show of kindness and good will as he passed, but without stopping or speech of any kind. Returning his salutation, we went on, and now more soberly, until presently our path brought us to the little churchyard where my father and mother lay buried. Here, giving my horse to Fox, I went forward alone, gathering as I crossed the intervening space the grasses and wild flowers my mother had loved when she was yet alive. Coming presently to the graves with throbbing heart, I found them not as I had thought, but covered with sweet verdure and such profusion of flowers that I could scarce believe my eyes. Seeing this, and being overwrought, I burst into a flood of tears, and throwing myself down upon the ground, rested my face upon my mother's grave. Calling to her aloud in agony of grief, as a child might have done, I repeated again her prayers and those that she had taught me kneeling at her side. At last, quieted in some measure, I yet lay still, and doing so, lived over my childhood days, tasted its sweet cares and blissful sorrows, heard again the voices of those I loved, called up anew their forms and smiling faces. Thus dreaming and mourning, I lingered, loath to leave, until the sun was high in the heavens. Nor would I yet have gone had not Fox come to draw me away. Then kneeling and kissing the mounds that covered the dear forms, I arose and followed him. Passing Wild Plum, I did not stay, except to note with throbbing heart that in everything it was as we had left it. Here again I saw Aunt Jane's loving hand, as in the flower-strewn graves, and seeing it, blessed her for her love and tender care.
With my heart thus stirred with grateful thoughts, we spurred on to her home, and coming to the gate, there was no sign of bustle or life of any kind, but such quietness as no one had ever known in the olden time. For in those days the very trees and plants, so it was thought, meditated on the crops and the prospect of gain; but now how changed! Standing upright and staring, they seemed without life and as if awaiting some sad event which they had long foreknown. Thinking my aunt was dead, and yet believing Moth would have told me had this been so, I gave my horse to Fox, and going forward, knocked at the door. Scarce had I done this, when it opened, and the servant, knowing me before I spoke, took my hand, and kissing it, led me through the hall and up the winding stairs to my aunt's room. Here, opening the door, she motioned me to enter, and when I had done so closed it again and went away without having vouchsafed me a word. Gazing about in the dimly lighted room, I presently made out my aunt propped up in her bed, and intent, as if breathing a prayer. Surprised at her worn and altered look, I neither moved nor spoke. For of the robust form and commanding face of other days there lay before me only a shrunken body, with features worn and wasted so as to be scarce recognized as hers. Only the eyes retained something of the old look, but now lighted as if by some hidden and destructive fire. While I stood thus gazing upon her, my mind filled with sad thoughts, she turned toward the door, and catching sight of my form, gave a start, and stretching out her arms, cried, in a frenzy of fear and haste:
"Gilbert! Gilbert! is it you? Come, come to me, quick! quick!"
At this I ran to her, and she, clasping my neck, trembling and sobbing, drew me down upon her bosom. Thus we lay in each other's arms, my heart too full for speech and hers beating against my breast as if it would burst with the strain put upon it. When she had somewhat recovered herself, she did not speak, but murmuring half-articulate words of endearment, fell to stroking my hair and face as if I were a babe nursing at her breast. Having in this way in some measure satisfied her heart's longing, she took hold of my shoulders, and holding me off, fell to studying my face, as if she would read there all that it had to tell and more. Then softly, and oh, so differently from other days, she spoke:
"Oh, my child, my sweet one, how it gladdens my tired heart to see you, and so soon, for I scarce expected you yet, if indeed you came at all."
"I hope you did not think so badly of me as that, dear aunt, for I lost not a moment after getting your letter."
"Yes, child, I thought you would come; and it was like your father to act quickly. In looks, though, how like you are to your sweet mother! Her color and face and eyes and hair! It is as if she stood beside me in life, so much do you resemble her."
"I am glad to hear you say that," I answered, kissing her, pleased beyond everything at the gentle way in which she spoke of my dear mother.
"Yes, child; and I hope you will be like her in temper and sweetness of life."
"No one can be that; but what you say makes me very happy, aunt," I answered, caressing her hand.
"You started right away, then, when you got my letter?" she asked, toying with my hair.
"Yes, within an hour; but I can never forgive myself for going away as I did, giving you no chance to speak, and on my knees, dear aunt, I ask you to forgive me," I answered, slipping down beside her bed and wetting it with my tears, so sorrowing was my heart at her forlorn state.
"Don't kneel to me, dear one," she exclaimed, lifting me up. "We were all mistaken, you least of all; but my whole life has been a mistake, and from the very beginning. Wrapped up in my strivings, I thought not of my acts, nor heeded how they appeared to others, only knowing that I loved you all and labored that you might some day be the better for it. How mistakenly, though, and oh, how bitterly God has punished me, till at last my prayer is answered, and He has led you back to me."
"We were to blame, dear aunt, and should have read your heart better. Now how happy my mother must be, can she but hear your words and know your heart, for all her life long she wanted to win your love."
"I know it, and she had it above all others on earth; and yet, oh, God, forgive my pride and wayward moods! I would make no sign. Not even when she was about to die—but of that, merciful heaven, I did not dream!" she cried in agony, pressing her hands against her tear-stained face. Recovering after a while, she went on, but now more gently: "Tell me, sweet child, how it is that you who were once so slight, yet have your height and strength at scarce sixteen?"
"I don't know, dear aunt, unless, as I have heard, all our people were the same."
"Yes, your father had his growth at your age, and went about the world as if he were thirty." Then, as if hastening, she went on: "I hope your Uncle Job is well and happy. We greatly mistook him, and had you stayed with me, as I wanted, you would perhaps not have been the better for it. For you must know that all you have done, and all that has happened to you, I have known about as well as if I had been with you. This you will wonder at, but I have followed your wanderings as if you were my own son. My estrangement from your father and mother was all my fault, but I loved them none the less. When they died I thought to make some reparation by the care with which I would watch over your young life, but this failed, and unhappily, like all else. Then as I could not have you with me, I thought to watch over you and be near should you need my aid—not forcing myself upon you, but without your knowledge; and so your life since you left Wild Plum is known to me better than to any one save yourself."
"I never dreamed of that, dear aunt, nor was I worthy of it!" I answered, greatly affected by what she said.
"Yes, you were; and I have grown to love you better because of your simple ways. For believing you were alone in the world, you yet kept on, not complaining nor going astray in any serious way."
"I had help in that, dear aunt, of which you do not know," I answered, thinking of Constance.
"Yes, the help that comes from companionship with a gentle and pure heart; from Constance's sympathy and love for you. You see, I know all about her and your love for each other, you dear child. Yes, even while you were yet at Wild Plum, and children; and I shall die the happier for it, Gilbert, for she is worthy of your love though you were a thousand times better than you are."
"Oh, aunt, how good of you to speak in that way; but you will not die, for no one of our family, save my father, was ever stricken down so young."
"I am sorry if it grieves you, dear child, but in a little while, you cannot dream how soon, I shall be laid beside your sweet mother. Put me there, Gilbert, and when you place flowers on their graves, spare some for me. It is all I ask, save that you will remember me as kindly as you can when I am gone."
"Don't talk that way, dear aunt, for you know I will love you always, and I loved you before I saw you, when I found the graves covered with flowers, and at Wild Plum, where everything was as it used to be."
"Did you come that way, child? It was affectionate of you, and as it should be. When I am gone you can do as I have, if you wish, for I shall leave you enough for that, and much more to spend as you like."
"Don't speak so, dear aunt, for you are not going to die," I answered, melted anew to tears by the sad pathos of her voice.
"I must speak, and about your future, for I have but a little time left me. I shall leave you all I have, my sweet child, and it is much more than any one dreams of, save Moth. Of him, too, Gilbert, I want to speak before it is too late. Everything he did was by my direction, save that his zeal for me made him sometimes forget what was due to others. That was only an excess of virtue, for in all things, great and small, he has been true to me; and much of my great fortune, and it is truly great, is due to his advice and never-failing friendship. Treasure him when I am gone, sweet one, for no matter what you have thought, he is a man to trust; pure gold tried over and over again in the furnace of life. It was he who reconciled me, in my heart, to your Uncle Job. For after the trial he came and confessed to me, almost on his knees, how grievously he had been mistaken, and that in all things Mr. Throckmorton's honor and good intentions were what they should be. Thus it has proven; for if you have struggled on seemingly alone, it was for your good, and has built you up as I could not have done, nor your uncle, had you looked to him. In this he has been wise, as you will see more plainly as the years pass."
"He would have aided me more than he has had I let him," I answered, anxious to do him justice.
"I know; and you have been a little headstrong, Gilbert, but only that you might provide for yourself. I don't treasure it against you, for only good has come of it, and I love you all the more. Now, Gilbert, let me say a word about other things, for I have but little strength, and may never be able to speak to you again. All my life, as you know, I have occupied myself with business. What else could I do? Had I married, as I might, and happily, it would have been different. Determining otherwise, and most unwisely, I set out to build up our fortune, and for your good, hoping to transmit our name, not as it is known in this distracted country, but as it was in another and more peaceful land. In this I have succeeded beyond all my hopes, but much of my success has been due to Moth. Wild Plum I redeemed, as I could under your father's deed, and you will treasure it, and keep this place too, I hope, in remembrance of me. Beneath these farms, and underlying all the many thousand acres I leave you, there lie boundless fields of coal, the worth of which no one dreams of now. For in a little while our young state will have filled with people, and with them will come factories, and the furnaces of these you will help to feed. These lands I leave to you, and other things for your present wants, so that you may spend all your life and still be rich; but do this in moderation, Gilbert. Others will come after you. Leave something for them. Do not be idle, but occupy yourself not less fully now that you will be rich. For idleness is like a foul distemper that destroys the mind and saps the character of men, leaving only shreds and patches not worth any one's respect. Remember always that the greatest of God's gifts is the opportunity to occupy our minds and bodies in the attainment of honorable ends. Thus busied, men never grow old, but remain buoyant and fresh to the very end."
"What am I, dear aunt, that you should have planned like this? Surely, men are but little children compared with you."
"No; the most foolish among them have been wiser than I, for their lives have had some ray of sunshine, while mine has not had one gleam to brighten it."
"Oh, aunt, Constance and I will make your life happy if our love will be enough, for we will love you as if you were our mother."
"It is too late, Gilbert," she answered, with a sad smile; "but I shall die happy in being reconciled to you and in thinking you will grow to love me when I am gone. Kiss me again, sweet one, and may the good Lord have you in His keeping, and forgive me all my sins."
"Oh, aunt! we will be more to you than you can think; and Constance will come, and you will love her and she will love you! Don't speak again of dying," I cried, my heart filled to overflowing.
At this her face brightened as with some ray of happiness, but she made no response save to pull me to her and kiss me, sobs filling her throat as she pressed me in her arms. Then, faint and gasping, she fell back on her pillow, and in a little while, as if comforted, fell into a sweet and restful sleep. Sorrowing over her sad life and on all she had told me, I sat beside her, her hand clasped in mine, not moving lest she should awake. This till the shadows of the night were gathering in the room, and then, she not stirring, I arose and leaned over her bed, and doing so gave a startled cry. For while I had sat thus unconscious, her spirit, so great and so unhappy, had taken its flight to the good Lord whose forgiveness she had asked with her last breath.
* * * * *
Thus this most unhappy lady, so capable of love, passed away with a smile on her sad face and a prayer upon her lips. I, following her wishes, lovingly and with tears placed her beside the other two, and spreading flowers over all their graves, knelt beside them and prayed that the lives and hearts of the dear ones so long separated might be thus reunited in heaven above.
CHAPTER LIII
WHERE ALL THE ROADS MEET
After Aunt Jane's death, Uncle Job came on to Little Sandy, and together we spent several months acquainting ourselves with her affairs, for among other things it was provided in the will that he should be trustee of the estate until I was come of age. In regard to this, however, she was at pains to express the wish that I should have my way from the start, being a man grown, she said, and not likely to abuse her confidence in any respect. Thus it fell out that at seventeen, through her great wisdom and love, I was no longer poor and without a home, but rich beyond anything I could have dreamed of.
When, finally, there was nothing further to keep us, and I had visited the graves of those dear to me for the last time, we bade good by to the place, leaving Moth and Fox in charge. Of their stewardship I never had cause to regret, for through their wise and faithful management my affairs prospered in the years that were to come beyond anything I could have thought possible. Taking our departure, we passed through Little Sandy, and now for the last time. For when I came again there was no house to mark the spot, and where the streets had been a young forest grew, and birds flew in and out or hid themselves in its silent depths. Passing the Dragon, I saluted it, and with reverent sadness, as one might a departing friend, for in its silent rooms and deserted halls it treasured memories that only death could lessen or efface.
Our journey home was without event, and so filled with the sweetness of the country that when we reached Appletop we were rested in body and mind as from a refreshing sleep. Constance, as if to set my heart in a greater flame, was grown taller and more beautiful, if that could be, but otherwise had not changed; or if she had, it was to my advantage, for when I asked her if she had greatly missed me, she answered that my absence only added to her love; at which sweet confession I kissed her and was content.
Some time after our return Mr. Seymour gave a dinner at the Dragon in my honor, but quite informally, so the announcement ran. At the table I sat next to Constance, and, truth to tell, to the great loss of my appetite; for much of the time my food was untasted and my fork lay idle on my plate that I might be the more free to pay her some compliment or press her hand beneath the cloth. There being no one but friends present, my affairs were much discussed, and this with such excess of joy and good nature that I was many times in tears, so greatly was I affected by their kind speeches and the recollection of their goodness to me in the past. Mr. Seymour I never saw in better spirits, for my good fortune was as if it had come to him, or as if I had, indeed, been his own son. When the evening was somewhat advanced, he filled his glass, and looking into the faces of those about him, said, in his amiable way:
"I leave it to you, good friends, whether we may not properly toast our young friend here before we part." Then stopping, as if to await their answer, a great shout went up that made the room ring with its good-natured heartiness. "That is as it should be, and expresses some part of our love and happiness at his good fortune. I say good fortune, and this I know it will prove; for when he was poor he bore himself with such modesty that I am sure he will not lose in amiability now that riches have come to him. For arrogance, as every one knows, is not peculiar to the rich or those high in station, but crops up oftentimes like a foul weed, born of envy, among the more lowly in life, who, except for this deformity, would be very agreeable companions and neighbors. It is peculiarly happy that this stroke of fortune has come to Gilbert, for some of you will not have forgotten the belief I expressed that Mr. Throckmorton's marriage destroyed all his hopes of preferment in that direction. This has come about as I expected, for Mrs. Betty's two fine boys, if she will excuse my familiar form of speech, would have left little for our young friend. You can see that for yourself now, Gilbert," he concluded, turning to me.
"Yes, nothing could be plainer," I answered; "though I had forgotten what you said, and because, I suppose, I have never wanted for anything, thanks to the goodness of my friends." This response was greatly applauded by all present, and so, encouraged by their smiles, as beginners are apt to be, I went on: "I am glad I have come into what I have, and not altogether on my own account, either," and here I gave Constance's hand such a squeeze that she came near to crying out with the pain of it. "Aunt Betty's boys it is not likely will ever want for anything, but if they do I shall be glad to share what I have with them, and this because of their father's and mother's many kindnesses to me in the past."
"I know you mean that, Gilbert," Aunt Betty cried; "and if it were not for disturbing everybody I would come around and give you a kiss for your sweet speech."
This, every one agreed, quite repaid me, and I thought so too, for Aunt Betty was a most affectionate and lovable woman, and had been to me from the very first as if I were a dear brother. Mrs. Singleton, who in the years that had passed was forever looking me up to see, she said, if I kept my good temper or was not in need of some kindness, now turned to me, and smiling as a mother might on her child, asked:
"What do you intend doing, Gilbert, now that you are rich, if you have a mind to tell us?"
"I don't know," I answered, truly enough.
"That is not strange; but where will you complete your education?" she went on.
"In Appletop, I hope, if Mrs. Hayward thinks I need to know more about books," I answered, turning to her.
At this the sweet lady blushed like a girl, so confused was she at the reference, but pleased withal, I thought, at the compliment. Recovering herself directly, she answered in her pleasant way:
"I was but a poor instructor, I fear, Gilbert, and taught you but little, and that not well. William and I have talked about it a great deal since the day you left us, for the ferry is not the same to us now that you are gone."
"I will never again find friends who will be half as indulgent, and not all the money in the world would repay the debt I owe you and Mr. Hayward," I answered. "You taught me all I know, and with such forbearance and gentleness that I shall love you for it as long as I live," I went on, and yet not expressing the half I felt. For of all women I ever knew, save Constance and my dear mother, there was never one like her for goodness and every womanly virtue. Of Mr. Hayward, if he was different, he was not less kind-hearted and true to those near him. "About schools," I kept on, determined to have it out now that the subject was up, "I never liked them when a boy, and less so to-day than then. That is the way I feel, and except for the necessity of it I would never look in a book again unless it referred to something I liked. An education, though, I suppose, is as needful as plowing before a crop, and so I must go on and finish mine whether I like it or no."
"You never liked to plow very well," Mr. Hayward responded, as if it fell to him to answer, "but still you went at it resolutely enough when there was need. You will do the same about finishing your education, I know. The labor ought not to be very great, for most men are overeducated. Nine-tenths of those who go to the higher schools had better spend their time boiling soap or hoeing corn. The few who are really great get along very well without so much cramming, and in the case of others the preparation only makes them the more dissatisfied with their real place in life," he concluded, soberly, and as if not speaking altogether from hearsay.
"What studies do you like best, Gilbert, if any?" Mr. Seymour asked, as if quizzing me.
"History and novels; things that have to do with men and women and the like," I answered, truly.
"History is a fine study, and novels are a help to young men when they refer to real things and not the imaginings of authors," Mr. Seymour answered, mildly.
"I once wrote a story," Mrs. Singleton here spoke up, much to our astonishment—"and you need not laugh. There were some beautiful things in it, too, I know; but on reading them over I became at last possessed of a horrible fear that I had seen them elsewhere, though I couldn't be certain, and so in the end burned the manuscript."
"That is not strange," Mr. Seymour remarked, "for if we happen to say something that is beautiful, we are as conscious of it as others; but reflecting on the subject, it in time becomes common, and so assumes the air of being old. Immediately this is so, we suspect it is not ours, but something we have treasured in our memory, and so at last cannot distinguish between the two."
"I am surprised at what you say, Mrs. Singleton," Uncle Job interposed; "for I have heard the disposition to write was so intense that it could not be appeased."
"It was not so in my case, for I have never had any disposition to make a second attempt," she answered, amiably.
"If a man must write a novel, let him go ahead, and the Lord have mercy on his soul," Mr. Seymour went on. "The taste, however, that leads some to select the worst types of men and women to exploit, as if such people made up the rank and file of society, or any considerable portion of it, is beyond me. What earthly interest, for instance, have refined or decent people in the doings of the social drabs that some of our authors are at such infinite pains to portray?"
"There are such people, you will admit?" Uncle Job answered, as if to draw him on.
"Yes; and there are cataclysms in the sea and quicksands on the land, but neither the currents of the sea nor the highways by land lead to them. It is only the casual wayfarer who suffers through their existence, and so the impress of the disgusting creatures these novelists depict would be slight if not thus widely advertised."
"Then you think it does harm?" Uncle Job answered.
"Of course it does harm. I may say a foolish word and it counts for nothing. I myself will not remember it; but if some busybody or malicious person repeats it, then it circulates and has enduring life, as if stamped in bronze. So it is with the acts of those who disregard the moral ethics of society; but these authors give the reader the impression that the sun only shines by fits and starts, whereas the shadows are as nothing compared with its eternal radiance."
"They exaggerate the situation, you think?" Uncle Job insinuated.
"Of course they do; for there are no such men and women in real life. Even the worst have good qualities; and if plots are hatched to the undoing of mankind, it is not among the young in life, for they are always trusting and of fair dealing. No, the pathos and tragedies come after marriage, for beyond that point the sea is strewn with wreckage. To go back, though, to what we were speaking about, Gilbert," he went on, soberly enough; "you will not find it disagreeable to finish your education along the lines you mention. Nor will you, I think, in other and more necessary ways."
"Thank you, sir; I will not lose time in making a beginning, anyway," I answered. "What would you say, Uncle Job," I asked, turning to him, "to Cousin Rolland's coming here to act as my instructor?"
"He would do very well, for he has a fine mind and is a university man; but how about Cousin Angeline?" he responded, looking at me with a twinkle in his eyes.
"I think we could manage that some way; and Cousin Rolland is such agreeable company that study would not be hard under him."
"No, I don't think it would," Uncle Job answered, but in what sense I could not make out.
"Where will you live meanwhile, Gilbert? I hope with us," Setti here broke in for the first time, it never being in her nature to talk much, as I have told you.
"I would like it better than any place on earth, Setti, but the house would not be big enough for two such students as Constance and I. We would be jealous of each other's learning before a month had passed. I have an idea what I will do, though, if Uncle Job agrees to it."
"What is it, Gilbert? I agree beforehand to everything you do or say, as I ought, for that was what your Aunt Jane said, you know," Uncle Job answered, good-naturedly.
"Well, I have a mind to buy the Appletop place, and as the owner is dead and it is for sale, I can't see that there is anything to prevent," I answered, hurrying through, not knowing how the company would take it.
Of Constance I was at once assured by the pressure of her hand. The others at first looked up in surprise, but after a while, reflecting on the matter and thinking how fine it would be to have the great place owned by a friend, there was such clapping of hands and shouting as left no doubt whatever of their opinion in the matter. Turning to Constance, I read in her eyes and heightened color how pleased she was to think I should be so near her, and in such a home, surrounded by trees and lawns and opening vistas, in the quiet of the country and yet among my friends.
"If you buy it, Gilbert, and ever build a house, let it be something like a manor, for that will be in keeping with the place," Mrs. Singleton, who greatly admired the old-fashioned houses of the South, spoke up.
"Yes; and I would like to suggest a name for it, Gilbert, if you have a mind," Mr. Seymour interposed.
"I should be glad to have you, sir," I answered, in great spirits, delighted to find my plan met with every one's approval.
"Call it Black Hawk Lodge, in honor of that great man and much maligned savage," Mr. Seymour responded.
"I will build the house if only to name it in remembrance of him, and in gratitude for his having saved the lives of my father and mother," I answered, the image of the great savage rising like a specter before my eyes.
Afterward it fell out as I had proposed; and not waiting to make any change in the Appletop house, I went there to live, bringing Cousin Rolland from Rock Island, as we had talked. Now, having a good deal of time on my hands, for my studies were not so much of a burden as I had thought, I soon began to think of building the new home, the old one being hardly fit to live in. The planning of this, however, I found required more time and study than I had thought, and being in doubt about nearly everything pertaining to such a place, I was compelled to seek Constance's aid, and this almost every hour of the day. First of all we had to locate the building, and this with reference to the trees and lawns and the streets that ran past the park. This required a deal of time and much walking back and forth, for we were both agreed that the matter of location was everything. The labor, too, being tiresome in the extreme, we to rest ourselves would oftentimes have refreshments brought and served on the lawn, or in some friendly arbor. Thus, not being in any hurry, a thing I thought very simple at first grew each day more difficult, so that in the end it required quite a year for its fulfillment.
When we had fixed upon the location, the plans had next to be drawn, and that there might be no mistake or lack of attention we kept them in our own hands. As we were new to such things, and yet aware how important it was, we found it necessary to make many changes, often tearing up the plans we had made and beginning anew, so little satisfied were we with what we had done. At the start we determined that the house should have a wide veranda supported by pillars, as Mrs. Singleton had said. Then the hall came next; and this, as regards width and depth and the location of the stairs, caused us a world of planning. After that the reception-room had to be agreed upon, and this with reference to the drawing-room; but both of these we got fixed finally to our liking. The living-room, most important of all, you will say, after making the circuit of the building in search of a fit place, we at last located on the sunny side of the house, where we should have put it at first. The dining-room we determined from the very beginning to make extra big, in the belief that entertaining one's friends tends to keep people young, if not carried to an excess; and thus it was. The sleeping-rooms and closets and things of that sort, as regards number and arrangement, occasioned us a deal of study, but finally all were arranged to our liking. The stable, last of all, we hid away behind a clump of pines, and so constructed that we could add to it, and this without destroying the symmetry of the structure, for we thought that a barn, being almost as conspicuous as the dwelling, should be gracefully planned, so far as it was possible to have it.
When finally the plans were arranged to our liking, and we could think of nothing more, we called the architect to go on with the work; but now some two years had gone by, so much time had it taken to locate and plan the structure to our liking. At last, just before my twentieth birthday, the whole was turned over to me complete. Then, not waiting for furnishings, but calling on Mr. Seymour, and he bringing every needed thing, we celebrated the event with a dinner, and afterward a great ball, to which all the people of Appletop and thereabouts were invited. This last was thought to be a great event, and to surpass by far anything of the kind ever before attempted in the new country. Certainly it passed off with great spirit; and one of the things that pleased me most about it was having the Haywards and Blakes to stay with me during the week of the celebration.
Now, being free and the house in readiness, Constance and I began to talk more seriously of our marriage, but still as a thing some way off. Not, indeed, that we thought it needful to wait till I was of age, but being separated by only a step a few days more or less did not so much matter. Thus it would have turned out, except for the most surprising and unheard-of thing that happened just at this time, and that was the need that arose for Mr. Seymour's immediate return to England. For, so it appeared, he was not the obscure Englishman we all had thought, but the son of a great lord; and now, his two elder brothers dying without issue, and his father being already dead, he had come into the title and estate, and so must return to his own home. Of his coming to America, and the reason therefor, it appeared, so the story ran, that when a young man and hot-headed, being greatly disheartened and angered by the obstacles his father placed in the way of his union with the lady of his choice, he had married her whether or no, and gathering together all his belongings, had come to this country, and finally to Little Sandy and the Dragon, as you know. Of all this I had not a hint till one afternoon when Constance and her father were to dine with me, and she, coming early, told me the story as I have related.
"Surely you have known before to-day that your father was the son of a nobleman?" I answered, when she had finished, surprised out of my senses at what she said.
"Not always, but since we came to Appletop," she answered.
"As long ago as that, Constance, and you have never said a word about it to me! Do you think it was quite generous to keep it back?" I asked, in some humiliation that I should have been kept in the dark about so important a matter.
"What good would it have done, Gilbert? You knew us as we are, and was that not enough? What difference did his being the younger son of a lord make?"
"I don't know; but have you not known he was to fall heir to the title?" I asked, bewildered.
"Not certainly till to-day, though it has been likely these four years."
"These four years!" I answered, astonished at what she said; "and never a hint of it to me or any one."
"No, for papa did not want it known; and besides, his surviving brother, although an invalid, might still have outlived him."
"Now that you are what you are—and have been all along—Constance!" I answered, stammering and hardly conscious of what I was saying.
"Well, what about it?" she asked, in her simple way.
"Well, our plans—our marriage. Surely I am not going to hold you to it now that you have come into such prominence in the world," I answered, with a sinking heart.
"For shame, you silly boy, to speak that way! What difference does it make. You know papa has always looked on you as his son and has told you so a hundred times."
"I know, but he was not a lord then."
"Yes, he was. A man noble born is always a noble, though he may not have a title; and do you think papa is any different now from what he was a month ago? You know better, Gilbert. Besides, you cruel boy, did it make any difference with you when you came into your fine fortune and found yourself betrothed to a poor tavernkeeper's daughter? For shame! I would not have believed you so full of pride."
"That was different, Constance, for without anything you were always too good for me, and so Aunt Jane said, though I knew it before."
"No, it is not different at all. You loved me, and that was enough, you dear, silly goose, and I would not give you up for all the titles in the world. Nor would papa have me. There now, kiss me, and let us never speak of it again, for you know what you have always said, 'I have you and you have me, and what more is there?'" And the sweet creature, not waiting for me to do as she said, put her arms about my neck and kissed me on both my cheeks.
"You are an angel, Constance, and a thousand times too good for me," I answered, returning her caress; "but if your father is going to return to England at once, it will put off our marriage," I added, disturbed at the thought.
"Yes, I suppose so, though I had not thought of that."
"Why should it, though? Why can't we be married before he goes—now, if there is no objection?" I added, to clinch it.
"Why, what a hurry you are in, Gilbert," she answered, but not as if displeased at what I said.
"Yes, for if we put it off, it may be for a long time, and I see no need of such delay," I replied, thinking of my many years of waiting.
"Why, you are only twenty, Gilbert, you know," she answered, looking at me in the most quizzical way.
"Yes, but I have been a man these ten years, and have loved you always, you know."
"Yes, you have, you sweet boy, and I will marry you to-day if it will please you," she answered, putting her arm through mine as if there were no other.
"Then we will be married before he goes, if he is agreed," I answered, kissing her. Now, seeing Mr. Seymour coming across the road, we ran forward to greet him at the gate.
"So you have heard the news, Gilbert?" he asked, as he approached, seeing our smiling faces.
"Yes; Constance has told me, and I wish you joy of your good fortune, for there is no one in the world half so worthy of it, or who would honor it as you will," I answered, kissing his hand.
"Then you still think well of me, a lord born and bred, hot republican that you are?"
"Yes, and a thousand times more than I ever did before," I answered, remembering his great goodness to me always; "but are all lords like you?"
"Yes, only better, though none of them have made the success I have as a tavernkeeper. And about that, what will Appletop do, I wonder, when I am gone?" he added, as if the leaving carried with it some pang of regret.
"It will never find anybody to take your place in the tavern or elsewhere, and your going will fill every one with sorrow, for there is not one who does not love you," I answered, thinking of his true heart and gentle kindness all these years.
"Ah, Gilbert, you have the making of a fine courtier, it comes so easy for you to say pleasant things," he answered, smiling. "Constance has told you, I suppose, that I must go back to England at once?" he added, caressing her hand.
"Yes; and I am both glad and sorry."
"You understand that I shall want to take her with me?"
"No, not that, surely!"
"You wouldn't have me leave her here, would you?" he asked, smiling.
"Yes, if we were married first," I answered.
"Why, you have not thought of marrying for a year yet."
"I know; but your going changes everything; and why should we put it off longer, if you have no objection?"
"I have no objection, but don't you think it would be better to have it occur in her new home?"
"Not unless she wishes it, or you desire it, for this is her home and country, and always will be, I hope," I answered, thinking it best to put the matter squarely.
"Well, do as you like, children. It is never wise for old people to meddle too much in such affairs," he added, as if thinking of his own youth. "Only I wish Constance to go with me now, for I have to meet new conditions, and want her by my side. Afterward I will come back with you if only for a month, for this is now my country, Gilbert, as well as hers. Its streams and slumbering depths," he went on, as he looked across the intervening plain to the great river and the dark forest beyond, "belong to all of us without reference to our place of birth. Nature claims this love and kinship from her children everywhere, but in my case there are other ties, as you know. So do not fear, my children, but that I shall return many times in the days to come to visit you in your home, in the country of my adoption."
Thus it was concluded as we stood holding each other's hands in the shadows of the spreading trees, and it being left to Constance and me, we determined to celebrate our marriage without further delay—not, as you may suppose, in the new house, or in the church, but in the Treasure room of the Dragon, where there were so many reminders of things dear to us all, and now become a part of our lives. When this event that we had so long looked forward to had been consummated, and every hope and longing was thus happily fulfilled, we accompanied Mr. Seymour to England, as he desired. There, as Lady Constance, my sweet wife was received by her people in the most affectionate way possible, and afterward, when they came to know her better, with such striving to keep her among them that I came near abandoning my own country for theirs. For in my case they could not have been more kind had I been an Englishman and a lord, and this, you must know, is the feeling they have for all their descendants beyond the seas, however lightly the latter may prize their love.
In this way, and amid surroundings every way delightful, we prolonged our stay for a year or more, but after a while, and with some sojourn on the continent, came back to our own home, where we stayed. This, though the town faded out after a little, as so many had done before, to reappear under other names on the banks of the great river. We were content to stay, and soon where the streets had been, meadows and trees took their place, for as the houses were torn down or moved away we acquired the property, and so added it to what we had before. Of the Dragon, it remained as of old, and the little garden Constance had looked after as a girl we kept as it was, and filled always with the flowers she had loved. This part of our domain, the most cherished of all, we left to Setti's tender care, and of the building she made a playhouse for our children, and here they grew to be men and women, all fair and with sweet tempers and gentle ways like their mother. Constance and I often visited the old home, sometimes with the children at the little feasts they spread, but often alone, when we wished to conjure up anew the faces and forms of other days. Thus we lived in the stillness of the country in happiness and contentment of mind, each year adding something to the great love we had borne each other from the first.