CHAPTER VIIIGILBERT'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE TIMBER-WOLFWhen we had examined all the beautiful things the room contained, or made pretense of doing so—for I was ever interested in Constance to the exclusion of other matters—she pointed with a show of pride to the battered head of an animal fastened above the door by which we had entered, exclaiming:"See, Gilbert, where papa's put the horrid thing! I can never look at it without a shudder.""It's ugly enough, I'm sure," I answered; "but what is it?""Surely you ought to know, if any one," she answered, taking hold of my hand and leading me close to the object."It's so cut up one can't tell whether it's the head of a pig or a panther," I answered."It's neither; but you're only making believe, Gilbert?""No; but I never saw anything half so ugly.""Oh, fie! how stupid you are, or make out to be.""Well, what is it? I can't guess," I answered, but in no hurry to have her tell me, so sweet was her voice and so entrancing her contention."Well, I've a good mind not to tell you, but it's the head of the wolf you killed. Papa had it mounted just as it was brought from Wild Plum; and it grows more ugly every day, I think," she answered, scowling at the hideous thing."I'd never have known it, it's so shrunken and wrinkled," I answered, gazing at the object with new interest."Then you remember, do you?" she asked, coming close to my side, as if it were still alive.Yes, I remembered the wolf well enough, but most because it concerned Constance, and had, besides, so much to do with her father's kindness to me then and always. On this account it is proper I should tell you the story; and though it may seem out of the ordinary and improbable now, it was not so regarded at the time. For you must know that in the early days the panther and bear and many other savage animals made their homes undisturbed in the depths of the great forests of Illinois, and among the first recollections of my childhood were the cries, sometimes fierce, but more often doleful, of the wolves about our home. Our situation indeed in respect to such visits was peculiar, for from the plain that lay on one side there came the gray or prairie wolf, and from the forest opposite, his fierce brother, the black or timber wolf. The first was a cowardly brute, hardly above a chicken in courage, and given to pilfering about the stables and hen-houses, though sometimes venturing as far as the kitchen if there was anything it could steal. The timber-wolf was larger, and when hungry would attack animals ten times its size. Indeed, when famished, it did not fear man, and in this way numbers of the early settlers lost their lives. In the summer and fall, when food was plentiful, it rarely visited us, but in the late winter its cries at night were so common as hardly to attract attention.Thus it was one day in the early spring, when the grasses were fairly started and the trees beginning to sprout, or only the laggards slept, as loth to waken now as they were quick to go to sleep in the early autumn. The day being warm and fair, Constance and I had ventured into the great forest, not far, indeed, but apart, the foliage shutting us off from view. At such times the thing that delighted her most was to run in and out among the trees, as children from the city always take pleasure in doing when visiting the country. In this way we had become separated for a moment, when suddenly there came to me from out the still woods a quick and agonizing cry. It was Constance's voice, and something to chill one's blood. Nor has a long life sufficed to still its vibrations, and often in the night it awakens me now, with the same dread as when I heard it in that afternoon in my far-off youth. Starting up in affright, I let fall the basket I carried, but retained in some unconscious way the small ax I had in my hand, my father's gift, and this fortunately, as it afterward turned out. Listening, and the cry being repeated, I hastened in the direction whence it came, but as I advanced it receded, faster and faster, until after a little while it came to me only plaintively, and then not at all. Hurrying forward, I after a time reached an opening in the forest, and doing so beheld on the opposite side a huge wolf, gaunt with hunger, carrying Constance in his mouth, with high uplifted head, as if her weight were nothing. Nor was it much to speak of, for she was but a child, and delicate as the lilies that bobbed and curtsied in the black pond on the edge of the great woods. At sight of the wolf I stopped, so benumbed with fear that I could neither move nor cry aloud, and thus I stood with open mouth, without any sense whatever, doing nothing. What could I do? The house was now far away, and only women there, and if I sought them it would be too late. While thus unable to think or act, I caught sight of the weapon I held, and with it courage returned to my heart—not much, to be sure, but enough. Something might be done with so good a weapon, and with the thought I hastened across the opening and plunged into the forest, following the direction the wolf had taken. After running some distance without response to my cries or finding any clew to guide me, I stopped again, filled anew with fear and dreadful forebodings. Surely she was lost, and her life a prey to the savage beast that bore her away. At the thought, taking fresh courage, I plunged ahead, and now into the very heart of the forest, thinking this the direction the animal would be most like to take. Thus minutes like hours passed, as I struggled forward through the dense undergrowth, but neither hearing nor seeing aught of her I sought. Worn out at last, I sank down in despair, tears blinding my eyes. Beyond, the great forest stretched away unbroken to the far west, receding ever to lower and lower levels, there to meet noiseless, half-hidden creeks or black, impassable swamps. Throughout its great expanse, and as a cover for the wild beasts that frequented its depths, dense undergrowth grew, and resplendent as in a garden. So much I knew from my father, who had penetrated its vast solitudes, and at another time I should have been stirred by its solemn splendor; but now it had neither beauty nor variety, revealing only darkness and terror, wherein a hideous tragedy lay concealed. Such were my thoughts as, after some moments' resting to gain new breath, I struggled to my feet and started afresh, but now without any purpose other than to follow aimlessly on. Going forward in this way, I came at last upon an opening in the trees, and there, a few feet off, and in the interval of the forest, I beheld the wolf, with tongue outstretched and bloodshot eyes, standing at bay. As I came into the cleared space, the animal raised himself erect and turned his fierce countenance on me as if inviting attack. This I did not think to offer, but losing all consciousness, I rushed forward, crying, "Constance! Constance!" Thus I reached the animal, and it not moving, I raised my weapon and struck it full in the face. The blow was not hard, for I was weak and dead with fear; but the brute not attacking me in return, and blood following the stroke, I struck again and again, sometimes missing altogether, but more often hitting my mark. Whether the animal was exhausted by its long flight, or surprised into fear by my quick attack, I do not know, but that it was dazed I must believe, for it made no effort to attack me, but stood sullenly before Constance's body, neither advancing nor receding. Finally, my blows growing weak, and the animal making as if it would spring upon me, I struck it again, and now with the strength of both my arms, full in the face. At this, as if grievously hurt, or else losing all courage, it gave a mournful cry, and turning, darted into the forest. Seeing this, and my strength being gone and my heart numb with fear, I fell forward unconscious beside Constance's prostrate body.When I came to, my head was pillowed in her lap and she was stroking my hair, kissing me the while as if to bring back the color to my face, calling, now in a fever of fright and then again plaintively and coaxingly:"Gilbert! Gilbert! My Gilbert!"Feeling her soft breath on my face, I feigned unconsciousness, loth to move; and thus I lay for a while, not stirring, nor conscious of any reason why I should. Then the thought of the wolf came back to me, and I sprang up, terror-stricken lest the animal should return, alone or with its fellows, as these fierce brutes were sometimes known to do when crazed with hunger."Quick, Constance! We must be off before the brute returns," I cried, taking hold of both her hands. To my appeal, however, she returned no answer, but sat still, her face, torn and bleeding, turned imploringly toward mine. "You're hurt!" I exclaimed, filled with fear; "but come! I can carry you, and it's not far"; and stooping I raised her in my arms as easily as I would a child."No, I'm not hurt, Gilbert," she answered, trembling and clinging about my neck; "but I thought you were dead, and your springing up frightened me as much as the presence of the wolf.""Are you sure you're not hurt in any way?" I asked, looking at her scared face and torn garments, not believing she could have got off so easily."Yes—and you?" she answered, peering into my face."I'm all right; but how could you have escaped so easily?" I asked, in wonder."I don't know, for I knew nothing after the first moment till I found you lying beside me," she answered, disengaging herself from my arms."See where the brute held you," I answered, pointing with a shaking hand to the marks of its teeth in the heavy woolen frock she wore."If my dress had been lighter, he might not have been able to carry me off at all," she answered. "But where is the beast, Gilbert? And see, you are covered with blood, too!""Come! We must leave here as quickly as we can. The wolf didn't have any more courage than a sheep, and ran away; but he may come back with the pack, if they're near by," I answered, looking about uneasily."How can you find the way, Gilbert? No one has ever been so far as this before, I know," she replied, scanning the dark trees as we hurried forward."It's no great distance, and I could find my way blindfolded," I answered, confidently; and so, guided by the sun, and this happily, we at last reached the edge of the forest just as the night was coming on. Here my mother, who had become alarmed at our long absence, was awaiting us, and as we came into view, she ran forward, crying:"My children! My children! How could you frighten me so!" When, however, she had come near to where we were, and saw the blood on my garments, she stopped and came nigh to falling, but recovering herself, hurried forward and clasped me in her arms, exclaiming: "My son! my son! What dreadful thing has happened to you?"Nor would she move or release me till we had told her the story from beginning to end. Then, kissing us, she put her arms about our bodies and led us to the house, and there kept us by her side until my father came home and heard the story. He, more used to danger, embraced us tenderly, and not waiting for a fresh horse to be saddled, mounted the one he had, and taking Constance in his arms, carried her to her home in town. The next day Mr. Seymour came out to Wild Plum with Constance, and together we all visited the spot where the encounter had taken place; but my father, following the animal's trail by its blood, presently gave a cry, and we, running forward, found him standing over the wolf, which lay dead on the ground.That is the story, and it was the battered head of the animal, that Mr. Seymour because of some sentiment had preserved, that now stared at us from above the chamber door.NOTE.—Mr. Gilbert Holmes, in reviewing this part of his life, thought, for some reason, that the story of the timber-wolf should be omitted; but to this Mrs. Holmes would by no means listen, treasuring every word as if it were Gilbert himself and a part of her life. Because of this I have included it as it was told me, and partly, too, because it explains Mr. Seymour's love for Gilbert as a youth and the great confidence he had in him always. It also illustrates Gilbert's courage, which was so simple and found expression so naturally when anything called it forth that he was never conscious he possessed it, but always spoke of the fear that oppressed him in the emergencies of life, though it was not fear at all, it was apparent, but merely the agitation of a sensitive nature. For of all men, none ever lived who were more brave than he; and it was said of him, and truly, as a general of cavalry in our great war, that no leader pressed forward with such ardor in the charge, and similarly it was told, none gazed upon the empty saddles after the conflict was over with so sorrowful and pitying a heart.—THE AUTHOR.CHAPTER IXDRIFTWOOD FROM THE THAMES BATTLEFIELDWhile Constance and I stood with clasped hands gazing at the wolf's head, Mr. Seymour entered the room, followed by Uncle Job. At sight of the latter my heart went out to him with tender emotion, and I ran and embraced him as I would a dear friend."I hope you find yourself in good spirits, and none the worse for what has happened?" he inquired, affectionately, taking my hands in his and kissing me."Gilbert's in fine spirits," Constance spoke up, looking at me as a mother might on a petted child."Yes, and I can't thank you enough for what you've done, uncle," I answered."Don't talk that way, child, for you owe me nothing," he replied. "I was sorry to leave you in doubt so long, but there was no other way.""It didn't matter; but I'm afraid I'll be a great burden to you," I answered, remembering what I had thought in regard to this."Nonsense! Only I'm not sure but you would be better with your Aunt Jane than with me; but your mother would approve what I am doing if she were alive, and that is what governs me," he answered."I'm sure she would," I replied, feeling that he spoke the truth."Then you are pleased?" he asked, smiling, as if comforted by my answer."Yes, but I fear Aunt Jane will be very unhappy when she finds I have gone without money or clothing. Wouldn't it be right to send her word that no harm will come to me?" I asked, a feeling of remorse coming over me that I had shown her so little respect."She will not fret nor lose an hour's sleep over you, my boy," Uncle Job replied. "Her heart will close up like an oyster when she finds you are gone; but when we are well out of the country we will let her know. She will never forgive you, but it doesn't matter, for she was never friendly to our family, anyway.""Mother used to say we didn't understand her," I answered, remembering her words."Your mother found excuses for every one, so tender was her heart; and your Aunt Jane is not to be blamed if she is ice instead of flesh and blood," he replied."Please, Job, leave Aunt Jane in the quietude of her farm for a while. The die is cast, and nothing can change it now," Mr. Seymour broke in, good-naturedly. "Come, Constance, let us have dinner served here, where we can have the evening to ourselves—and make haste, for we are starving," he added, putting his arm about her as she turned to leave the room.At the dinner which followed, it was my great good fortune to make a new acquaintance, and one I had occasion to prize more and more as the years went by. This in the person of Constance's companion and teacher, Setti, a young person who had lately come to make one of Mr. Seymour's family; and strangely enough for such companionship, and improbable you will say, she was of pure Indian blood. No one, however, would have known this, for except that her hair and eyes were black and her complexion olive rather than dark, she was in no wise different from those about her. She was above medium height, with graceful figure, and soft, shy manners that were truly captivating, and in regard to this last there was no difference of opinion. Her history, while it would be strange now and romantic in the extreme, was not thought peculiar at the time of which I speak. For you must know she was found when a child, playing beside the body of her dead mother on the Thames battlefield, where Tecumseh fell, a little way across the Canadian border. The officer who thus discovered her took her to his home and educated her, treating her in all things as his child. This until some months back, when, his family being broken up by one of the dreadful scourges of sickness common in the new country, Mr. Seymour had asked her to become the companion and instructor of Constance.While nothing was known of Setti's parentage, it was thought she was the daughter of some great chief, from the ornaments clasped about her neck, and which she still wore. Of these, one was a cross of mixed gold and silver, sunk in an oval frame of copper and lead, the handiwork of some Indian craftsman, who, it was apparent, had only rude tools and molten metals with which to work. Another ornament, and one that struck you strangely, was a serpent, hammered out of pure iron and inlaid with silver; but of its significance nothing was known. Afterward, when I came to know this sweet creature as one does a sister or cherished friend, I could never discover anything to indicate her savage ancestry, save, perhaps, a reticence of speech unusual in attractive women—if I except, perhaps, a startled look she sometimes wore when coming suddenly upon any new or remarkable experience in life. This peculiarity, however, we see in people of our own blood, and so it should not have been thought strange in her. In all other respects there was nothing about her to mark the abrupt step from savagery to civilized life, for her intelligence was in all things of the order and delicacy that characterizes refined women. Her beauty and sweetness of disposition, too, were such as to confirm the romantic notions I have ever held respecting the Indian character; and it was no doubt due to her and other kindly influences that I was first led to believe our treatment of the Indian tribes had been somewhat lacking in wisdom and humanity. Mr. Seymour was also of this opinion, and never lost an opportunity to express his views on the subject, and with considerable abruptness."Setti's affectionate nature and sweetness of temper," he was in the habit of saying to his friends when the subject was brought up, "are natural to her—God's gifts; and had a wiser and more tolerant course been followed by our government, all the Indian tribes of America would have been led to accept civilization, as she has been—not grudgingly, but with their whole heart and soul. Either that, or they should have been left apart to follow the processes every race has passed through in its progress from savagery. Instead, we have the sad sight of great Indian nations debauched and hunted down and destroyed, as if they were a plague upon the earth. Surely they were worthy of something better, and should have been preserved to mark for all time the magnificent men and women who made up our native Indian population. To do this we would have had to recognize their right to live and multiply unmolested, as we do others more fortunate in color and birth; or failing in that, have subjected them to gentle treatment and wise laws. Surely they were worthy such care and consideration. Homer's Greeks, to make a point of it, were no better, nor scarcely more civilized, than the Sacs and Foxes we have but just driven like wolves beyond the confines of civilization after robbing them of their lands and villages."Mr. Seymour's views, and others like them, however noble and humane, were not regarded by the community as meriting attention except in a sentimental way, one and all being animated by a desire to dispossess the Indians of their lands as quickly as possible, and without reference to their rights or any feeling of humanity whatever. However, he was not the less strenuous in giving them utterance, even to the extent of offending his friends and patrons."Bad faith and cruel harassment of the Indian tribes on their lonely reservations," he would say, "have characterized our government's policy from the first, and forms, indeed, so gross a crime that coming ages will reprobate it wherever men love justice and hate swinish greed. It will not in any way excuse us that we are hungry for the property of our neighbors, and because of this agree to treat the Indian as an inferior being. He is nothing of the kind, for God never made more perfect men physically, and the mind conforms in all things to the body. It is nature's law. Nor does it excuse our acts, however much our passions may be aroused, that the Indian in his savage state kills and mutilates his enemy. Achilles, the ideal Greek, circling the walls of ancient Troy with Hector's body chained to his chariot, has never been surpassed in cruelty and ignoble pride in Indian annals. The comparison is still more odious when we think of the hecatombs of harmless men the Homeric Greeks sacrificed to the manes of their honored dead. The Indian's heaven is lighted by no such baleful fires. Nor have we any reason to suppose the red man more backward than the Greek, for he is greater in courage and much superior to him in physical strength and patient endurance.""If Achilles lived in our day," Uncle Job once answered, "we would not lose an hour in appropriating his incomparable horses and sending him to the wilds of Iowa to join that other savage, Black Hawk, saying to ourselves the while that we were well rid of a nuisance and disturber of the peace. Too much can't be expected, though, of our young country, Henry. It is too full of the bumptious exuberance of animal life. Children in experience make very poor governors; they are too headstrong and intolerant; but we will do better later on. Only mature nations, like mature men, know how to govern well. It's a pity, but so it is, and will be always, and the weak and dependent must suffer whenever contrary conditions exist."Thus tender-hearted men declaimed in the years that are gone, but fruitlessly. These thoughts, however out of place, recur to me now and struggle for utterance when my mind reverts to the gentle being who came into my life that evening, and who afterward, and so long as she lived, did so much to add to the happiness and well-being of those with whom she was brought in contact.When at last we were seated about the table, Mr. Seymour asked grace, and this with such show of reverence that I was awed by it as something new and strange. For such a thing was not usual, you must know, in the new country. Not that men were lacking in respect for religious observances; on the contrary, but time pressed, and, moreover, it was thought that such delicate matters should be left to those trained, so to speak, in things of that nature. On occasion, to be sure, the more venturesome would, if asked, raise their voices openly; but such practices were cause rather of wonder at the courage they evinced than desire to emulate them on the part of the more timid of the community. Mr. Seymour's custom, however, seemed to me to be so good and reverent that I determined if I ever grew to man's estate to do the same; but such resolves, however commendable, are rarely followed, for when I came to have a home of my own, and children sat about the table, I put it off, as weak men ever do in cases of this nature. For a long time the dinner promised to be without speech, all seeming to be oppressed at the step that had been taken—a step that would, for good or bad, color forever the life of at least one of their number. At last Mr. Seymour, looking across to where I sat, said, with an encouraging smile:"I hope, Gilbert, you don't feel any regret at what has been done?""No, sir," I answered; "why should I?""Nor have any disposition to turn back?""It would be too late for that, I'm afraid, even if I wanted to," I answered. "Aunt Jane would never forgive me so great an offense.""No, not too late, if you regret the step. The blame for what has been done is all ours, and no part of it would rest on your head," he answered, kindly."I don't regret it, but I'm sorry for Aunt Jane," I answered; for, however loth I was to live with her, she was entitled to my respect, if not my love. So much, I thought, I owed my father's memory."Well, you may be sorry," Mr. Seymour answered. "We all admire your aunt, and if she would unbend a little and let her face relax into a smile on occasion, she would be a most attractive and lovable woman; but immersed in her thoughts, and formal of manner because of it, she is like the icebergs one sometimes meets in midocean, she is so cold and inaccessible.""It's her way, and doesn't mean anything, mother always said," I answered."Perhaps so; but age does not change or soften her way, as it does most people. Your Uncle Job may not prove as watchful a guardian as she would have been, Gilbert, but your heart will be the warmer and your figure the more supple for the freedom," Mr. Seymour went on."I'm sure I shall be content," I answered, looking at Constance, not finding it in my heart to say I could be happy with any one away from her."He will never have any other company save yours, nor desire for any. So you are likely to see a good deal of him, and always to your betterment, I am sure," Mr. Seymour answered."Why do you say that, Henry?" Uncle Job asked, looking up in surprise."Because you are destined to be an old bachelor, Job," Mr. Seymour answered, "and of this I am sure. Charles, Gilbert's father, used to say the same. You lack time and inclination to find a mate, and more's the pity. In such company, Gilbert," he went on, "your craft must hug the shore or sail into the open, as fate decides; but wherever wind and tide may take you, here is hoping you may have a prosperous voyage," and Mr. Seymour raised a glass of wine to his lips, and much to my astonishment, bowed to me as if I were a man grown. He was, however, always surprising those about him in some such pleasant way. Indeed, I thought his bearing so fine that for him to single out any one for notice was a distinction to be remembered and be proud of ever afterward. Thus strongly does kindliness and courtesy of speech ever impress the young or inexperienced in life."We all want to join in that toast, Henry," Uncle Job broke in, reaching for a goblet of water that stood beside his plate."Won't you join me in a glass of wine, Job?" Mr. Seymour went on, observing his action. "You will sleep the better for it. No? Well, I won't urge you; but you will excuse me, I know, if I say it has always seemed strange to me that in this new country, where all save the pious tipple, and even they indulge sometimes behind the door, you should so rigidly abstain.""It looks odd, I suppose," Uncle Job answered, "but you know it doesn't grow out of any assumption on my part. I simply don't care for liquor, and can't cultivate it, for the same reason you give for my not marrying; I haven't the time.""Well, that is a clever way to put it," Mr. Seymour responded. "You are all the better, though, for being free. I have been used to the custom since a boy, and so it would seem odd to dine without wine of some kind. It is all a matter of habit, however, and in this new country, where any kind of good liquor is hard to get, it is better to eschew it altogether, as you do, if one can. Many reprobate the use of wine, I know, but that is an extreme way to look at it, for it is as old as man, and so not to be criticised as if the fashion were new.""Custom never makes a bad practice the better, though it may excuse it," Uncle Job answered, good-naturedly."No, but it is the excesses of those who use liquor that should be condemned; but there doesn't seem to be any middle course in most cases.""That is not the only thing that is carried to excess in our new country," Uncle Job answered. "The habit of chewing tobacco is quite as harmful, and one that ought to be frowned upon by all men with the beating of drums and tom-toms. This for sanitary reasons, if for no other.""That is as men think," Mr. Seymour, who was sometimes disposed to be very democratic, replied. "The custom is not nice, but it will die out when men live nearer each other and have leisure to observe the habits of their neighbors. Our people are not more peculiar in this than in giving up the pipe for the cigar.""That was bad taste, for a pipe is every way superior to a cigar. It is more cleanly and costs less and is not so harmful," Uncle Job replied, with animation; for however abstemious he might be in regard to the use of liquor, he was seldom without a pipe or cigar in his mouth."The pipe will come into fashion again when men have more leisure," Mr. Seymour answered. "Now they have scarce time to bite off the end of a cigar or say 'Lord forgive me!' ere they die, so busy are they in bringing the new world into subjection. However, to talk about something of more interest to these children, what are you going to do next? What are your plans, Job, if I may ask?"This reference to the future caused both Constance and me to stop our chatter and lean forward not to lose a word of what was said, but little comfort did we derive from Uncle Job's reply."I have a plan, and it is to leave for home to-morrow morning," he answered, abruptly, looking across the table to where I sat, as if to see how I took it."Why so much haste?" Mr. Seymour expostulated."Well, the more promptly we act, the less trouble we are likely to have. No one ever caught Miss Holmes napping before, and while we may have misled her up to this time, it is not possible to do so long. The safest way for us, then, is to hurry away.""Surely, Uncle Job, there's no such hurry," I broke in, my heart ceasing to beat at the thought of going so soon."I would like to stay longer, but why take the risk of delay, my son? There is nothing to detain us, and the sooner we are off the less likely we are to be interfered with. So let us start in the morning—and that reminds me, I ought to go and procure the things you need for the journey, Gilbert, if you will excuse me, Henry," he asked, turning to Mr. Seymour."A day or two wouldn't make any difference, I should think, Mr. Throckmorton," Constance interposed. "No one will look for Gilbert in this room, and he has not thought of going so soon.""Keep still, you little puss, and don't meddle in such serious business," Mr. Seymour interposed, half seriously, half in mirth at her earnestness."Well, I don't see any reason for such haste," Constance answered, as if that ought to settle it."Nor I," I added, shutting my jaws tight, so greatly was I wrought up over the prospect."There is no other safe way. Miss Holmes would be down on us like a hawk before noon to-morrow if she doesn't put in an appearance to-night. Indeed, it would not surprise me to see her enter this room any minute," Uncle Job answered, in a decided way, at which we all turned and glanced toward the door, as if expecting to see her enter, as he said.This disposition of the matter I thought worse than going to Aunt Jane's, and when Uncle Job and Mr. Seymour presently left us to get things in readiness for the morrow, I turned and clasped Constance in my arms in an agony of grief at the thought of parting from her so soon. Thus for a long time we mingled our tears, our hearts too full for speech; but after a while, regaining our composure, we fell to talking of the future, and what we would do, and how we would meet, and this with so much earnestness that we quite forgot our present troubles in the contemplation of what was to come. Thus it is ever with the young; the illusions of life dry their tears and cheer them on when older people sink down in despair and die.CHAPTER XAN AWAKENINGWhen at last Constance left me for the night, I threw myself across the bed without removing my garments, that I might the sooner lose my sorrows in the forgetfulness of sleep. Without avail, however, till the night was far spent, and then only for a moment; for awakening, I found Aunt Jane bending over me grim and determined, a cruel smile lighting up her cold, impassive face. Yes, it was as Uncle Job had said. She could not be misled, and spying out my hiding-place, had bribed the attendants, and so gained access to my room—and I was lost. Stifling my cries, she beckoned her servants to her side, and they, taking me in their arms, bore me through the silent house to the carriage that stood waiting before the door. Thrusting me within, they drove away, muffling my voice till we were far beyond the town. Then releasing me, as if in mockery, I beat my head against the sides of the vehicle, screaming aloud for help, but vainly, for no answer was returned to my angry cries. This till my strength was gone and I sank back exhausted in my seat.Thus we reached her home in the gray of the morning, but not to enter, for turning into a vacant field, she hid me in a house half buried in the ground, apart and far from the traveled road. Here they left me, but returning in the evening, covered my prison deep with dirt, so that it resembled a gigantic grave. In this loathsome cell I remained for many weeks, mold gathering on my garments and fever racking my worn frame. Nor was this all, for from out the sides of my prison snakes and lizards peered at me with lack-luster eyes as I sat brooding the day through, and at night monstrous field-rats, gaining entrance, ran to and fro across my body, or warmed themselves beneath my jacket. Here in the early morning or late at night my aunt came to visit me, striking the door of my prison with her staff as she called my name. Grieved and incensed, I for a long time refused to answer, but at last, rising to my feet in rage to upbraid her for her cruelty, I awoke, trembling and covered with sweat, to find Setti rapping on my door and calling my name:"Gilbert! Gilbert!"Springing up, I ran to her, crying:"Here! here! Save me, save me, Setti!" clasping my arms about her body as I spoke.Startled by my action and wild speech, she sought to disengage herself, but observing my distraught air, bent down and kissed me, saying soothingly:"What is the matter, Gilbert? What has frightened you? You tremble, and your face is as pale as death.""It's the cold and damp," I answered, scarce knowing what I said, only that I sought to cling to her the tighter."That is not it, Gilbert, for the morning is soft and warm," she answered, peering into my face. "You are ill or hiding something from me. What is it?""Oh, I've had a dream, a dreadful dream—or it was true, I don't know which. I thought Aunt Jane came and took me to her home and hid me in a cave where no one could find me or hear my cries.""Oh you poor boy! It was only a dream, for see, this is the Dragon, and your uncle is downstairs, and Constance will be here in a moment with your breakfast.""Let's go to her; it's better than staying here," I answered, looking back into the room, unable to command my voice or trembling limbs."No, Gilbert, not till you are yourself again. Constance must not see you in this way, for the poor thing is dead with grief already," she answered, striving to quiet my agitation."I'll stay, but don't leave me, for I'll not stop here alone; I can't!" I cried, fear still overcoming me."See, it is nothing," she answered, entering the room and looking about. "It was all a dream, Gilbert. There, you will be yourself again in a minute"; and putting her arm about me, she led me to the open window, and looking out, I saw the day was just breaking.In this manner, and after some time, I regained my composure, so that when Constance entered she in no wise suspected that anything had gone amiss. Spreading the table, Setti motioned the servant to go away, and making some excuse, she presently followed, leaving us alone. Seating myself, I made pretense of eating, but only that, so deeply was I stirred by what had happened and the thought of parting from Constance. Now, though a long life has elapsed since that unhappy morning, I can see her as plainly as then, striving to smile or say some cheerful word, but more often with tears filling her gentle eyes and clogging her utterance as she sat sad-faced and despondent by my side. In this way I made believe I had some appetite, till the horn sounded the departure of the stage. Then, springing to my feet, I took her in my arms and kissed her a thousand times, but without speech of any kind, so full were we of the sorrow of parting. At last, tearing myself away, I hurried below, where I found Mr. Seymour waiting for me in the hall."Good by, God bless you!" he cried, with a striving at gayety as he put his arm about me and led me to the door. "Remember, Gilbert, that we love you always, and will welcome you back with open arms whenever you choose to come," he concluded, his voice choking.My heart too full for utterance, I raised his hand and kissed it, and without stopping, hurried on to where Uncle Job stood waiting to put me in the stage. Thus we went away, and turning, I saw Constance looking down on me from the room where we had just parted, waving me a last farewell.CHAPTER XITHE NEW COUNTRYWhen we were clear of the village and the straggling houses that lined the road beyond its limits, the sun was well above the horizon, lighting with ever-lessening shadows the great prairie spread out before us. Refreshed and enlivened by the pure air and the companionship of the quiet country, I looked about me, curious as to the route we were following and the far-reaching prospect on either side. On our right the gentle Mauvaise Terre pursued its slow and devious course through the quiet plain, marked throughout its winding way by trees and drooping bushes. To the south, low down on the hazy landscape, the great forest about Wild Plum, so dear of memory, showed its black depths in the soft morning air. This far-off glimpse of my home stirred the sorrows of my heart anew, but a turn in the road shutting out the view, I soon found myself scanning with curious interest the placid landscape on which we were entering.Our great state, now so thickly peopled, had then, save here and there, only widely scattered inhabitants. Its forests and prairies were still undisturbed, save by the birds and wild animals that sought in their vast solitudes the security and food they craved. Of highways there were scarce any, and these as nature had left them, except at some impassable place where neglect would have barred the way. The streams, quiet and uneventful, pursued their noiseless way across the level plains, amid flower-strewn banks, unvexed by obstructions of any kind, save, perhaps, at points far removed on the great rivers, where primitive ferries added to rather than lessened the solitude of the gentle landscape.In this way Nature's aptitude for grouping the beauties of her abundant harvest found material with which to work her will unvexed by man. The great prairies, looped together or apart, formed natural parks, interspersed throughout their length and breadth with quiet lakes and still-running streams, the whole fringed about with slumbering forests filled to the edge with every kind of foliage that could attract the eye or engage the mind. This grouping of forest and lawn, separate yet forever together, blending and scintillating in the sweet air, filled the heart of the traveler with the peace and restfulness that only the quiet of the country can afford. Man's presence here, I thought, as I looked forward on the road which scarred the face of the grassy plain as if cut with a whip, can only disfigure, not help it in any way.Such was the prospect, but of its beauty I was only partly conscious. This is not strange, though no more so in the case of the young than of those of mature age. For the infinite is ever beyond us, no matter when or how presented. We can, at best, only understand the small things of life, the make-believes of the world. The petty park, the trick of some cunning landscape gardener, elicits our admiration and unstinted praise, and this properly; but the wide expanses of Nature, in which beauty blends in every line and shadow, pass by us unnoticed, or at most with only feeble comprehension. Their symphonies are beyond us, or at best, find only a faint echo in our hearts.In this manner, and only half-conscious of what I saw, we pursued our way; but in excuse I may say one must share in the quietude of Nature to be able to drink in her beauties to the full. This I could not do—my awakening had been too rude; nor was our vehicle one to invite comfort or reflection. Hard usage had long since dulled its springs, and its narrow seats suggested poverty of material rather than desire to put one at his ease. Public need, however, it was apparent, could afford nothing better, and so the traveler was fain to be content, and was. Of paint or ornamentation it had none, and the horses, dulled out of all semblance of animation, dragged us forward in sullen discontent. In front, beside the driver, a mail-pouch lay, and in the body of the vehicle two seats faced each other, and behind these a rack for baggage. Above our heads a coarse canvas was upheld by rude supports, and at the sides soiled and tattered curtains flapped uneasily in the morning air. The vehicle, however rude, was thought to denote some attempt at splendor, and never failed to call the more curious to the roadsides as it went back and forth across the country.Such were the surroundings, you must know, under which I set out that sunny morning in May, 1838, to take my first step in the serious affairs of life.
CHAPTER VIII
GILBERT'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE TIMBER-WOLF
When we had examined all the beautiful things the room contained, or made pretense of doing so—for I was ever interested in Constance to the exclusion of other matters—she pointed with a show of pride to the battered head of an animal fastened above the door by which we had entered, exclaiming:
"See, Gilbert, where papa's put the horrid thing! I can never look at it without a shudder."
"It's ugly enough, I'm sure," I answered; "but what is it?"
"Surely you ought to know, if any one," she answered, taking hold of my hand and leading me close to the object.
"It's so cut up one can't tell whether it's the head of a pig or a panther," I answered.
"It's neither; but you're only making believe, Gilbert?"
"No; but I never saw anything half so ugly."
"Oh, fie! how stupid you are, or make out to be."
"Well, what is it? I can't guess," I answered, but in no hurry to have her tell me, so sweet was her voice and so entrancing her contention.
"Well, I've a good mind not to tell you, but it's the head of the wolf you killed. Papa had it mounted just as it was brought from Wild Plum; and it grows more ugly every day, I think," she answered, scowling at the hideous thing.
"I'd never have known it, it's so shrunken and wrinkled," I answered, gazing at the object with new interest.
"Then you remember, do you?" she asked, coming close to my side, as if it were still alive.
Yes, I remembered the wolf well enough, but most because it concerned Constance, and had, besides, so much to do with her father's kindness to me then and always. On this account it is proper I should tell you the story; and though it may seem out of the ordinary and improbable now, it was not so regarded at the time. For you must know that in the early days the panther and bear and many other savage animals made their homes undisturbed in the depths of the great forests of Illinois, and among the first recollections of my childhood were the cries, sometimes fierce, but more often doleful, of the wolves about our home. Our situation indeed in respect to such visits was peculiar, for from the plain that lay on one side there came the gray or prairie wolf, and from the forest opposite, his fierce brother, the black or timber wolf. The first was a cowardly brute, hardly above a chicken in courage, and given to pilfering about the stables and hen-houses, though sometimes venturing as far as the kitchen if there was anything it could steal. The timber-wolf was larger, and when hungry would attack animals ten times its size. Indeed, when famished, it did not fear man, and in this way numbers of the early settlers lost their lives. In the summer and fall, when food was plentiful, it rarely visited us, but in the late winter its cries at night were so common as hardly to attract attention.
Thus it was one day in the early spring, when the grasses were fairly started and the trees beginning to sprout, or only the laggards slept, as loth to waken now as they were quick to go to sleep in the early autumn. The day being warm and fair, Constance and I had ventured into the great forest, not far, indeed, but apart, the foliage shutting us off from view. At such times the thing that delighted her most was to run in and out among the trees, as children from the city always take pleasure in doing when visiting the country. In this way we had become separated for a moment, when suddenly there came to me from out the still woods a quick and agonizing cry. It was Constance's voice, and something to chill one's blood. Nor has a long life sufficed to still its vibrations, and often in the night it awakens me now, with the same dread as when I heard it in that afternoon in my far-off youth. Starting up in affright, I let fall the basket I carried, but retained in some unconscious way the small ax I had in my hand, my father's gift, and this fortunately, as it afterward turned out. Listening, and the cry being repeated, I hastened in the direction whence it came, but as I advanced it receded, faster and faster, until after a little while it came to me only plaintively, and then not at all. Hurrying forward, I after a time reached an opening in the forest, and doing so beheld on the opposite side a huge wolf, gaunt with hunger, carrying Constance in his mouth, with high uplifted head, as if her weight were nothing. Nor was it much to speak of, for she was but a child, and delicate as the lilies that bobbed and curtsied in the black pond on the edge of the great woods. At sight of the wolf I stopped, so benumbed with fear that I could neither move nor cry aloud, and thus I stood with open mouth, without any sense whatever, doing nothing. What could I do? The house was now far away, and only women there, and if I sought them it would be too late. While thus unable to think or act, I caught sight of the weapon I held, and with it courage returned to my heart—not much, to be sure, but enough. Something might be done with so good a weapon, and with the thought I hastened across the opening and plunged into the forest, following the direction the wolf had taken. After running some distance without response to my cries or finding any clew to guide me, I stopped again, filled anew with fear and dreadful forebodings. Surely she was lost, and her life a prey to the savage beast that bore her away. At the thought, taking fresh courage, I plunged ahead, and now into the very heart of the forest, thinking this the direction the animal would be most like to take. Thus minutes like hours passed, as I struggled forward through the dense undergrowth, but neither hearing nor seeing aught of her I sought. Worn out at last, I sank down in despair, tears blinding my eyes. Beyond, the great forest stretched away unbroken to the far west, receding ever to lower and lower levels, there to meet noiseless, half-hidden creeks or black, impassable swamps. Throughout its great expanse, and as a cover for the wild beasts that frequented its depths, dense undergrowth grew, and resplendent as in a garden. So much I knew from my father, who had penetrated its vast solitudes, and at another time I should have been stirred by its solemn splendor; but now it had neither beauty nor variety, revealing only darkness and terror, wherein a hideous tragedy lay concealed. Such were my thoughts as, after some moments' resting to gain new breath, I struggled to my feet and started afresh, but now without any purpose other than to follow aimlessly on. Going forward in this way, I came at last upon an opening in the trees, and there, a few feet off, and in the interval of the forest, I beheld the wolf, with tongue outstretched and bloodshot eyes, standing at bay. As I came into the cleared space, the animal raised himself erect and turned his fierce countenance on me as if inviting attack. This I did not think to offer, but losing all consciousness, I rushed forward, crying, "Constance! Constance!" Thus I reached the animal, and it not moving, I raised my weapon and struck it full in the face. The blow was not hard, for I was weak and dead with fear; but the brute not attacking me in return, and blood following the stroke, I struck again and again, sometimes missing altogether, but more often hitting my mark. Whether the animal was exhausted by its long flight, or surprised into fear by my quick attack, I do not know, but that it was dazed I must believe, for it made no effort to attack me, but stood sullenly before Constance's body, neither advancing nor receding. Finally, my blows growing weak, and the animal making as if it would spring upon me, I struck it again, and now with the strength of both my arms, full in the face. At this, as if grievously hurt, or else losing all courage, it gave a mournful cry, and turning, darted into the forest. Seeing this, and my strength being gone and my heart numb with fear, I fell forward unconscious beside Constance's prostrate body.
When I came to, my head was pillowed in her lap and she was stroking my hair, kissing me the while as if to bring back the color to my face, calling, now in a fever of fright and then again plaintively and coaxingly:
"Gilbert! Gilbert! My Gilbert!"
Feeling her soft breath on my face, I feigned unconsciousness, loth to move; and thus I lay for a while, not stirring, nor conscious of any reason why I should. Then the thought of the wolf came back to me, and I sprang up, terror-stricken lest the animal should return, alone or with its fellows, as these fierce brutes were sometimes known to do when crazed with hunger.
"Quick, Constance! We must be off before the brute returns," I cried, taking hold of both her hands. To my appeal, however, she returned no answer, but sat still, her face, torn and bleeding, turned imploringly toward mine. "You're hurt!" I exclaimed, filled with fear; "but come! I can carry you, and it's not far"; and stooping I raised her in my arms as easily as I would a child.
"No, I'm not hurt, Gilbert," she answered, trembling and clinging about my neck; "but I thought you were dead, and your springing up frightened me as much as the presence of the wolf."
"Are you sure you're not hurt in any way?" I asked, looking at her scared face and torn garments, not believing she could have got off so easily.
"Yes—and you?" she answered, peering into my face.
"I'm all right; but how could you have escaped so easily?" I asked, in wonder.
"I don't know, for I knew nothing after the first moment till I found you lying beside me," she answered, disengaging herself from my arms.
"See where the brute held you," I answered, pointing with a shaking hand to the marks of its teeth in the heavy woolen frock she wore.
"If my dress had been lighter, he might not have been able to carry me off at all," she answered. "But where is the beast, Gilbert? And see, you are covered with blood, too!"
"Come! We must leave here as quickly as we can. The wolf didn't have any more courage than a sheep, and ran away; but he may come back with the pack, if they're near by," I answered, looking about uneasily.
"How can you find the way, Gilbert? No one has ever been so far as this before, I know," she replied, scanning the dark trees as we hurried forward.
"It's no great distance, and I could find my way blindfolded," I answered, confidently; and so, guided by the sun, and this happily, we at last reached the edge of the forest just as the night was coming on. Here my mother, who had become alarmed at our long absence, was awaiting us, and as we came into view, she ran forward, crying:
"My children! My children! How could you frighten me so!" When, however, she had come near to where we were, and saw the blood on my garments, she stopped and came nigh to falling, but recovering herself, hurried forward and clasped me in her arms, exclaiming: "My son! my son! What dreadful thing has happened to you?"
Nor would she move or release me till we had told her the story from beginning to end. Then, kissing us, she put her arms about our bodies and led us to the house, and there kept us by her side until my father came home and heard the story. He, more used to danger, embraced us tenderly, and not waiting for a fresh horse to be saddled, mounted the one he had, and taking Constance in his arms, carried her to her home in town. The next day Mr. Seymour came out to Wild Plum with Constance, and together we all visited the spot where the encounter had taken place; but my father, following the animal's trail by its blood, presently gave a cry, and we, running forward, found him standing over the wolf, which lay dead on the ground.
That is the story, and it was the battered head of the animal, that Mr. Seymour because of some sentiment had preserved, that now stared at us from above the chamber door.
NOTE.—Mr. Gilbert Holmes, in reviewing this part of his life, thought, for some reason, that the story of the timber-wolf should be omitted; but to this Mrs. Holmes would by no means listen, treasuring every word as if it were Gilbert himself and a part of her life. Because of this I have included it as it was told me, and partly, too, because it explains Mr. Seymour's love for Gilbert as a youth and the great confidence he had in him always. It also illustrates Gilbert's courage, which was so simple and found expression so naturally when anything called it forth that he was never conscious he possessed it, but always spoke of the fear that oppressed him in the emergencies of life, though it was not fear at all, it was apparent, but merely the agitation of a sensitive nature. For of all men, none ever lived who were more brave than he; and it was said of him, and truly, as a general of cavalry in our great war, that no leader pressed forward with such ardor in the charge, and similarly it was told, none gazed upon the empty saddles after the conflict was over with so sorrowful and pitying a heart.—THE AUTHOR.
CHAPTER IX
DRIFTWOOD FROM THE THAMES BATTLEFIELD
While Constance and I stood with clasped hands gazing at the wolf's head, Mr. Seymour entered the room, followed by Uncle Job. At sight of the latter my heart went out to him with tender emotion, and I ran and embraced him as I would a dear friend.
"I hope you find yourself in good spirits, and none the worse for what has happened?" he inquired, affectionately, taking my hands in his and kissing me.
"Gilbert's in fine spirits," Constance spoke up, looking at me as a mother might on a petted child.
"Yes, and I can't thank you enough for what you've done, uncle," I answered.
"Don't talk that way, child, for you owe me nothing," he replied. "I was sorry to leave you in doubt so long, but there was no other way."
"It didn't matter; but I'm afraid I'll be a great burden to you," I answered, remembering what I had thought in regard to this.
"Nonsense! Only I'm not sure but you would be better with your Aunt Jane than with me; but your mother would approve what I am doing if she were alive, and that is what governs me," he answered.
"I'm sure she would," I replied, feeling that he spoke the truth.
"Then you are pleased?" he asked, smiling, as if comforted by my answer.
"Yes, but I fear Aunt Jane will be very unhappy when she finds I have gone without money or clothing. Wouldn't it be right to send her word that no harm will come to me?" I asked, a feeling of remorse coming over me that I had shown her so little respect.
"She will not fret nor lose an hour's sleep over you, my boy," Uncle Job replied. "Her heart will close up like an oyster when she finds you are gone; but when we are well out of the country we will let her know. She will never forgive you, but it doesn't matter, for she was never friendly to our family, anyway."
"Mother used to say we didn't understand her," I answered, remembering her words.
"Your mother found excuses for every one, so tender was her heart; and your Aunt Jane is not to be blamed if she is ice instead of flesh and blood," he replied.
"Please, Job, leave Aunt Jane in the quietude of her farm for a while. The die is cast, and nothing can change it now," Mr. Seymour broke in, good-naturedly. "Come, Constance, let us have dinner served here, where we can have the evening to ourselves—and make haste, for we are starving," he added, putting his arm about her as she turned to leave the room.
At the dinner which followed, it was my great good fortune to make a new acquaintance, and one I had occasion to prize more and more as the years went by. This in the person of Constance's companion and teacher, Setti, a young person who had lately come to make one of Mr. Seymour's family; and strangely enough for such companionship, and improbable you will say, she was of pure Indian blood. No one, however, would have known this, for except that her hair and eyes were black and her complexion olive rather than dark, she was in no wise different from those about her. She was above medium height, with graceful figure, and soft, shy manners that were truly captivating, and in regard to this last there was no difference of opinion. Her history, while it would be strange now and romantic in the extreme, was not thought peculiar at the time of which I speak. For you must know she was found when a child, playing beside the body of her dead mother on the Thames battlefield, where Tecumseh fell, a little way across the Canadian border. The officer who thus discovered her took her to his home and educated her, treating her in all things as his child. This until some months back, when, his family being broken up by one of the dreadful scourges of sickness common in the new country, Mr. Seymour had asked her to become the companion and instructor of Constance.
While nothing was known of Setti's parentage, it was thought she was the daughter of some great chief, from the ornaments clasped about her neck, and which she still wore. Of these, one was a cross of mixed gold and silver, sunk in an oval frame of copper and lead, the handiwork of some Indian craftsman, who, it was apparent, had only rude tools and molten metals with which to work. Another ornament, and one that struck you strangely, was a serpent, hammered out of pure iron and inlaid with silver; but of its significance nothing was known. Afterward, when I came to know this sweet creature as one does a sister or cherished friend, I could never discover anything to indicate her savage ancestry, save, perhaps, a reticence of speech unusual in attractive women—if I except, perhaps, a startled look she sometimes wore when coming suddenly upon any new or remarkable experience in life. This peculiarity, however, we see in people of our own blood, and so it should not have been thought strange in her. In all other respects there was nothing about her to mark the abrupt step from savagery to civilized life, for her intelligence was in all things of the order and delicacy that characterizes refined women. Her beauty and sweetness of disposition, too, were such as to confirm the romantic notions I have ever held respecting the Indian character; and it was no doubt due to her and other kindly influences that I was first led to believe our treatment of the Indian tribes had been somewhat lacking in wisdom and humanity. Mr. Seymour was also of this opinion, and never lost an opportunity to express his views on the subject, and with considerable abruptness.
"Setti's affectionate nature and sweetness of temper," he was in the habit of saying to his friends when the subject was brought up, "are natural to her—God's gifts; and had a wiser and more tolerant course been followed by our government, all the Indian tribes of America would have been led to accept civilization, as she has been—not grudgingly, but with their whole heart and soul. Either that, or they should have been left apart to follow the processes every race has passed through in its progress from savagery. Instead, we have the sad sight of great Indian nations debauched and hunted down and destroyed, as if they were a plague upon the earth. Surely they were worthy of something better, and should have been preserved to mark for all time the magnificent men and women who made up our native Indian population. To do this we would have had to recognize their right to live and multiply unmolested, as we do others more fortunate in color and birth; or failing in that, have subjected them to gentle treatment and wise laws. Surely they were worthy such care and consideration. Homer's Greeks, to make a point of it, were no better, nor scarcely more civilized, than the Sacs and Foxes we have but just driven like wolves beyond the confines of civilization after robbing them of their lands and villages."
Mr. Seymour's views, and others like them, however noble and humane, were not regarded by the community as meriting attention except in a sentimental way, one and all being animated by a desire to dispossess the Indians of their lands as quickly as possible, and without reference to their rights or any feeling of humanity whatever. However, he was not the less strenuous in giving them utterance, even to the extent of offending his friends and patrons.
"Bad faith and cruel harassment of the Indian tribes on their lonely reservations," he would say, "have characterized our government's policy from the first, and forms, indeed, so gross a crime that coming ages will reprobate it wherever men love justice and hate swinish greed. It will not in any way excuse us that we are hungry for the property of our neighbors, and because of this agree to treat the Indian as an inferior being. He is nothing of the kind, for God never made more perfect men physically, and the mind conforms in all things to the body. It is nature's law. Nor does it excuse our acts, however much our passions may be aroused, that the Indian in his savage state kills and mutilates his enemy. Achilles, the ideal Greek, circling the walls of ancient Troy with Hector's body chained to his chariot, has never been surpassed in cruelty and ignoble pride in Indian annals. The comparison is still more odious when we think of the hecatombs of harmless men the Homeric Greeks sacrificed to the manes of their honored dead. The Indian's heaven is lighted by no such baleful fires. Nor have we any reason to suppose the red man more backward than the Greek, for he is greater in courage and much superior to him in physical strength and patient endurance."
"If Achilles lived in our day," Uncle Job once answered, "we would not lose an hour in appropriating his incomparable horses and sending him to the wilds of Iowa to join that other savage, Black Hawk, saying to ourselves the while that we were well rid of a nuisance and disturber of the peace. Too much can't be expected, though, of our young country, Henry. It is too full of the bumptious exuberance of animal life. Children in experience make very poor governors; they are too headstrong and intolerant; but we will do better later on. Only mature nations, like mature men, know how to govern well. It's a pity, but so it is, and will be always, and the weak and dependent must suffer whenever contrary conditions exist."
Thus tender-hearted men declaimed in the years that are gone, but fruitlessly. These thoughts, however out of place, recur to me now and struggle for utterance when my mind reverts to the gentle being who came into my life that evening, and who afterward, and so long as she lived, did so much to add to the happiness and well-being of those with whom she was brought in contact.
When at last we were seated about the table, Mr. Seymour asked grace, and this with such show of reverence that I was awed by it as something new and strange. For such a thing was not usual, you must know, in the new country. Not that men were lacking in respect for religious observances; on the contrary, but time pressed, and, moreover, it was thought that such delicate matters should be left to those trained, so to speak, in things of that nature. On occasion, to be sure, the more venturesome would, if asked, raise their voices openly; but such practices were cause rather of wonder at the courage they evinced than desire to emulate them on the part of the more timid of the community. Mr. Seymour's custom, however, seemed to me to be so good and reverent that I determined if I ever grew to man's estate to do the same; but such resolves, however commendable, are rarely followed, for when I came to have a home of my own, and children sat about the table, I put it off, as weak men ever do in cases of this nature. For a long time the dinner promised to be without speech, all seeming to be oppressed at the step that had been taken—a step that would, for good or bad, color forever the life of at least one of their number. At last Mr. Seymour, looking across to where I sat, said, with an encouraging smile:
"I hope, Gilbert, you don't feel any regret at what has been done?"
"No, sir," I answered; "why should I?"
"Nor have any disposition to turn back?"
"It would be too late for that, I'm afraid, even if I wanted to," I answered. "Aunt Jane would never forgive me so great an offense."
"No, not too late, if you regret the step. The blame for what has been done is all ours, and no part of it would rest on your head," he answered, kindly.
"I don't regret it, but I'm sorry for Aunt Jane," I answered; for, however loth I was to live with her, she was entitled to my respect, if not my love. So much, I thought, I owed my father's memory.
"Well, you may be sorry," Mr. Seymour answered. "We all admire your aunt, and if she would unbend a little and let her face relax into a smile on occasion, she would be a most attractive and lovable woman; but immersed in her thoughts, and formal of manner because of it, she is like the icebergs one sometimes meets in midocean, she is so cold and inaccessible."
"It's her way, and doesn't mean anything, mother always said," I answered.
"Perhaps so; but age does not change or soften her way, as it does most people. Your Uncle Job may not prove as watchful a guardian as she would have been, Gilbert, but your heart will be the warmer and your figure the more supple for the freedom," Mr. Seymour went on.
"I'm sure I shall be content," I answered, looking at Constance, not finding it in my heart to say I could be happy with any one away from her.
"He will never have any other company save yours, nor desire for any. So you are likely to see a good deal of him, and always to your betterment, I am sure," Mr. Seymour answered.
"Why do you say that, Henry?" Uncle Job asked, looking up in surprise.
"Because you are destined to be an old bachelor, Job," Mr. Seymour answered, "and of this I am sure. Charles, Gilbert's father, used to say the same. You lack time and inclination to find a mate, and more's the pity. In such company, Gilbert," he went on, "your craft must hug the shore or sail into the open, as fate decides; but wherever wind and tide may take you, here is hoping you may have a prosperous voyage," and Mr. Seymour raised a glass of wine to his lips, and much to my astonishment, bowed to me as if I were a man grown. He was, however, always surprising those about him in some such pleasant way. Indeed, I thought his bearing so fine that for him to single out any one for notice was a distinction to be remembered and be proud of ever afterward. Thus strongly does kindliness and courtesy of speech ever impress the young or inexperienced in life.
"We all want to join in that toast, Henry," Uncle Job broke in, reaching for a goblet of water that stood beside his plate.
"Won't you join me in a glass of wine, Job?" Mr. Seymour went on, observing his action. "You will sleep the better for it. No? Well, I won't urge you; but you will excuse me, I know, if I say it has always seemed strange to me that in this new country, where all save the pious tipple, and even they indulge sometimes behind the door, you should so rigidly abstain."
"It looks odd, I suppose," Uncle Job answered, "but you know it doesn't grow out of any assumption on my part. I simply don't care for liquor, and can't cultivate it, for the same reason you give for my not marrying; I haven't the time."
"Well, that is a clever way to put it," Mr. Seymour responded. "You are all the better, though, for being free. I have been used to the custom since a boy, and so it would seem odd to dine without wine of some kind. It is all a matter of habit, however, and in this new country, where any kind of good liquor is hard to get, it is better to eschew it altogether, as you do, if one can. Many reprobate the use of wine, I know, but that is an extreme way to look at it, for it is as old as man, and so not to be criticised as if the fashion were new."
"Custom never makes a bad practice the better, though it may excuse it," Uncle Job answered, good-naturedly.
"No, but it is the excesses of those who use liquor that should be condemned; but there doesn't seem to be any middle course in most cases."
"That is not the only thing that is carried to excess in our new country," Uncle Job answered. "The habit of chewing tobacco is quite as harmful, and one that ought to be frowned upon by all men with the beating of drums and tom-toms. This for sanitary reasons, if for no other."
"That is as men think," Mr. Seymour, who was sometimes disposed to be very democratic, replied. "The custom is not nice, but it will die out when men live nearer each other and have leisure to observe the habits of their neighbors. Our people are not more peculiar in this than in giving up the pipe for the cigar."
"That was bad taste, for a pipe is every way superior to a cigar. It is more cleanly and costs less and is not so harmful," Uncle Job replied, with animation; for however abstemious he might be in regard to the use of liquor, he was seldom without a pipe or cigar in his mouth.
"The pipe will come into fashion again when men have more leisure," Mr. Seymour answered. "Now they have scarce time to bite off the end of a cigar or say 'Lord forgive me!' ere they die, so busy are they in bringing the new world into subjection. However, to talk about something of more interest to these children, what are you going to do next? What are your plans, Job, if I may ask?"
This reference to the future caused both Constance and me to stop our chatter and lean forward not to lose a word of what was said, but little comfort did we derive from Uncle Job's reply.
"I have a plan, and it is to leave for home to-morrow morning," he answered, abruptly, looking across the table to where I sat, as if to see how I took it.
"Why so much haste?" Mr. Seymour expostulated.
"Well, the more promptly we act, the less trouble we are likely to have. No one ever caught Miss Holmes napping before, and while we may have misled her up to this time, it is not possible to do so long. The safest way for us, then, is to hurry away."
"Surely, Uncle Job, there's no such hurry," I broke in, my heart ceasing to beat at the thought of going so soon.
"I would like to stay longer, but why take the risk of delay, my son? There is nothing to detain us, and the sooner we are off the less likely we are to be interfered with. So let us start in the morning—and that reminds me, I ought to go and procure the things you need for the journey, Gilbert, if you will excuse me, Henry," he asked, turning to Mr. Seymour.
"A day or two wouldn't make any difference, I should think, Mr. Throckmorton," Constance interposed. "No one will look for Gilbert in this room, and he has not thought of going so soon."
"Keep still, you little puss, and don't meddle in such serious business," Mr. Seymour interposed, half seriously, half in mirth at her earnestness.
"Well, I don't see any reason for such haste," Constance answered, as if that ought to settle it.
"Nor I," I added, shutting my jaws tight, so greatly was I wrought up over the prospect.
"There is no other safe way. Miss Holmes would be down on us like a hawk before noon to-morrow if she doesn't put in an appearance to-night. Indeed, it would not surprise me to see her enter this room any minute," Uncle Job answered, in a decided way, at which we all turned and glanced toward the door, as if expecting to see her enter, as he said.
This disposition of the matter I thought worse than going to Aunt Jane's, and when Uncle Job and Mr. Seymour presently left us to get things in readiness for the morrow, I turned and clasped Constance in my arms in an agony of grief at the thought of parting from her so soon. Thus for a long time we mingled our tears, our hearts too full for speech; but after a while, regaining our composure, we fell to talking of the future, and what we would do, and how we would meet, and this with so much earnestness that we quite forgot our present troubles in the contemplation of what was to come. Thus it is ever with the young; the illusions of life dry their tears and cheer them on when older people sink down in despair and die.
CHAPTER X
AN AWAKENING
When at last Constance left me for the night, I threw myself across the bed without removing my garments, that I might the sooner lose my sorrows in the forgetfulness of sleep. Without avail, however, till the night was far spent, and then only for a moment; for awakening, I found Aunt Jane bending over me grim and determined, a cruel smile lighting up her cold, impassive face. Yes, it was as Uncle Job had said. She could not be misled, and spying out my hiding-place, had bribed the attendants, and so gained access to my room—and I was lost. Stifling my cries, she beckoned her servants to her side, and they, taking me in their arms, bore me through the silent house to the carriage that stood waiting before the door. Thrusting me within, they drove away, muffling my voice till we were far beyond the town. Then releasing me, as if in mockery, I beat my head against the sides of the vehicle, screaming aloud for help, but vainly, for no answer was returned to my angry cries. This till my strength was gone and I sank back exhausted in my seat.
Thus we reached her home in the gray of the morning, but not to enter, for turning into a vacant field, she hid me in a house half buried in the ground, apart and far from the traveled road. Here they left me, but returning in the evening, covered my prison deep with dirt, so that it resembled a gigantic grave. In this loathsome cell I remained for many weeks, mold gathering on my garments and fever racking my worn frame. Nor was this all, for from out the sides of my prison snakes and lizards peered at me with lack-luster eyes as I sat brooding the day through, and at night monstrous field-rats, gaining entrance, ran to and fro across my body, or warmed themselves beneath my jacket. Here in the early morning or late at night my aunt came to visit me, striking the door of my prison with her staff as she called my name. Grieved and incensed, I for a long time refused to answer, but at last, rising to my feet in rage to upbraid her for her cruelty, I awoke, trembling and covered with sweat, to find Setti rapping on my door and calling my name:
"Gilbert! Gilbert!"
Springing up, I ran to her, crying:
"Here! here! Save me, save me, Setti!" clasping my arms about her body as I spoke.
Startled by my action and wild speech, she sought to disengage herself, but observing my distraught air, bent down and kissed me, saying soothingly:
"What is the matter, Gilbert? What has frightened you? You tremble, and your face is as pale as death."
"It's the cold and damp," I answered, scarce knowing what I said, only that I sought to cling to her the tighter.
"That is not it, Gilbert, for the morning is soft and warm," she answered, peering into my face. "You are ill or hiding something from me. What is it?"
"Oh, I've had a dream, a dreadful dream—or it was true, I don't know which. I thought Aunt Jane came and took me to her home and hid me in a cave where no one could find me or hear my cries."
"Oh you poor boy! It was only a dream, for see, this is the Dragon, and your uncle is downstairs, and Constance will be here in a moment with your breakfast."
"Let's go to her; it's better than staying here," I answered, looking back into the room, unable to command my voice or trembling limbs.
"No, Gilbert, not till you are yourself again. Constance must not see you in this way, for the poor thing is dead with grief already," she answered, striving to quiet my agitation.
"I'll stay, but don't leave me, for I'll not stop here alone; I can't!" I cried, fear still overcoming me.
"See, it is nothing," she answered, entering the room and looking about. "It was all a dream, Gilbert. There, you will be yourself again in a minute"; and putting her arm about me, she led me to the open window, and looking out, I saw the day was just breaking.
In this manner, and after some time, I regained my composure, so that when Constance entered she in no wise suspected that anything had gone amiss. Spreading the table, Setti motioned the servant to go away, and making some excuse, she presently followed, leaving us alone. Seating myself, I made pretense of eating, but only that, so deeply was I stirred by what had happened and the thought of parting from Constance. Now, though a long life has elapsed since that unhappy morning, I can see her as plainly as then, striving to smile or say some cheerful word, but more often with tears filling her gentle eyes and clogging her utterance as she sat sad-faced and despondent by my side. In this way I made believe I had some appetite, till the horn sounded the departure of the stage. Then, springing to my feet, I took her in my arms and kissed her a thousand times, but without speech of any kind, so full were we of the sorrow of parting. At last, tearing myself away, I hurried below, where I found Mr. Seymour waiting for me in the hall.
"Good by, God bless you!" he cried, with a striving at gayety as he put his arm about me and led me to the door. "Remember, Gilbert, that we love you always, and will welcome you back with open arms whenever you choose to come," he concluded, his voice choking.
My heart too full for utterance, I raised his hand and kissed it, and without stopping, hurried on to where Uncle Job stood waiting to put me in the stage. Thus we went away, and turning, I saw Constance looking down on me from the room where we had just parted, waving me a last farewell.
CHAPTER XI
THE NEW COUNTRY
When we were clear of the village and the straggling houses that lined the road beyond its limits, the sun was well above the horizon, lighting with ever-lessening shadows the great prairie spread out before us. Refreshed and enlivened by the pure air and the companionship of the quiet country, I looked about me, curious as to the route we were following and the far-reaching prospect on either side. On our right the gentle Mauvaise Terre pursued its slow and devious course through the quiet plain, marked throughout its winding way by trees and drooping bushes. To the south, low down on the hazy landscape, the great forest about Wild Plum, so dear of memory, showed its black depths in the soft morning air. This far-off glimpse of my home stirred the sorrows of my heart anew, but a turn in the road shutting out the view, I soon found myself scanning with curious interest the placid landscape on which we were entering.
Our great state, now so thickly peopled, had then, save here and there, only widely scattered inhabitants. Its forests and prairies were still undisturbed, save by the birds and wild animals that sought in their vast solitudes the security and food they craved. Of highways there were scarce any, and these as nature had left them, except at some impassable place where neglect would have barred the way. The streams, quiet and uneventful, pursued their noiseless way across the level plains, amid flower-strewn banks, unvexed by obstructions of any kind, save, perhaps, at points far removed on the great rivers, where primitive ferries added to rather than lessened the solitude of the gentle landscape.
In this way Nature's aptitude for grouping the beauties of her abundant harvest found material with which to work her will unvexed by man. The great prairies, looped together or apart, formed natural parks, interspersed throughout their length and breadth with quiet lakes and still-running streams, the whole fringed about with slumbering forests filled to the edge with every kind of foliage that could attract the eye or engage the mind. This grouping of forest and lawn, separate yet forever together, blending and scintillating in the sweet air, filled the heart of the traveler with the peace and restfulness that only the quiet of the country can afford. Man's presence here, I thought, as I looked forward on the road which scarred the face of the grassy plain as if cut with a whip, can only disfigure, not help it in any way.
Such was the prospect, but of its beauty I was only partly conscious. This is not strange, though no more so in the case of the young than of those of mature age. For the infinite is ever beyond us, no matter when or how presented. We can, at best, only understand the small things of life, the make-believes of the world. The petty park, the trick of some cunning landscape gardener, elicits our admiration and unstinted praise, and this properly; but the wide expanses of Nature, in which beauty blends in every line and shadow, pass by us unnoticed, or at most with only feeble comprehension. Their symphonies are beyond us, or at best, find only a faint echo in our hearts.
In this manner, and only half-conscious of what I saw, we pursued our way; but in excuse I may say one must share in the quietude of Nature to be able to drink in her beauties to the full. This I could not do—my awakening had been too rude; nor was our vehicle one to invite comfort or reflection. Hard usage had long since dulled its springs, and its narrow seats suggested poverty of material rather than desire to put one at his ease. Public need, however, it was apparent, could afford nothing better, and so the traveler was fain to be content, and was. Of paint or ornamentation it had none, and the horses, dulled out of all semblance of animation, dragged us forward in sullen discontent. In front, beside the driver, a mail-pouch lay, and in the body of the vehicle two seats faced each other, and behind these a rack for baggage. Above our heads a coarse canvas was upheld by rude supports, and at the sides soiled and tattered curtains flapped uneasily in the morning air. The vehicle, however rude, was thought to denote some attempt at splendor, and never failed to call the more curious to the roadsides as it went back and forth across the country.
Such were the surroundings, you must know, under which I set out that sunny morning in May, 1838, to take my first step in the serious affairs of life.