The sobs of the girl beat against his heart, strongly fanning the pain and fierce passion.
"What shall I do—what shall I do?" she said brokenly.
"You shall go straight to your mother," he said firmly. "Tell her everything."
"But I promised—gave an honorable promise, a solemn promise that I would not tell."
"There can be no such thing as an honorable promise to the kind of a man who does not know the meanin' of the word. There can be no such thing as a sacred promise to a man who has no more conception of sacredness than a beast. The man who has brought you to this trouble, of whatever kind it may be, is unfit for consideration. Go to your mother. If you don't goI'll carry you there in my arms."
A moment she hesitated. Then she arose. He twined his fingers around her arm and without speaking they crossed the cellar. At the door she paused. "Come on, Ann," he said, and they went up the steps together.
Entering the kitchen, Abe Lincoln said, "I found your little girl in the cellar—in trouble. She has come to tell her mother about it. I'll go fetch the potatoes."
CHAPTER XXV
FATHER AND DAUGHTER
AfterAnn Rutledge confided her heart-troubling secret to her mother, Mrs. Rutledge lost no time in laying the matter before her husband. She feared it would be hard to make him see that John McNeil's conduct toward Ann had been honorable, and John Rutledge believed in the kind of honor that makes a man's word as good as his bond, and would take advantage of no situation to perpetrate an injustice.
He listened in silence as Mrs. Rutledge told him Ann's secret, the secret that was changing the glad-hearted girl into a quiet, nervous woman. Several times he seemed about to speak. He listened, however, until the end, but Mrs. Rutledge knew he was angry.
"Now, John," she counseled, "don't be too hard on John McNeil. What he said may all be true. He may go back and get his people and bring them right here as he said."
"Maybe he will—but does that change the fact that he played double? Does that change the fact that during his years of plenty he has never helped those of his own flesh and bloodwho may have suffered? John McNeil is as cold a trade-driver as ever hit the trail to the West, and if he comes back here——"
"Now, John, be careful. Aside from the awful effect the whole thing has had on poor Ann, there may be no real sin committed."
"Aside from the effect on our Ann? My God! how much more sin could a man commit unless he had ruined her reputation—and if he had done that——" and John Rutledge arose and paced the floor.
"But he didn't. How can you let such a thought come into your head about Ann? Don't get yourself all worked up over a straw man."
"Straw man?" he exclaimed angrily. "Is it a straw man that our Ann laughs no more? Is it a straw man that we never hear her singing home across the bluffs? Is it a straw man that her sweet face has been taking on lines of worry, ill fitting the face of Ann Rutledge? Is it a straw man that she was forced into a promise to keep a secret—a dishonorable secret—from her own father and mother? There's no straw man about any such thing as this."
John Rutledge sat down and lit his pipe. After it was smoking well, Mrs. Rutledge said, "What shall I say to Ann?"
"Tell Ann to come to me," he said shortly.
Mrs. Rutledge went out, and a moment later Ann came. When she entered the room her father was standing with his back to the fireplace, his hands behind him.
"Yes, father," she said quietly.
John Rutledge surveyed her a moment. What he was thinking of she had not time to consider, but the expression on his face seemed to be a combination of wrath and pity, of love and outraged justice.
"A man called John McNeil asked my consent to marry you, Ann."
"Yes, Father"; her voice was a trifle unsteady.
"I supposed him to be the honorable and straight-faced young gentleman he seemed to be."
She made no reply. John Rutledge blew out a couple of puffs of smoke.
"From your mother I have just learned that there is no such person as John McNeil."
"No, Father."
"This McNamra, or whoever he may be, may turn up in these parts again some time."
"I don't know"; and the tremor had not left her voice.
"He might have the unmitigated hardihood to expect to marry the daughter of John Rutledge, the girl he courted under the name of McNeil. If he should—if he should come back and should even look like he thought of such a thing—I would—would——"
"Father," Ann said softly, stepping nearer him, for she saw that he was angry, "you wouldn't do anything wrong."
"Wrong?" he said. "Wrong—no—nothing wrong—what I'd do would be right"; and he turned and knocked his pipe against the chimney with such force as to threaten its existence.
"Perhaps he was telling the truth. Perhaps he will return some day just as he said he would."
"Perhaps—perhaps. But is he telling the truth about his name? No, he is lying. One way or another he has lied to a woman, and a man who will desert his own father and mother would desert his wife. I'm not condemning him too hard, but he will never marry John Rutledge's daughter. Do you understand, Ann."
"Yes, Father"; her voice was unsteady.
"He has put you in a most embarrassing position—more than you know. You will be talked about when his double life is known, and,since it is bound to come out, the sooner the better, and I shall see to that. Gossips will discuss matters that's none of their business, but they will not go too far, my girl, for John Rutledge is your father."
"Perhaps I will hear from him—even yet," she said with an effort.
"If you do, hand the letter to me. I'll give the young man some advice about swearing dutiful daughters to keep secrets from their parents."
The tears which Ann had struggled to keep back now stood in her eyes, and she feared to speak lest the slightest movement of her face would start them running down her cheeks.
John Rutledge looked at her. The expression on his stern face changed instantly, and the voice was wonderfully softened as he said, "Ann, my little girl, don't cry. Don't waste good tears. It's not too late to mend the harm. To-night when you say your prayers add a couple of lines telling your Creator that the best thing He has done for you up to this good time is to save you from being the wife of a man whose word would have no other meaning to you than so much noise. Run on now, my girl, and tell your mother I'd like to see her."
CHAPTER XXVI
GLOOM AND THE LIGHT
Ann'ssecret was not long in gaining publicity after her father found it out, nor was he disposed entirely to discredit the gossips' reports that McNeil's strange actions might be due to a living wife or some crime committed. Why else on earth would a man change his name, desert a girl like Ann Rutledge, and go away—nobody knew where?
The town gossip greatly embarrassed Ann Rutledge, yet she was glad she had told her parents, and, the burden of the secret now being removed, she was more like herself.
The action of John McNeil and the consequent displeasure of Ann's father were much to the liking of Lincoln, and while he felt sorry for Ann, his sorrow was not sufficient to hold back his joy, which was given expression in the jolliest stories he had ever told. Laughter seemed infectious around the post-office when the postmaster was there. His days in New Salem had all been busy, happy days with his good friends, and opportunities for study. But better thanall was the growing consciousness that an undefined hope which had been struggling against a clearly defined duty, was approaching the right of way. His heart was glad as he went about over the country with his stakes and chains.
It was just about this time that the wheel of fortune turned. The men who had bought the Lincoln and Berry store and had given Lincoln paper to pay his debts with, closed their doors one day without notice, and, without saying farewell to a soul in New Salem, disappeared.
When Lincoln heard this he felt slip upon him the burden of a debt that staggered him. Not in a lifetime did it seem he would be able to pay it. And so it was that just as it seemed that he was about to enter the path of a golden glow he was thrown, instead, into the black gloom of a great despondency.
When the word was passed around town of Abe Lincoln's bad luck there was much talk. What would he do? There seemed to be just two alternatives, to skin out and leave it all, as the men had done who bought the store, and his partner Berry before them, had done, or to settle down to a lifetime of struggle and pay the debt. Everybody believed Abe Lincoln thoroughly honest, but here was a test that seemed beyond the powers of human endurance.
The night the store was closed, Abe Lincoln did not come home to supper.
"Where is Abe Lincoln?" the Rutledges asked.
Nobody knew. Ann slipped away to the post-office. It was closed. She rattled the door and called his name at the latch-hole but received no answer.
Day was drawing to a close, but she made an excuse to go to the mill, and with a little basket on her arm she hurried down the sloping road. Twilight shades were falling over the weather-stained log building which seemed to be drawing itself into the shadows of the trees on the opposite bank of the river. The big, stone wheel was silent, but the waters falling over the dam gave out the sound of something alive.
Quietly she approached the wide mill doors which stood open. On the threshold she looked carefully in. For a moment the deeper gloom of the inside blinded her. Then the big, white millstone took shape, and the door, opening onto the river platform. Through this a pale light filtered.
Taking a step farther in, she looked again toward some dark outlines which she was sure were not those of pillar or prop, outlines which took the form of a tall, shadowy giant standing against the doorway and looking out upon the river in the falling darkness.
She crossed the mill rapidly and softly, and, approaching the tall shadowy figure, touched the giant of the gloom on the arm and said, "Abraham Lincoln."
He turned about quickly. "Ann—Ann Rutledge—what are you doing here?"
"I have been looking for you."
"Why?"
"You did not come to supper."
"I often go without supper."
"I heard of your trouble. I wanted to find you and to help you. You found me in the cellar—and helped me."
"And what can you do—what can anyone do for me?" and he turned again to the river. "Look at the darkness. Onlythatfor me."
"But light always follows darkness, Abraham. God has planned it so. Sometimes the night is very dark, and very long, but morning comes. It is always so."
He was silent and they stood together in the gloom.
"God!" he said to himself. "Is there a God? I wonder. If there is a God He knows how hard I've tried—worked against fate itself, how I wanted to be something in the world. I've loved to study about Washington and have been fool enough to dream I might do something for my country some time. But Washington came from a race of cavaliers. I come from the poorest of ten thousand. Washington at the age of twenty-one was an Adjutant General of Virginia with the rank of Major. Abraham Lincoln at twenty-one was driving two yoke of oxen to an emigrant wagon through the mud-holes and wilds of the West and had never been to school a year in his life. I was tryin'. I felt that I was gettin' ahead. Now comes a burden that will crush me to earth—for Ann Rutledge—Ann Rutledge," and he turned toward her and spoke with fierce determination, "every penny of this debt must be paid if it takes meto the day of my deathwith my coffin money thrown in."
"Yes, Abraham Lincoln," she answered gently, "every penny—and God will help you do it, for God never expects the impossible. He's not that kind of a God, you know."
"You talk about God," said Lincoln rather indifferently, "as if you were sure—well, I believe you are. I knew it the night I heard you singin' on the bluff. I have heard you sing that song many times since—sometimes in my dreams. I wish I could feel as you do when you sing your pilgrim song. I have imagined that I will some day, but now—now I think of my mother lyin' under a forgotten tangle where strange beasts creep. She was a pilgrim, too—but she passed out of it all weak and weary. Yet she believed just as you believe, as I have tried to believe."
"But, Abraham—you know we are here for just a little time. The song says, 'I can tarry—I can tarry but a night.' Sometimes the night is very short, as when a child passes on. Sometimes it is longer, as when an old, old man dies. But whether long or short, the night gives way to the morning with its light and fresh life and strength. I know it is so."
She had been speaking in a quiet voice with a touch of pleading, for she felt he was not paying close attention.
"How do you know it?" he asked, turning to her. "Tell me how you know it—or why you believe so strongly."
"Let us sit down," she said, "here where the light is fading on the river. See, only the foam shines now. But in just a little while the moon will put a thousand bars of silver on the water. We are not afraid of the dark—you and I—nor of each other. I want to tell you a story."
He was paying attention now. They sat down on the broad step of the mill door. To him Ann Rutledge had never been so close before, and yet just now so unattainable. Never before had she spoken to him in such childish simplicity, yet now she was mysteriously beyond his understanding.
"I have often doubted," he said, with something like a sigh as he stretched his legs across the platform and waited; "I should like to believe—as you do. Can you make me?"
"I will tell you a story," she said again. Her voice was low and sweet. It seemed in tune with the gathering darkness, the falling of the water, the evening calm and the burdened heart of the man.
"When I was yet very small I began wondering and asking questions about things I could neither understand nor believe. It was while we were back in Kentucky I was sent to the pastureto watch the cows. There was a pond in the low end of the pasture where the reeds grew and where all was very quiet around. I was sitting beside the water, wondering perhaps if something strange and beautiful would appear from its depths as in fairy stories, when I saw a hideous, mud-colored grub creeping slowly above the water-line and climbing the reed. I was tempted to knock it back out of sight, it was so ugly. But I only watched. Very soon its muddy shell cracked open, something with wings crept out and the shell fell back to the place from which it had come. The new creature spread its wings slowly. They dried, turning as they did so into silver gauze, which he spread out like bits of shining lace. Then he went skimming away across the pond and over the dandelions and grass flowers, even over the heads of the grazing cows. In all my life I had never dreamed of anything so wonderful nor had any fairy story ever been told me that was so marvelous as what I had just seen. I looked back to the pond. A ray of sun was shining so that I could see the bottom. The cast-off shell was lying there in the mud. There were others around it like it, except they had life in them. They crept up and maybelooked at the empty shell. One touched it and turned away.
"After a time the new creature with the silvery wings came again and rested on the reed. His reflection showed in the water. Perhaps he could see those who were as he had been, creeping in the mud. But he had no way of telling them that they would one day become creatures of the upper world of sun-shine and flowers and sky, for the only world they knew was mud. And then I thought of people—and that we are yet dwelling in the world of mud. The Bible calls it the 'earth.' It says 'there is a natural body'—do you remember—'There is a natural body and there is a spiritual body. The first is of the earth—earthy.' And it is not until we have left the old body that we can know the life on wings—the life up in God's big fields of sun-shine that we call heaven.
"As I watched the shining creature sitting on the reed, I thought perhaps it was a mother wishing she could tell her child down below to be brave and not mind the mud, for at longest it can last but a little while. Of course there was no way the one could speak and the other hear. But it was a helpful thought. Do you ever thinkof your mother this way? Do you ever feel when you are in the gloom that she is not very far away, and only waiting until you have been changed, to tell you many things? The Bible calls it 'when this mortal shall have put on Immortality.'"
"Immortality," the man repeated, as if to himself. It was the title of the new poem he so liked. Then he said, almost reverently, "Go on, Ann."
"I believe," she said simply, "that's why I am so happy when I'm singing 'I'm a pilgrim.' It is my soul you hear singing, Abraham—that part of me that will not die, that is shouting on the way. Wasn't God good to plan it all so lovely?"
Abraham Lincoln turned slowly and looked down on Ann Rutledge.
The moon was throwing its first gleams across the river. In the pale light the face and hair with its pale red-gold halo seemed to stand out from the shadowy background like something ethereal and unreal. The man gazed at it. It was so shining—so happy.
"You were sobbin' in the cellar not so long ago," he said.
"That was the darkness—but always the light comes back."
"Because you believe."
"Don't you believe? Oh you must believe, Abraham."
"Do you want to help me to believe? Do you want to help me to reach the heights—higher heights than man has ever climbed? For I feel that you can help me do even this. You can transform me, and I do not expect to die either—not yet."
"What can I do for you?"
"Once I saw an eagle rise from a bluff on the river. Easily it lifted itself above everything and soared against the sky. So was I lifted up when I heard you singin' on the heights. All night long I sat thinkin' about it. I could not fathom the mystery then. With the sunrise the matin' call of the bird began to unfold the mystery to me. Ann—Ann Rutledge, I want you to let me love you."
"Does love have to be let?" She asked the question, looking out across the water and woods.
"No—never. But dams can be built, and then the waters on their way must do one of twothings—break the dam or change their course. I do not want to change my course. I do not want to break a dam—if it can be helped—for I'll make a rip-snortin' big smash-up of it if I do. May I love you?"
He was looking into her face, which was still shining.
"Let me get a letter to John McNeil asking him to release me."
"And then, Ann?"
"Then—Oh, Abraham Lincoln!—then—but we mustn't even talk of it yet"; and she arose from the step.
The tall man stood beside her. The rising moon cast a light on his face. The girl looked at it in wonderment.
"Abraham," she said, "you do not look like the same man I found here."
"Keep still, Ann," he whispered. "We are just outside heaven."
"And you believe now—believe?" and she waited for his answer.
"Believe, yes I believe. I must believe in theGreat Creator. Nothin' less could have fashioned the soul of Ann Rutledge. From now on, eternally, I shall believe to my soul's salvation."
"Out of the gloom into the light," she said softly.
A few moments they stood as if not wishing to break some magic spell. Then he said, "You must run right home. We will not go out together; but from the door I will watch until you are well away, then I will follow."
Another moment they tarried in the wide mill door as if loath to leave, then she went out.
As she did so a small dark figure stepped around the corner of the mill. The next moment the voices of Davy and Sis Rutledge were heard calling, "Ann—Ann Rutledge!"
"So that's the Mollie that ain't at the mill for no corn grindin'," the small man around the mill said to himself when Ann had answered the call. "Now who's the other bat?"
A moment later the tall figure of Abe Lincoln emerged from the building and turned toward the hill.
"Eh—eh—eh!" granted the man behind the corner. "He's a bar—he's a bar," and he slapped his foxed breeches and walked half-way up the hill with his coon-skin cap squeezed tightly under his arm as an expression of his joy.
CHAPTER XXVII
COVERING THE COALS
WhenJohn Rutledge was consulted about the sending of Ann's proposed letter asking for a release from her engagement to John McNeil, he said, "What for? Hasn't he released you enough yet? He'll never answer it."
"Don't be too hard on him, John," Mrs. Rutledge said. "He always seemed to know about manners."
"Men have been killed for having no worse manners," Rutledge said dryly.
"But we wouldn't want to be anything but fair," Ann pleaded.
John Rutledge looked at her a moment. Then he reached out his hand and placed it on her red-gold hair.
"Poor little, tender-hearted goose," he said, moving his hand up and down in awkward pats. "Go ahead if it will make you feel any better."
So the letter was written, and approved by John Rutledge. Ann wrapped it in stout brown paper, tied it carefully with string, her father gave her the money to pay its way, and the postmaster mailed it for her.
After the letter had been gone several weeks Ann began watching for a reply. Abe Lincoln also watched, and though no comment was made the matter was of tremendous importance to both of them.
The spring of 1834 rapidly passed into summer. In the home and garden Ann and her mother were busy every day, while with Abe Lincoln time had never seemed to go so fast. His surveying was taking him farther and farther into the county. In every locality he made new friends. His work was bringing him some money also and he had begun to make payments on the giant debt which hung over him. The entire town considered him little less than a hero, one of those uncommon heroes whose valor lies in simple honesty.
Several of the unhappy experiences of debt came to him, however, for his payments were of necessity slow, and once he was sued at the law and was compelled to turn over his horse and watch—two necessaries he had secured. Friends, however, helped him get them back.
As the citizens of New Salem had before determined, Lincoln was nominated for the Legislature, and during the summer, as he went about his surveying, he used every opportunity to get acquainted with the people. "I must understand the people," he would say to John Rutledge. "I must come in contact with the people.It is the will of the great mass of common people, not the preference of the favored few, that makes Democracy."
To the end of accomplishing this he took time to get acquainted everywhere, sometimes telling stories, sometimes going into fields and lending a hand at gathering in the harvest. But always his honesty, sincerity and hearty sympathy with the toiler, and his big, glad hand of fellowship won him friends, and often after he had told John Rutledge of his travels the older man would say to his wife, "Abe's going to make something of himself. I don't know what. But he's got the stuff in him."
There was much interest in the election. His opponent did not now charge him with being an infidel. The pioneer citizens of Sangamon County were rigidly against the union of church and state and Abe Lincoln had them well informed concerning the perils of a republic if this foundation-stone of democratic government should be stolen or cheated from them. Nor would it have been easy in and about New Salem to make the impression that Abe Lincoln was devoid of religion.
When the voting was over and Abe Lincoln was safely elected there was a celebration in New Salem out of all proportion to the size of the village, and one of the proudest and happiest of all the shouting, cheering crowd was Ann Rutledge, whose face had taken on again its old-time gladness.
During the campaigning time Abe Lincoln had seen little of Ann, and the letter which she had long looked for had not come.
It was after the election excitement had subsided that Abe Lincoln found an evening for Ann. Early after supper the family sat about the fire, and Davy and Sis and Sonny were loath to go to bed, for they had not seen their good friend much of late. But they moved out when John Rutledge bade them, and after a half-hour of conversation Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge gave the room to Ann and Abe.
"Don't forget to cover the coals, Ann," her mother had said as she left the room.
"Where's the book. I haven't read my poemfor a long time," Abe Lincoln said when they were alone.
Ann took the book from her table-drawer and found the poem entitled, "Immortality." Lincoln read a few verses.
"It doesn't say much about immortality—does it?" Ann asked.
"Not much, but it means it, because of course the souls of men and of women do not wither and die like the leaves of the willow and the oak. But I should never have known the meanin'—the full, sure meanin' of the word, nor have entered into the better spirit of the poem, if it had not been for you, Ann Rutledge."
"I am glad if I have helped you, but put the book away. Let's tell our fortunes in the fire."
Lincoln put the book on the table and stirred up a bed of glowing coals. Then, side by side, they looked into the future.
"Look," she said, "at the lines just there. I have a long life-line—so long I must be going to live a hundred years."
He laughed.
"And yours is long. And right in there there is a wedding—and over there are one, two, three—at least half a dozen children for me." Shelaughed and stirred the coals again. "This now is your fortune. I see journeys and lots of people. I believe I see the capitol building at Vandalia. Maybe you are going to be a great judge or some state official." She stirred again, but this time she turned and said, "I've always wished, Abraham, that you knew some love-stories."
"I do," he answered promptly.
"You?" and she opened her blue eyes wide.
"Yes—the best in the world."
"Where did you get them? You never read story-books."
"The best books and the greatest books in the world are full of love-stories. In fact, Ann, if love and love-stories were taken out there wouldn't be anything left for the other fellow to write a book about.
"How about Blackstone—couldn't he write a book?"
"No. In a world without love there would be no matin' in the springtime and no people to write about."
"I didn't mean that. I was talking about just plain love-stories."
"So am I. I've read Shakespeare. Did youever hear his love-story about Antony and Cleopatra? It's one of the greatest love-stories in the world. She went to him in a wonderful, golden barge with purple silk sails and flower-decked maidens dancin' under its Tyrian purple canopies. Little boats swarmed all about it, burnin' incense so that it was wafted on the water in perfumed breezes. This was the ship the fairy Egyptian went to Antony in. Theirs was the love stronger than death. We will read it some time."
"I like it—tell me more."
"You know the love-stories in the Bible: the one about Ruth and Boaz, a little out of place these times, but good for its day. You know the unruly passion that caused poor old Samson's downfall, a love-affair in which he loved fiercely but not wisely. But the story that to my mind means more than them all, is the story about Jesus and Mary."
"Oh, Abraham!" she said with a start. "You don't mean that Jesus loved Mary."
"Of course He did. Didn't he love everybody? What else can you make of the incident where Mary, so anxious to show her love in some unusual way, went to the dinner where sheemptied her vase of costly perfumes on his hair and feet? Do you remember that her act immediately called forth unkind comment and the sort of criticism that hurts a gentle woman beyond the power of words to tell? What did Jesus do? Did He sit by dumb like a coward and let her feelin's be wounded when, whether wisely or unwisely she had sought to prove her love? Was He afraid of those sharp-tongued men? I tell you, Ann, every time I read the story, this Jesus the world loves looms up bigger and grander and more heroic and sublime! Such tender consideration as He showed marks a man, a man. Do you remember what He said as she sat with her eyes full of tears before these men? 'Let her alone,' He said; then He spoke the few words which were forever to link the name of Mary with that of Jesus, even as He prophesied."
While Ann was considering this somewhat new view of an old story her Mother's voice was heard calling, "Don't forget to cover the coals, Ann."
Ann reached for the shovel.
"Not yet," he said, taking her hand and moving his chair closer to hers. She did not tryto withdraw her hand from the large one that held it.
For a moment he sat looking into the fire. Then he turned to her. "Ann," he said in a low voice, and unsteady, "Ann Rutledge, look at me. I have something to say to you."
Ann turned her face to his. For a moment he seemed to search it with a gaze as tender as it was masterful and as pleading as it was secure.
"We are goin' to cover the coals," he said. "Do you know, Ann, that hearts are hearthstones where women keep the live fire burnin'? My hearthstone has been ash-strewn and cold—with nobody to cover the coals?"
She felt the large hand around hers tighten its grasp, but he yet looked into the fire.
When he spoke again it was with a different tone. The pleading was gone. There was a tone of masterful security in it.
"Ann," he said, "we have been waitin' for a letter. It has not come. The time is now past when one or ten thousand letters refusin' to release you would avail anything. When a man loves a woman as I love you, it is his God-ordained privilege to get her. Do you understand? Iloveyou. I have loved you sincebefore I ever saw your face. It came to me the night I heard you singin' on the heights. I love you more than anything on earth or in heaven and I feel some way that love like this can come but once. Iloveyou and I would give my life to have you mine—to cover the coals on the hearthstone of my heart."
There was such an intensity in his voice, in his face, as Ann had never seen. There was a pleading hunger, there was a suppressed mastery that she was conscious of. She did not take her eyes from his face. "Ann," and without letting go of her hand he arose and drew her up before him, "together we stand at the most momentous time of all our lives—do you love me?"
"Do I love you?" Ann half whispered with a smile that turned her face radiant; meantime her eyes grew shining with tears. The next instant she felt those long arms around her that Ole Bar had hinted would be useful in mating season, felt them binding her slender body so close she could hear the rapid thumping of his heart, and he kissed her with the savage joy of sweet possession, and, cradling her face in his strong hand, he held her cheek against hisand breathed the fierce and tender joy words could not tell.
"Oh, Abraham," she whispered, "do you love me so much—soverymuch."
"Love you?" he said half defiantly. "You cannot know, for you have not starved for it as I have. I love you, Ann Rutledge—not for a week or a month, or a year, but until this mortal shall have put on immortality; for if souls are immortal as you have taught me,love is eternal."
A moment longer they stood in each other's arms. Then he held her away from him, looked at her and in serious tones said, "Sing for me, Ann: just one stanza of that good old hymn, 'This is the way I long have sought.'"
"Hear Ann," Mrs. Rutledge said to her husband as the old-time music of happy laughter sounded on the stillness of the night.
"Good for Abe!" he answered drowsily; "let them alone."
CHAPTER XXVIII
"HE'S RUINT HISSELF FOREVER"
Therewas no one in New Salem surprised when it began to be whispered about that Abe Lincoln was setting up to Ann Rutledge.
Indeed that seemed quite the natural thing. Both were favorites. Both were different in some ways from any others, perhaps superior, and both were everybody's friends. The wonderful change in Ann, too, was a source of pleasure to all who knew her, for she had not been able to hide the disappointment and embarrassment through which she had passed.
Abe Lincoln had always been fairly happy so far as any one knew. He seemed even more happy now, and quite naturally the people charged this to Ann Rutledge, and the two words, "Ann and Abe," began to be everywhere linked together. It was not until Thanksgiving, however, that any definite announcement was made. This was at a dinner, the biggest and jolliest ever given in New Salem.
"Mother," John Rutledge had said to his wife, "the increase has been fair, but we've more than increase to be thankful for. Ann's got backto herself again. Fact, there never was a time in all her life when her singing sounded so good to me as now, and she laughs as if there were no such thing in the world as trouble. Then I'm not sorry she and Abe fixed things up. Abe Lincoln's got some future, sure as two and two make four. It does seem outside the bounds of all reason that a young backwoodsman that never went to school and has had more hard knocks than ten men generally stands up under, could ever get to be Governor of Illinois. Yet who knows—who knows?"
"John," Mrs. Rutledge answered, "you're getting visionary. Just 'cause you like Abe Lincoln uncommon well and he's going to marry our Ann ain't any sign he'll ever get to any such exalted position as Governor."
"I don't know. He's doing fairly—fairly. He's the youngest member in the Legislature. His life is before him. He's going to finish law next year, and Major Stuart says there's no man, old or young, in this state to-day that knows the Constitution like Abe Lincoln. He may never get there, but I'd not die of surprise if he did. And I'm waiting with interest to see what stand he takes down at Vandalia. But getting back to Thanksgiving, we have uncommon things to be thankful for, Abe has no home and like as not nobody ever had a dinner for him. Let Abe and Ann have a dinner and invite in some of the young people."
This plan suited Mrs. Rutledge. Abe and Ann were delighted and preparations were at once begun. There were mince and pumpkin pies, and cakes and plum pudding to be baked, and the tenderest pig and the biggest turkey on the farm were to be roasted. The cellar and store-house were raided and in the woods Ann had the good fortune to find a vine with shining leaves and blue-black berries which she twined about a great bouquet of evergreen set in a frame of shining, red apples in the middle of the table.
Abe stayed near Ann, and once when she was making pastry for jam tarts he kissed her, until in self-defense she powdered his black hair white with her flour-dusted hands, and Mrs. Rutledge laughed until she had to rest her ample body in an easy chair.
This incident was not long in getting out, for Nance, who was present, told it at singing-school, and it was passed around with as genuine a feeling of pleasure as if those telling it were themselves being kissed.
"I've been looking for just this kind of love-affair for Abe Lincoln," Hannah Armstrong said. "The kind that's taking up with everything that swings petticoats only has skin-deep cases, but there's others has bone cases. When it gets in the bone, ain't any use ever trying to get it out."
The afternoon before Thanksgiving, Abe Lincoln announced that he was going to Springfield on an important mission. What it was he told nobody but Ann's mother. Ann had an idea the mission had something to do with the festivities of the next day, but no hint was dropped as to what it was.
With Thanksgiving came the dinner and the merriment about the long table of laughing and story-telling with jokes about Ann and Abe, for as yet the progress of their courtship was not definitely known.
Abe and Ann had been put side by side in two chairs which Nance and other girls had decorated with strings of pop-corn and sprigs of green. When the dinner was at last over, Abe arose and, stretching himself to his full height and stepping behind Ann's chair, said, "There are all sorts of Thanksgivin's and all sorts of things to be thankful for. But there will neverbe another one like this, for I have asked Ann Rutledge, the sweetest girl in all the world, to be my wife, and she has done me the honor of givin' me her promise. I have here a little band of gold to be put on that finger which it is said sends the channels of its blood directest to the heart. It has words inside which carry the world's greatest message. Hold out your hand, Ann."
The speech was a surprise. Every eye was turned on Ann as Abe Lincoln took her hand and slipped the little band on her third finger. John Rutledge leaned eagerly forward. Immediately there was a great clapping of hands and then the young people gathered around Ann to see the ring and to learn the message that Abe had had put in the ring.
"Read it Ann—read it," they cried.
And Ann, her face shining with joy and pink with blushes, read, "Love is eternal."
She looked at Abraham Lincoln. Their eyes met a moment, then he bent down and kissed her, and again the young companions shouted and laughed and, when there were none of them looking his way, Ann's father wiped his eyes.
Just a few days later Abraham Lincoln made ready to go to Vandalia, seventy-five miles fromNew Salem, to represent Sangamon County. As usual he had no money, but he had no trouble borrowing enough to buy a cheap suit, which was the best, however, he had as yet put on his back. John Rutledge furnished the horse, and Ann and her mother looked after his simple outfit.
"Abraham," Ann said when she surveyed him in his new suit, "you look so nice, only your tie is crooked."
He pulled it around, saying, "Such a nuisance. What are they good for, anyhow?"
Ann laughed. "You've got it as far out of line under your left ear now as you had it before under the right," she said. "Let me fix it for you." Stepping on a foot-stool she motioned him to stand before her, and straightened his tie.
"Abraham," she said in despair before he left the house, "it's crooked again—your tie."
"Let it alone," was his answer. "The tie is all right. It's my neck that's crooked."
After he had gone Ann began spinning, piecing quilts and hemming linen in preparation for a spring wedding.
Both John Rutledge and Ann heard from Sangamon County's representative. To the father he wrote that he was forming a plan to have the state capitol moved from Vandalia toSpringfield, in his opinion a much better point than the small place down the country. What he wrote to Ann nobody asked. Sometimes she let her father and mother read the letters. Once John Rutledge read, "I am glad you are so well—so strong, so happy, my little pilgrim. The world is a new world, Ann, now that I have you. I feel some insistent force pushing me on to something—I do not know what. But with the love of a woman like you, there are no heights a man dare not reach out for."
Meantime discussion in New Salem about Lincoln kept up. Almost every man in town was of the opinion that Abe was going to be somebody, but they all waited to see what he would stand for in this his first experience as representative of the people.
It came at last. Abraham Lincoln had gone on record in favor of woman suffrage and against slavery.
When this news was told in the little group of which Ole Bar happened to be one, he was for a moment struck dumb with disappointment. Then with impressive profanity he burst out, "A bar would have more sense. Couldn't he find nothin' in Vandalyer to take up but wimmin and niggers? He's ruint hisself forever."
CHAPTER XXIX
GOD'S LITTLE GIRL
Earlyin the spring John Rutledge decided to move from Rutledge Inn to his farm about seven miles beyond New Salem.
Mrs. Rutledge and Ann suffered the pangs of heart that come to women when they must leave homes made dear by the birth of children and of love. Aside from the sentiment, however, Mrs. Rutledge was glad to change to farm life, for inn-keeping had been hard for her.
Ann's chief objection was going where she could not see Abe Lincoln often, for his surveying was already taking him much away, and they both knew he could not find time often to visit the farm. It was also decided at this time that the wedding of Ann and Abe should be postponed for a year.
"Ann needs more education," Mr. Rutledge had said, "and a woman has to get what she is going to before she has the cares of a home and family. And, too, you should finish your law course. Then you and Ann can set out in life together."
"Perhaps you are right," Abe Lincoln said."Of course I want Ann, and the sooner the better. But I can't support her yet, and I guess it's not fair to take her away."
"I wasn't thinking of that at all. You could get along some way, but you are both young, and a year will soon pass."
Shortly after this Ann began studying with Miss Arminda Rogers, a cultured and efficient instructor who was to prepare her for a year at the Jacksonville Academy, one of the best in the state. Abe Lincoln was to work by day and study by night to finish his law course.
The young people of New Salem were sorry to see Ann leave, but seven miles was not too much of a walk, and many good times were planned. The most important merry-making on hand was a May party to be held on the green beyond New Salem. Abe Lincoln and Ann had both promised to be present, and all the young people in the country about, even to "Baby" Green, were looking forward to it with pleasure.
It was a merry day. Abe Lincoln romped with the small boys. He climbed saplings and twisted the tender branches so they would grow into canes to be some time carried to Springfield. He swung the girls in grape-vine swings. He held one end of the jumping-rope while AnnRutledge jumped one hundred, and her combs flew out and her auburn hair went streaming over her shoulders. Then he picked up the combs and tried to twist her hair for her, and the children laughed at his clumsy effort and Ann's funny coiffure. Later they twined a vine with flowers about her, and made her Queen of May, while everybody young and old joined hands in a ring and danced around singing:
Kneel to the prettiest,Bow to the wittiest,Kiss her who you love best.
"Who is the prettiest?" Abe Lincoln shouted.
"Ann Rutledge," the children shouted back. Then they dared him to kiss her, which he did while they clapped their hands.
Then the smallest girl, who was "Baby" Green, was told to pick the prettiest man, and she called in her piping voice "Linkin—Linkin," and then screamed with fear lest Ann Rutledge should kiss him and not she herself, and again the children cheered and laughed.
After the games and the merriment Ann and Abe Lincoln slipped away.
"I want to go to my schoolroom," she said.
"Your schoolroom?" he questioned.
"Yes, down to the creek where the ferns grow. I have no such place at the farm, and I miss it, for the fern dell is a schoolroom where I learn wonderful lessons from the growing things, and from the little brook which goes on its unknown way to find its mother, the ocean."
So they started away across the field toward the creek. They did not notice the cloud above their heads until they felt raindrops on their shoulders.
"Let's run," Ann said, "over under the haystacks. It's only a shower."
But before they got to the haystack they were both wet. When Abe Lincoln expressed some concern about Ann she only laughed and said, "Am I sugar or salt that I cannot stand a little water?"
"But you are so hot now. You ran as fast as I did, Ann."
Together they drew close back under the straw and did not mind the minutes lost, for there was always much to talk about.
When the shower had passed, they went on around the hill down to the creek. Here they found the little stream considerably swollen. Coming to the place where, on the opposite bank, the ferns were growing, Ann stepped to thewater's edge and standing on a stone sang:
On Jordan's stormy banks I standAnd cast a wistful eye.
The next moment Abe Lincoln had taken her in his strong arms and put her across to the other bank.
"Look, Abraham," she said pointing to the lacy, green leaves. "Do you notice that some are longer than others and greener and stronger? Well, in this difference lies a secret."
She sat down on a shelf of rock and began pushing the brown leaves and mould away from something. Her face was bright with interest. But Abe Lincoln was not yet interested in what she was, but in her. "See here is the dirt in which this little sickly plant grows and its roots go no farther than this," and she measured a finger length. "But the roots of this big, strong plant go too deep for measurement, and so I learn that the blacker the soil, and the deeper the plant goes into the dark and the silence, the higher it reaches toward the blue sky. Isn't it wonderful that even little plants can preach such great sermons?"
"Tongues in the trees, books in the runnin' brooks, sermons in stones and good in everything," Abe Lincoln repeated.
"That sounds like the Bible, but I've never found it there."
"It got left out," he laughed. "Shakespeare put it in his."
Ann smiled, but she had something more to say.
"When I come here, Abraham, I think of you. I can't say you are like a fern, they are too small and weak among the growing things. You are like a wonderful tree that reaches up above every other, and the reason, I am sure, is because the roots of your life have gone deeper into the dark and the silence than the rest of them. When I hear them talking in class-meeting about 'growing in grace and the knowledge of God,' I think of you and my ferns, and I say, 'Out of the depths, fresh strength; out of the dark, new life; and even in the gloom we are on the way.'"
He was listening intently now. "But, Ann," he said, "the ferns come to life only to die again."
"Yes, and come back more and better the next season. It is not the special leaf nor flower that is eternal; these are but the forms. It islife itselfthat is eternal. And the burial in the dark does not kill it. Last year there were two leaves here, this year there are six, next year there will be a whole family. It is life moreabundant, Abraham, and from it all I learn to go on my way as the brook goes, singing always."
For a moment there was no sound in the fern-dell except the tinkling music of the water running over the stones.
"I wonder what it all means," he observed. "Sometimes I feel that I am a child of some dark tragedy. Again I feel like I am a child of special Providence. I wonder which I am—perhaps neither."
"Perhaps both," she said "Great suffering and great joy belong to the same soul."
Ann was still sitting on the damp rock with her vine wreath in her hair. Through the tall trunks of the trees on the bluff above, the sun-light fell into the ravine, a ray falling across her head and shoulders.
As if he had forgotten everything else, Abe Lincoln now turned his attention to her. He looked long and earnestly.
"Ann—Ann—is it true?"
"What?" she said with some surprise.
"That you are mine."
"What a strange question."
"I am afraid sometimes that it is too good to be true. I have never known such happiness—such riches—such enlargement of my soul assince I have known you. Many men have claimed to get to God through his Son. I am findin' my way through one of his daughters."
"No—no—I am only God's little girl—his little schoolgirl, and just beginning to learn. Sometimes I cannot understand it from the preachers, but here God teaches me quite easily."
"God's little girl," he repeated. "Well, I need not be jealous of Him. He will give me a square deal. He'll not take you away from me."
"Oh, Abraham," she said, rising hurriedly, "I am going to—to——," and she sneezed.
"You are catching cold," he said, stooping to pick up the vine leaves that had fallen from her head. "What did I let you sit on that damp stone for? I don't know the first thing about takin' care of a woman."
"You will have plenty of time to learn," she laughed, holding out her hands for the wreath.
"I should like to keep this always, but it will wither."
"Let us leave the Queen's crown on her throne," and he took the wreath from her and put it on the stone where she had been sitting.
Then, with his strong arms to help her, they left the quiet place, climbed the bluff and hurried home across lots to the Rutledge farm.
CHAPTER XXX
THE END OF JUNE
It wasJune. On the farm the young corn shimmered in long, green rows. In the corners of fences and along the edges of the woods, wild roses were blooming.
Abe Lincoln and Ann had sent messages back and forth but he had seen her only once since the May party, until the month of June was drawing to a close, when he took time to go out to the farm for an all-night visit.
He found her apparently well and happy, though she was taking cough syrup.
"Ann caught cold at the May party," Mrs. Rutledge said. "It's nothing much, only we don't want her throat to get sore so she cannot sing."
After the early supper Ann and Abraham went out for a walk. "Don't let her stay out too long," Mrs. Rutledge counseled. "Night air and cough syrup don't get on well together."
To them both it was a strangely pleasant walk, for they were both working to the same end; and this night they talked about what thefuture had in store for them when they should live their lives together.
"By another June we will have our own home," he said. "I have never had a home. I had a mother with the sort of love without which there can never be a home. But it was not in her power to make our dwellin'-place much better than the homes mother animals provide. Our home will never be grand but there will be no other home like it in all the world."
"Then I can help you study, and you can help me. I will have to pry you away from your books, perhaps, and poke food into your mouth."
And so they laughed and planned and kept close to each other until he said, "Ann, you're not going your usual gait to-night. Are you tired?"
"Yes—and I don't know why. I haven't done anything much to-day. Let's take hold of hands as we did at the May party and play we're children, only I'll walk if you don't mind. How big and strong and comfortable your hand is Abraham. I could shut my eyes and almost believe it was God leading me on."
He held her hand a little tighter. She stopped a moment to cough.
"Hadn't we better go in, Ann?"
"No. It's such a lovely evening—like the night at the mill, and I do not see you often—not half enough. I could not endure it, only I know that we are both working hard so that just a little later we can be together all the time. Let me stay out a long while with you. I love to be near you."
"As you say," he answered, "but I'm not so forgetful this time," and he took off his coat and wrapped it about her. They went on a little farther until they came to the steps over the stile and here they sat down and he drew her close to him.
Somewhere down in the shadows a whippoor-will called. Then from far across the meadow the drowsy tinkle of a cow-bell reached their ears.
"Listen, Ann," Abe said. "It makes me think of the night I heard you singin' on the bluff—the night I fell in love with the soul of you before I knew what your body looked like. The tinkle of a cow-bell will make me think of you and your song as long as I live."
"Just as the smell of wild-plum blossoms will make me hear the mellow music of a horn floating over river and trees and make me think of you as long as I live."
"Can't you sing for me, Ann—your pilgrimsong? How I would like to hear your clear voice ring out here just now."
"How strong I was then," Ann said reflectively. "It seems a long time ago. Just now I am not so much of a pilgrim as when I herded home the cows. Pilgrims are on the way somewhere you know, and I'm not traveling much these days—just to my school and back and helping mother. Will you wait until next time you come? I'll be myself again by then."
"Look—the evenin' star is coming up," he said pointing. "Twilight and evenin' star and here we two sit together. Isn't it wonderful? The world is new to me, Ann. The same fields are here, the same woods, the same river flowin' between its wooded banks, the same sun, the same people, and yet all is changed—and all because of you. I hold that man to be most pitied of all men who does not know the meanin' of love. I used to wonder just what was meant by the words 'God is love' until I met you. Now I know thatloveislife. God is the life of the world. This is love and so with the end of June old things have passed away. All has become new. My cup runneth over."
"Do you know it, Abraham—the rest of it?Let us say it together. 'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.' ... We will teach it to our children," said she.
"Our children," he repeated in a strangely changed, new voice. He arose, stepped down the stile and stood looking up at Ann. The pale light fell on her shining hair. Her face was radiant.
"Our children," he again said. "There is one way too sacred for man's understanding. It is the sacred way of woman's crowning glory—Motherhood. I have thought of it—of the mothers of men. The mother of Jesus, what a great mother, yet poor beyond compare. Her baby born in a stable. His life lived close to the hearts of the poor people, His own and His mother's kind. It may be true that the mother would not have been known to the world save through the Son. But without such a mother the world would not have heard of the Son.
"And I think of another mother whose kind face was lit with a holy light of love for her children. She, too, had a son. He was born in a hut. He learned to learn the sufferin' of his mother's kind—the poor. If God shall let himdo some little part in makin' the world a better, happier place for the poor and helpless, his mother's name will not be forgotten, for whatever he may do he would not have done without that mother."
While speaking these words the homely man had turned majestic. His long, bent figure seemed in the twilight to rise to a tremendous height. "And in the days to come," he continued, "though I may never reach the shinin' goal of great achievement the son of Ann Rutledge will, for never yet has any man been blessed with such a mother as she will be."
Ann looked at him in wonderment. For the passing moment she seemed to be near a divinity.
"Abraham," she whispered, "you make me feel like taking off my shoes. This place seems holy and you are its prophet."
They walked slowly toward the house. The shades of night were falling. The far bells sounded at intervals. The evening star looked down on them.
How could the man know as he held the woman that he loved close to him under the violet vale of the calm June night that it was the little pilgrim's last earthly walk with him?
CHAPTER XXXI
STRONGER THAN DEATH
DuringJuly, Ann stopped her studies with Miss Rogers until she should get stronger. The weather was hot and she had already made such good preparation for entering the Jacksonville School that her mother thought a little rest would be of benefit to her.
When Abraham Lincoln visited her he found her leaning back in a big chair, a piece of needle-work and her little grammar in her lap.
She held out her hand, drew him down to her and kissed him. "I am trying to recall every word my teacher said to me the night I was taught 'To love,'" she said, laughing.
They did not leave the house this time. They talked over much of the past that was happy and made plans for their future and Ann showed him some of the linen towels and table-covers she had made and they talked of the books they would have in their little home.
"I should like to hear you read your favorite poem," she said. "Lines of it come to me and make me think—think of many things." So heread the poem, and when it was put aside they went back to their plans and were happy.
After this visit there were several new farms to be surveyed and a town to be platted and Abe did not get back to Ann until near the middle of August. He saw Dr. Allen in New Salem, who told him Ann was not getting along well. "We've never been able to break up the cough, and she's not mending. Better run out, Abe."
Immediately all work was dropped and Abe Lincoln hastened across the country to the Rutledge farm.
He was met by Mrs. Rutledge. She greeted him kindly, but the enthusiasm of her usual motherly greeting was not there. He did not have time to wonder, for he was quietly shown into Ann's room and the door closed.
He found her lying on a bed and in a loose garment not like the trim dresses he had always seen her in. Nor was her fair hair coiled about her head and held with combs, but lay beside the pillow in a long braid. Her cheeks were like wild roses and her violet eyes shone with a strange brightness. She was beautiful, but her face was thin and there was a pinched expression Abe Lincoln did not understand. He looked ather a minute then bent over and put his arms around her.
"Lift me up, Abraham," she said, "I have wanted you so—have wanted to talk with you, for I have been lying here living over all the happy times we have had, and nobody in all the world would understand but you."
He sat beside her on the bed. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and when he put his arm behind her for a support he could not help but notice how thin she had grown. An expression anxious, inquiring, came over his face. But she was looking up at him.
"We've had such glad, glad days. Do you remember the day the raft stuck? I seem to hear again the mellow tones of the horn floating in over the trees, and I smell plum blossoms."
Abe Lincoln touched his lips to her forehead as she continued. "How little we thought then that God had planned us for each other. Then there was the quilting-bee. Do you know Abraham, I wouldn't have minded your holding my hand under the quilt, if I hadn't felt it was wrong. I liked it. I'm glad now you did it."
Abraham laughed.
"And the evening at the mill when we sat inthe dark together. To me that has always seemed a holy time. It was so different from the May party. How we romped and played that day. How the children laughed and sang! How I jumped the rope and—how you kissed me. I didn't count but it must have been a dozen times. And the wreath they put around my head. Wasn't it a pretty wreath? And we skipped away and went cross lots to my little schoolroom where you picked me up and carried me across 'Jordan's stormy floods.'"
Again Lincoln laughed. Ann only smiled, but her face was bright with happiness.
"But of them all, Ann—of all the wonderful days or nights the time I heard you singin' on the bluff comes first."
"You have not forgotten that," she said softly.
"Forgotten? I shall never forget—neither in this world nor in the world to come, for that was the night my soul, though I did not know what was the matter with me at the time, began unfoldin' itself from the old life."
"Your soul," she repeated. "Abraham, we believe in souls, don't we?"
"Yes."
"And we believe that, though our bodies through the change called death, drop back into the pond, the new creature in another, better form lives on."
"Yes, Ann—we believe it."
She leaned against him, and breathed heavily for a moment, while he with puzzled, anxious face watched her.