Part 4

When at last the sun was well down in the west, and the shadows of the forest ran far into the unkempt prairie, giving its grasses a darker hue, Constance's father came to take her home in the way it had been planned. I was to go to my Aunt Jane's, my father's sister, to become her ward, and henceforth to make my home with her. This disposition of my life occasioned me much unhappiness, for she was in all things a most unlovable woman, her unsympathetic nature and icy heart showing all too plainly in her formal manner and cold, impassive face. She was now in middle life, alert and active, and with eyes of steely blue that chilled those on whom they rested like shadows from off a bank of snow. For all this, it is proper to say she was held in high esteem by her neighbors, and in such awe, too, that mothers in their far-off, lonely farmhouses conjured her name at night to quiet their unruly children. This as it was told me, but whether truly or not I do not know. Of my father's mishap it was said she cautioned him beforehand against risking all he had, and on his return sought to put new hope and courage in his heart, but unavailingly. After the disaster, she came more frequently to our house than had been her wont, my father and she being often closeted together for hours at a time. Of the nature of their conference we knew nothing, save much anger and loud talk upon her part at times, but from him not a word. It was not known how much she lost by his failure, but it did not seem to depress her in any way, for now she carried on her farm and other enterprises with greater spirit than before, and soon--so it was talked among our neighbors--she had more than made good her losses in the new ventures she had undertaken. Certain it is that she began again to dicker and trade as when my father acted for her, and now not less to her advantage than before.

It was this energetic lady that had arranged for me to come and live with her, and who was there to dispute anything she had set her heart upon? Certainly no one in Little Sandy or thereabout; and to me, being but a youth and of little account, she had never even mentioned the subject. Nor did she notice me any more now than before, save one day she drew me to her knee and stroked my hair and made as if she would say some pleasant thing, but whether because of the expression of my face or its resemblance to my mother's I know not, she put me to one side without vouchsafing so much as a word. Because of these things I had come to fear and hate her, and now looked forward to living under her roof with gloomy discontent; but so it must be, and I neither thought nor planned otherwise. This she well knew, and being a woman regardful of outlay, had said it was a needless expense to take legal steps to acquire possession of my body; for who was there that would question her right to such possession? In this it was thought she acted with her usual prudence, for no one so much as hinted at any other arrangement. Mr. Job Throckmorton, my mother's brother and my only relative save Aunt Jane, had come post-haste across the country on hearing of my mother's death, and to him I had looked with some hopefulness, but vainly, it appeared, for he made no sign. Nor ought I to have thought it likely, for he was only a young man, and had his way to make in the world, and so could not be expected to encumber himself with so helpless a burden as I. In this way, and as I say, it fell out that I was now to go to my Aunt Jane's as her ward and to make her house my home.

When Mr. Seymour drove up, Constance and I took a sad farewell of each other, for henceforth my life was to be circumscribed, no one could tell how much. Mr. Seymour, however, took no notice of us as we stood beside the wagon peering into each other's faces, but busied himself arranging and rearranging the robes as if much depended upon what he was doing. When at last they were fixed to his liking and Constance was seated beside him, he looked down upon me, and cried out in a cheerful voice:

"Now, my gay young spark, have you decided to go with us or stay here and await your aunt?"

"I'd like to go with you if I could," I answered, after a while, not understanding what he meant.

"Well, climb up, then, and we will show her a transformation scene she will remember all her bright and sunny life."

Not comprehending him in any way, I stood still, staring upward into his smiling face.

"Come, come, my son, be quick! We are losing time, and every moment is precious," he went on, when he saw I did not stir.

"I don't know what you mean," I answered. "I thought Aunt Jane was to come for me at sunset and that I was to go with her."

"She was, and if you are that way inclined, all right. I will not interfere; but Mr. Throckmorton thought you were greatly averse to going to her home."

"I am; but what else can I do, unless I run away?" I asked.

"That is it; and who is to prevent? I thought though that your Uncle Job had told you about his plans?"

"No; but will you help me?" I asked, excited at the prospect of thus escaping my aunt.

"Yes; and it is for that partly that I am here. So climb up and I will smuggle you into town, and once there, hide you where even your Aunt Jane's bright eyes can never find you. Afterward, if we need talk about that now, you are to go away with your Uncle Job." The hope thus held out so unexpectedly filled me with a happiness I cannot describe, but still I did not move, so greatly was I stirred by what he said. "We have planned to do this from the start, Gilbert," Mr. Seymour went on, seeing me hesitate. "There was no other way, you must know, for your aunt would have fought us through all the courts in the state if we had openly defied her. So be quick if you like the plan, and we will be off before it is too late."

I did like the plan, and so climbed into the wagon without further loss of time. When we had gone some little way on the road, seeing Aunt Jane coming toward us, Mr. Seymour pushed me down into the bed of the wagon, drawing the blanket tightly above my head. In a moment, however, and as if in comfort of my seclusion, Constance's hand crept beneath the robe, and feeling about, rested at last warm and loving against my cheek. Pressing it to my lips, I was content, nor wished, if I could, to stir from where I knelt.

"Now, Gilbert, hold your breath, for here is your loving aunt," Mr. Seymour exclaimed a moment afterward, pulling up his horses.

"Good evening, Miss Holmes," he spoke up, politely, as she stopped beside our wagon; "I hope you are quite well and that nothing has occurred to mar the happiness of your life."

"Thank you, I am very well," my aunt answered, but as if not desiring to prolong the interview.

"I have just been over to Wild Plum after Constance, who has been spending the day with your nephew," he went on. "A wild lad that, Miss Holmes."

"Indeed, it was very kind of Constance," my aunt answered, but not as if at all pleased with his familiarity.

"I suppose you are on your way to get the young scape-grace. He told us you thought to come after him," Mr. Seymour continued, appearing not to notice her manner.

"Yes, I am on my way to bring my nephew home," she answered, coldly.

"Well, I hope you will find him all you desire, but I fear he will not be much comfort to you."

"I know of no reason why you should speak in that way," she replied, with some heat.

"Perhaps, madam; but take my advice, and look well to him, for if I ever saw a roving vagabond he is one. There, there, Constance, keep still, will you? The lad's slippery, Miss Holmes, slippery, and upon my soul I believe he had it in his mind to decamp when we came away. I never saw anything stamped in a lad's face more plainly," Mr. Seymour answered, soberly.

"You are too severe, Mr. Seymour," Aunt Jane replied. "He has been allowed to do as he pleased since his father's mishap; but he is not bad, and will make a good man, you may be sure."

"I am sure you will make a man of him if it is possible, madam, although you have not had much experience with children," Mr. Seymour answered, dryly. "They are a troublesome set, Miss Holmes," he went on, "or at least I have found it so, and that makes it the more surprising to me that you should want to undertake so difficult a task."

"Thank you; but my brother's child is mine, and I will do by him as he would have done had he lived; but I will not detain you longer, Mr. Seymour. Good night," Aunt Jane answered, curtly, cutting short the interview.

"The evening is likely to be chilly, madam," Mr. Seymour replied, pleasantly; "can't you make use of this robe? We have another in the bottom of the wagon"; and he laid his hand on the blanket that hid me, as if he would gladly give it up, but my aunt answered back that she would do very well with the one she had, and so drove away. "A determined woman that, Constance, and with a wonderful head for affairs. There is not a man in the county half as smart," he went on, as the sound of my aunt's vehicle was lost in the distance.

When we were again on our way, Constance chided her father for speaking so badly of me and for saying I looked as if I intended to run away; but to this he only laughed, and putting his horses to their topmost speed, we soon reached Constance's home. On the way, Mr. Seymour would by no means allow the blanket to be removed from about my head, lest, he said, I should be seen by some passer-by and word conveyed to my aunt. When at last I was free, I found myself in the stable-yard of the Dragon, the tavern kept by Mr. Seymour in the town of Little Sandy. Getting down, Constance took my hand and led me into the house, and here, ascending to the floor above, she opened a door, and when we had entered, closed it and drew the bolt. Screening the windows, she presently lighted a candle, and doing so, stood revealed to me beside the table, a smile, half mirthful, half sad, showing in her beautiful eyes.

Thus we regarded each other, I thankful for my escape, and she showing plainly how happy she was to have in some way aided it. As we thus contemplated each other a strange thing happened, for from her young face, as I looked, the timid dependence of youth faded away, and in its place there came the look and presence of a woman; this as plainly as the dawn is merged in the light of day. Nor could I ever afterward think of her otherwise. There was a change in me, too, no less real. For as I stood watching her, every boyish feeling fell from me as if it had never been, and from that time on I thought and felt as men feel. Thus quickly and surely do sorrow and loneliness of life rob our youth of its sweet prerogative. Whether she was conscious of any change or not I do not know, but henceforth she was different, as I say. In that moment, too, as we looked into each other's eyes, the true and unquestioning love that we ever afterward bore each other stood revealed. This I know for myself, though the truth of it as regards her I was not conscious of at the time, not being wise in such matters; but while we stood thus, her eyes fell before mine and her face flushed, and all at once she became possessed of a shyness not like her at all. So that instead of coming to me as she had done before, she busied herself about the room, lighting first one candle and then another, until the whole apartment was ablaze. This, too, with such show of embarrassment that I stood gazing in wonder, not understanding the one nor the other. When there were no more candles to light and she had regained some control of herself, she turned to me, saying simply:

"This is your room, Gilbert."

"It's a fine one, and I hope it will be a long time before I shall have to give it up," I answered, the thought of leaving sending a chill to my heart.

"Maybe you will not have to go at all; or if you do, not far," she answered, with a reassuring smile.

"Uncle Job lives a great way off, if I'm to go with him," I answered, not much comforted.

"Perhaps your aunt will give you up, now she sees you do not care to live with her; then you can go and come as you please," she replied, her face lighting up as if she thought it might be so.

"No, Constance, aunt will never do that. She never gave up anything on which she had set her heart," I answered; but even as I spoke my feelings changed, and so I went on without stopping: "I'll not go with Uncle Job, but will stay here. Why not? Aunt Jane's never harmed me"; and on the moment all my fear and hatred of her vanished, so averse was I to being separated from the dear girl before me. Hearing me, Constance smiled her approval, as if she too thought that the best way, and presently, looking about, asked:

"How do you like your room, Gilbert? I hope it will please you."

"I never saw anything half so fine before," I answered, staring about me.

"Your father and mother always occupied it when in town, and your mother never tired of the pictures and the laces about the windows and bed."

"They're beautiful, but where did all these things come from?" I asked, examining the furniture of the room more carefully.

"Papa and mamma brought them from England when they came to this country," she answered.

I recall all this now, and vividly, because of the part the room and its furnishings afterward played in my life, and this under circumstances so peculiar that each article became at last fixed in my mind as if its image were engraven there.

Of the many things the apartment contained, not the least wonderful was the high canopied bedstead, with its rare lace, about which Constance had spoken. Scattered about the room were many chairs, some upright, some reclining, but all curiously carved and odd and of old fashion. In the center of the apartment a great table stood, and from its fat sides and legs lions and tigers looked out as if ready to spring upon you, so real were they in every particular. At one end of the room brass andirons, with tops like tigers' heads, adorned the fireplace, and at the side a shovel and tongs of similar pattern. The walls of the room were tinted, and on these pictures hung, and among them one of George III. Above this, and as if in guardianship, there was a portrait of the younger Pitt, but who he was I did not then know, any more than of the other. The room was called the Treasury, and in it and nowhere else, I afterward came to know, Mr. Seymour lived again the life of his youth. Here he preserved all the mementos of his young wife and of the land and home they had left beyond the sea. Here, after her death, it was said he would shut himself up for days together, from all save Constance, until, the mood passing, he would emerge again, the quiet, unobtrusive man the world knew.

Why Mr. Seymour left England was not known, but Constance thought it had in some way to do with his marriage to her mother, a delicate woman, who proved not strong enough to withstand the hardships of the new country, and so sickened and died. Nor was it known why Mr. Seymour had chosen to keep a tavern in preference to some calling of greater dignity, unless, all occupations being alike to him, he had believed this not so difficult as the others. Whatever may have been the reason, certain it was he spared no effort to do acceptably what he had undertaken, and thus it came about that his hostelry was held in high esteem throughout the country by all who had occasion to patronize places of this character. He called the tavern--for so such places were designated in the new country--the Dragon, but whether from some early association or because he in secret reprobated the place, I do not know. The Dragon's sign hung in the open street, and had for its background a delicate peacock green, designed to convey the idea of a soft, voluptuous sea. On the edge of this expanse a fierce dragon stood upreared with open mouth and protruding tongue. Of St. George, however, there was neither sign nor hint. This strange omission, which the knowing had discerned, it was whispered was intentional on Mr. Seymour's part and out of regard for the sentiment of the country, which at that time was by no means friendly to Great Britain or her patron saint.

Mr. Seymour had many ways out of the ordinary, and among them an odd habit, it was thought, of taking Constance to the woods on pleasant days, where they would wander about, hand in hand, gathering leaves and flowers. Or if a shrub pleased them, they would pluck it up by the roots and transplant it to the little garden she tended in the yard beside the Dragon. This fondness of Mr. Seymour for immaterial things, and the time he gave them, was much commented upon by the busy community in and about Little Sandy, and was thought by many to seriously cripple his business, if not foretell its final ruin.

*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.