CHAPTER XXXI

STRONGER THAN DEATH

During July, 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 he read 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 at her 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 in the 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.

When she was rested she said: "Did you ever think how swiftly thought travels? We sit here together and our bodies do not move, yet we go to the river and the mill; we go to the woodland and the bluff. I have thought about it and I believe that souls can travel as quickly and as easily as mind--for souls have lain aside the weight of the earthly body, you know. Do you think souls can travel this way?"

"I don't know, Ann."

"I believe it," she said firmly. "Our souls can travel. And so my soul will always go wherever you are. If you are in Vandalia, or Springfield, my soul will be there. If you should get as far away as Chicago, even there my soul will be with you, and though you cannot see my face or hear my voice, you will know.

"Sometime there will come to your heart joy like the wild, glad, singing joy of my life when I could run and shout. It will be then that the singing, shouting soul of Ann Rutledge is quite near, helping you rejoice. Sometimes when you are tired and weak and the way is dark, you will feel new strength bearing you up. It will be the soul of Ann Rutledge, strong and free trying to help you out of the gloom. And when you feel the force of that strange power that makes you different from all other men--that makes you tenderer and stronger--when you feel something pushing you on to greater things as the wild phlox is pushed through the sod into the sun-shine, it knows not how, the soul of Ann Rutledge will be as close as your own breath to whisper her unshaken faith in your effort. Then there will be quiet times, perhaps lonely times, when apart from all the world you will feel a gentle tugging at your heart. It will be the soul of Ann Rutledge saying 'I do not want to be forgotten.' ... And when you get old, dear, dear Abraham, when your eyes are too dim to see other faces than those of the long-gone past, you will hear her voice who has been sleeping under the grass for fifty years--the voice of Ann Rutledge calling you on--the unforgetting love of Ann Rutledge as strong and fresh as when she shouted on the heights and gave herself to you."

She had been speaking slowly, softly, yet with deep feeling as if half to herself. She was not looking at the man beside her, whose bronzed face had undergone a transformation.

"Ann--Ann," he cried, "for God's sake what are you talkin' about?" and he bent and looked into her face.

"Dear, dear Abraham," she said soothingly, and she held her lips in a close pressure against his forehead, his cheeks, his eyes.

"I did not want to tell you we are going to part. It seemed I could not. And yet--yet--Oh, Abraham!--I am so tired--so tired, and the heart of me beats weaker every day."

He put her back on the pillow and threw himself down beside her. She put her arms about his neck, drew his head against her breast, wiped the tears which were streaming down his brown cheeks and tried to comfort him as a mother comforts a child.

A few moments he sobbed. Then he arose and straightened himself to his full height.

"Ann," he said, "it's all a mistake. I believe there is a God. If there is and He has any heart in Him, He will spare me this. I have had nothin' but you--I ask nothin' but you. I have never loved any woman but you, and I never shall, for none can take your place. If you should be taken away I will never live long enough to get over the loss. God knows this. He is not cruel. He will not let it be so--He will not, Ann!"

He sat down on the edge of the bed and put his arm around her.

"Help me up again," she whispered, and she rested her head on his shoulder. She had been dry-eyed and had spoken with a steady voice. Now there was a sob in her voice and her eyes were blurred with tears as she said: "Put your arms around me--your big, long, strong arms--and hold me tight--tight. Oh, Abraham! if you could only hold me tight enough to keep me here with you! I do not want to be bad, but I do not want to go and leave you--no, not even to be with God! Oh, Abraham! will you pray that I may stay with you--will you?"

"Pray? Pray?" he groaned in pain. "I will pray every minute. I will pray while I walk with my rod and chains, crossin' the fields, skirtin' the woods, walkin' the streets, everywhere I will pray."

Ann coughed and Lincoln put her down. He smoothed the coverlet and brushed back her red-gold hair. Then again he straightened up to his full stature.

"Ann, we've both been frightened. Your cough is better--it is looser. I am sure of it. Isn't it, Ann?"

There was an appeal in his tone and face.

Ann smiled--a bright, sweet smile. To Lincoln it was full of hope. "Nothing hurts me," she answered.

Her smile was reassuring. Something of the anxiety went out of his face. "Yes, you are better. If I were not sure of it I would not leave this house. When I come again you will be still better. God is not going to have it otherwise. I have never done Him any harm."

"Dear, dear Abraham--how I love you. How I shall always love you--here or over there. For though my body is weak, that part of me which loves is strong and well--very strong, and it loves you, my Abraham. It will be yours, and will be with you longer than the mind of man can measure--for I know now that love is stronger than death."