The Romance of Gilbert Holmes: An Historical Novel

By Marshall M. Kirkman

This historical romance presents the incredible story of Gilbert Holmes, an older man with a youthful face and energy. The story is set in the tumultuous period of the Black Hawk War. It was the conflict between the United States and Native Americans led by Black Hawk, a Sauk leader. The gripping storyline and strong characterization make this work an exciting read. With precise details of the events that happened during that period, this work makes the readers aware of the history of the United States.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DigiCat
• Release date: Jun 2, 2022
• ISBN: 8596547047506

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Marshall M. Kirkman

The Romance of Gilbert Holmes

An Historical Novel

EAN 8596547047506

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [e-mail]

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

"

DEDICATION

THE WRITING OF THIS BOOK HAVING BEEN TO ME WHOLLY

A LABOR OF LOVE,

I DEDICATE IT IN A LIKE SPIRIT TO MY

WIFE AND CHILDREN

M. M. KIRKMAN

LARCHMERE, JULY 10, 1900

CHAPTER IV

BLACK HAWK, THE SAC KING

Submerged in the icy stream, the waves and fierce current impeded our progress toward the shore, and soon, the effort being too great for my pony's strength, he showed signs of exhaustion, rising each time with greater difficulty from the water as the waves rolled high above our heads. Observing this, I slipped from his back and caught the stirrup with one hand, swimming with the other; but now my weight being on one side, threw him off his balance, so that he more than once came nigh to being overturned. In this extremity I knew not what to do; but when hope was fast giving way to despair, I bethought me how my father had once saved his life in a like case, and so releasing the stirrup I caught hold of the pony's tail. At this, freed from the unequal burden, he shot forward with new life, seeming no longer to regard my weight in the least. In this way we at last approached the shore, where soon my horse's feet, and then my own, touched the bottom, and we were saved. Climbing the bank, my joy was shared by my sturdy companion, for as we emerged from the water he straightened out his nose and whinnied again and again, as if in triumph. Patting him on the neck, I rested, looking back across the angry waters; but nothing met my gaze save the high-rolling waves tipped with foam and flying spray. Unable to make headway, my father and mother had drifted with the current, and this toward the dreadful rapids, now scarce a mile away. At the thought I sprang into the saddle, calling in a frenzy of fear: Father! father! mother! mother! but foolishly, for no sound answered my cry save the splash of the water and the whir of the tempest as it swept across the darkened river. Trembling with fright, I put spur to my horse, hoping to intercept their progress ere it was too late, but how I could not tell. In this way I went on until I could plainly hear the roar of the rapids, but of means of rescue I could discern none whatever. This until as I skirted a little bay I was gladdened by the sight of a boat drawn up on the shore and half hidden by the overhanging shrubbery. Seeing it, I gave a shout, and looking about, saw in the edge of the forest, which here grew nearly to the water's edge, a rude hut of logs. Jumping from my horse, I ran toward it, and without waiting to make summons of any kind, burst in the door, which was but loosely held with a wooden latch. At first I could see no one, but scanning the interior, all its parts became fixed in my brain as if it were for that and nothing else that I had come. At the farther extremity of the room, on a rude hearth, a dull fire burned, and above it a kettle of water simmered. From the rafters festoons of corn hung, and near by vegetables and pieces of venison and smoked fish. On the wall a bunch of arrows, loosely tied, was held by a wooden peg, and beside it an Indian bow. Below this a rifle rested. Of furniture there was none, pallets of bear and panther skins serving alike for seats and beds. On the floor a gourd filled with water supplied the place of pail and cup, and in the corner a rude box answered for a cupboard. At my feet a floor hard as flint glistened in the dim light like polished oak; and this was all. No detail of the dark inclosure escaped me, yet while thus seeing without consciousness, my eyes sought the help I came for, and this fortunately, for in the twilight of the room and in lonely abandonment an Indian woman sat. Her bent form and worn and wrinkled face told of a life of sorrow and hardship, and my first thought was one of discouragement; but giving it no heed, I ran to where she sat, and grasping her hand, cried, at the top of my voice:

Help! help me to save my father and mother who are drowning in the river, and quick, before it's too late!

At this she looked up as if not fully understanding, but upon repeating my appeal, she rose to her feet, saying slowly, as if not accustomed to the tongue, but plainly as one could wish:

What has happened to the white-faced child?

The ferryboat's upset, and they're in the river; but we can reach them before it's too late, if you'll come with me, and quick, I answered, grasping her hand.

The white child's mother's in the water? she answered, interrogating me and pointing toward the river.

Yes, my father and mother; and quick, please, or it'll be too late, I answered, in a frenzy of haste. Comprehending at last, she answered, and now with animation and a wish to aid me:

Yes, yes, my child; I'll come, I'll come.

Saying which, she started forward, but as she did so the room darkened, and looking up I saw an Indian chief standing in the open door. His face and rugged features, bronzed by the sun, bore traces of paint, and surmounting his head, which seemed higher and greater than that of other men, there waved a plume of crimson encircled about with feathers of the sparrow-hawk. When he smiled with gentle tenderness on my companion I was filled with new hope; but a moment after, looking in my direction, his face darkened, as if he saw in me one of a race he hated, and so was dumb. Trembling, I could not speak; and looking toward him spellbound, his form, before commanding, seemed to tower higher and higher, while his eyes glowed in his dark face as if emitting flames of fire. Looking up, the woman spoke to him in the Indian tongue, smiling as she did so; but to all she said he paid no heed. At last, going to where he stood, she put her hand upon his breast and spoke to him again, and now with entreaty, as if asking a boon, pointing first at me and then toward the river. As she went on in this way, his features after a while relaxed, and finally reaching out his hand as if in acquiescence, he let it rest in gentle caress upon her upturned face. At this she smiled and drew back, as if made happy by his touch. Crossing the room and opening a door that led into a dark inclosure, he brought forth an oaken oar, and looking toward me, said, as one accustomed to command, but not unkindly, Come. Upon this, and without speaking, I followed to the shore where the boat lay hid. Shoving it into the stream, he motioned me to enter, seating himself in the stern. Pointing upward as we reached the open water, I cried:

There, there! they must be there!

To this he vouchsafed no reply, but dipping his oar far into the water, the little boat shot into the bay and thence into the stream beyond. This, while still disturbed by high-rolling waves, was no longer lashed by the storm, the hurricane having passed as quickly as it came. Standing up in the boat, as we went forward my eyes sought in vain for some glimpse of those we came to help. At last, seeing nothing, fear chilled my heart and my limbs grew cold; but as we neared the center of the stream and were yet unable to discover any trace of those we sought, I saw above the glistening whitecaps, far away, an object rising and falling in the troubled waters. Filled with new hope, I pointed toward it, crying:

There, there they are!

Upon this my companion, putting forth all his strength, the boat flew through the water as a swallow might cut its surface, and in a moment I was made happy by the sight of my father upholding the form of my dear mother. At this I called to them, but they returned no answer to my anxious cry; and at last, when we had reached the spot, I should still have lost them except for the great strength of my companion, who, stooping, lifted first my mother and then my father into the boat, and they were safe.

Embracing them, with tears of joy, I stripped off my jacket and wrapped it about my mother's form, and for this she gave me a gentle smile, but speech or motion seemed gone from her forever. At the sight, my father, who did not appear much the worse for his adventure, fell to chafing her hands and limbs, I helping, and this with such vigor that in a little while she was able to move and speak. Now, after some further respite, my father turned about and thanked our rescuer with every show of love and gratitude for what he had done. To this, however, the other made no response, nor indeed appeared to have heard what was said to him. His eyes, turned toward the shore, were fixed on the dark forest we were fast approaching, and this as if there was naught else on earth. Thinking he had not heard, my father thanked him again, and now more earnestly. To this the chief at last responded, but without lowering his gaze or manifesting any interest whatever in those about him.

Thank La Reine! It is she, the soft-hearted, who has saved you, not I.

You, too, surely; and we can never thank you enough, my mother answered, turning to him.

Yes, and we shall treasure your memory as long as we live, for we owe you our lives, and shall be ever grateful for it, my father again spoke up.

Speak not to me of gratitude, for it has no meaning in the mouths of such as you. The voice of your race is ever thus soft-spoken, but only that it may the better hide its treachery, the chief answered, but absently and without passion, as if addressing an invisible spirit.

Now and here, and to those we love and to whom we owe our lives, it is true and as we say, my father answered, surprised out of himself at what the other said.

It is ever the same, and has no spark of life in it, more than the mist above yonder troubled waters, the other answered, without lowering his gaze. It was with such speech that your race crept into my country, and like a tide that rises in the night overcame and destroyed my people, while they yet trusted and believed, and so it has always been.

Surely that cannot be laid to us, for we have never injured your people in any way. Tell us who you are, your name only, if you will, so that we may treasure it as long as we live, and our children afterward, my father cried in desperation, as if determined not to be thus put off.

I have no name nor place in life, the chief answered, sorrowfully, raising his eyes to the clouds that flew across the darkened sky. In my youth I trusted your race, and thought to live with it in peace, dreaming of great and noble things for my people. In the end I have done nothing, and dying shall leave no trace, more than the wind that sweeps the tops of yonder trees, or the leaves that fall bitten by the winter's frost. As soon seek to follow the flight of the bird that has been snared or the path of the fish in the tumbling waters, for I have done nothing, and have no home nor place among men. A king and the son of kings, I dare not whisper my name lest the air betray it to my enemies and I suffer unjustly! Coming among us, your race divided my children, as the clouds are parted or the lightning cleaves the towering cottonwood. Scattered, where are they? Ask the Great Spirit, for only he can tell! Living in concord, you brought division; loving their king, you sowed distrust; loyal, you planted treason; sober, you made them drunk that you might buy their lands for a song. Now driven from their birthplace, they seek in a strange land the home of those who have no country; and I, coming back like a thief to visit the forests and streams of my youth, dare not speak my name aloud. Thank me not, for it is the act of the doe, the gentle-hearted La Reine, not I.

Ceasing, he raised his hand as if to forbid further speech, and giving the paddle a deeper and longer sweep, quickly brought the boat into the cove from whence we came. Securing the little craft, the chief took my mother in his arms and carried her to the cabin, where a great fire now welcomed our coming. Placing her upon a bed of furs, he spoke some words to La Reine in her own tongue, and then taking the rifle from its place, opened the door and went away. Nor did he return; and to all our inquiries La Reine answered only, and sadly, that we should see him no more. Nor would she tell his name, nor aught of his history save that he was a chief whose people had been divided and scattered, yielding their homes to the whites. Thus to their dying day my father and mother knew not that it was Black Hawk, the Sac chief, who had saved their lives. Nor I for many years, and then only by chance was I made acquainted with it.

CHAPTER V

THE SWATH OF THE HURRICANE

When at last I saw my mother resting on the soft couch of furs in the glow of the cheerful fire, my strength left me, and I fell forward on her body as one dead. Such weakness, you must know, ever afflicted me in my youth, though I sought to overcome it, as indicating the absence of control that strong people have, but without any success until I was near a man grown. When I returned to consciousness, my mother was bending over me murmuring prayers and entreaties with the vain efforts they were making to bring me back to life.

My child, my sweet child, come back to me! Speak to your mother! Open your eyes and smile, sweet one! O God, he does not breathe; he's dead, my darling boy! she cried at last, relaxing her efforts in a paroxysm of grief; but I, regaining my senses as quickly as I had lost them, clasped her about the neck and kissed her, crying out:

I am not dead, mother, though I thought I'd lost you and pap, I was so long away and the water was so cold.

Oh, my sweet child! was all the answer she could make, as she buried her face in the soft pillow beside my own.

Did you think I'd never come? I asked caressing her hair and face.

We heard you call back that you would bring us help, but we could see no way, and were given over to despair and death when at last you reached us. Oh, you were brave, my darling, to have planned as you did. Surely God must have guided you.

He did, dear mother, and except for your prayer I'd never have reached the shore or known what to do once I got there; and this, her prayer to the good Lord to protect her son, has been a legacy of love and tenderness to me to this day. For throughout all my life the sweet vision has not faded, nor will to the end, nor afterward, I must believe.

My father, now that the danger was past, appeared much cast down, and so sat silent and despondent beside the pallet on which I lay. Seeing him, I cried:

Oh, pap, you looked so brave and grand as you struggled in the water! and when I saw you with mother clinging about your neck I never loved you half so much; and reaching up I pulled him down and kissed him, and doing so, my face was wet as with rain with his tears.

Except for you, my son, our struggle had been in vain; for in a few minutes we should have been drawn into the rapids, and that would have been the end. I am glad you have shown yourself so strong, my child, for your mother will soon need your young arms, I fear, for strength and life seem forever dead within me, he answered, in a voice so full of lugubrious forebodings that I cried out as if some great misfortune hung over us. My mother, too, burying her face in my bosom, also began to weep, and thus, despite our being saved, we all mourned as if some dreadful mishap threatened.

Oh, pap, I answered at last, I'm too small to do more than love you and come to you for everything I want, but we've got ourselves, and what more is there? When I'm a man I'll give you all I have, and we will make mother love us more and more every day.

To this he made no response, save a sob and the pressure of his hand, which was icy cold. Nor did he ever afterward speak to me in the old way, for from that time a dreadful melancholy seized him, which never departed nor lightened, but grew steadily darker each day until the end.

For our present comfort there was not one thing lacking, the good Indian woman nursing us as if we were her own children, so that in a little while we were well and strong as before. As soon as my father had rested, he set out in search of our companions, not returning till the evening of the following day. Of those he sought, however, there was no trace. All were lost, and with them the heaped-up wealth they had in charge. Comforting my mother and refreshing himself, he started again, but without result, save to recover the bodies of some of our companions as they came to the surface far down the river. Of the treasure there was no sign; the great rapids had sucked it down and so tossed and dispersed it about that no trace of it could be discovered.

After many days' fruitless effort in this way my father gave up the search; and now determining to return home, my little pony was brought to the door for my mother to mount. Then as we were about to take our departure, looking on our benefactress, we all with one accord burst into tears at the remembrance of her kindness and the unhappy fate of our late companions. At this the good La Reine, putting her arms about my neck, kissed me, calling me her son, adding some words in her own tongue that I did not understand. Then turning, she embraced and kissed my mother, tears trickling down her sad face as she did so. Of money or other valuables we had none to leave in remembrance of her kindness, until my mother, bethinking her, loosened a great chain from about her throat—my father's gift—and reaching down, clasped it about the neck of our benefactress.

We shall never forget you, dear mother, she said, tears running down her face; you have been our good angel, and may God bless you for your love and kindness to us.

The Great Spirit is good, and will keep all his children, La Reine answered, sadly and in farewell.

Thus we took our departure, my father supporting my mother on one side and I clasping the stirrup on the other. Looking back as we turned to ascend the stream, we saw La Reine as we had left her before the little hut, her eyes fixed on ours, a melancholy picture of gentleness and lonely abandonment.

Our sad journey occupied many days, and oftentimes as we marched along my mother would reach down, and lifting me up, fold me in her arms, saying, Let me hold you a minute, you little waif. Or maybe she would place me behind her, just to give your tired legs a little rest, she would say, with an attempt at cheerfulness. Throughout the journey was one of sorrow and dark forebodings, my father's melancholy growing greater as the days went by. In such mood he would stride ahead like one crazed, waving his hand fretfully back and forth before his eyes, as if to shut out some horrible vision; or from being silent for a long time, would suddenly cry out: Oh, God, Jesus of Nazareth, are they all gone, every one? and at the remembrance great tears, like blots of ink, would start in his weary eyes, and his face would flush as if the pain of it was something too great to bear. Sweet mother! Angel of mercy! How lovingly you watched over him during that long and weary journey, and afterward. This as if he were an ailing child, and by love and endearing words could be brought back to his former self; but vainly, for no cheerful smile, nor trace of one, ever again showed itself in his sad and haggard face.

When at last we reached home, the good people from far and near flocked to our house to show their sorrow and mingle their tears with ours; and of those who had lost the part or the whole of their fortune, no hint was given that they in any way mourned. All alike were tender and solicitous to lessen, if they might, the melancholy of my father, or lighten the burden of my sorrowing mother. He, moving about as if asleep or dead, mingled with the guests, saying nothing, gazing with melancholy sweetness upon those who came to proffer aid, but accepting naught. When at last they had gone their way and we were once more alone, he straightway bestirred himself as in former times. Collecting all his belongings, he forced them to sale for what they would bring, dividing the proceeds among those who had suffered, giving most to the families of those who were lost. Many sought to refuse, but he received their overtures with such savage displeasure that no one was able, finally, to decline what he offered. In this way we lost all we had, and with it our home, which my mother had named Wild Plum, because of a pretty grove of trees of this kind that grew near by. In its transfer reservations were made which were much talked about at the time as in some way likely to lessen the grief of my father; but vainly, for he gave no thought to anything save to divide what he had among those who had suffered.

Alas, if this had been all, or the end! But when there was nothing more to give, the strain relaxing, he broke down, and this to his complete undoing. The struggle in the river and the death of his followers, and the losses of those who had suffered through him, brought on a fever of the head, from which he had no sooner recovered than he was stricken afresh. This last, passing away under my mother's care, was followed by a more dreadful and final attack. Thus his life was wrecked, and with it that of my mother, for the days of anxiety and the passing away of her husband broke her heart. Awhile she struggled against the doom that closed about her, but only feebly, and on account of her child. For she had no desire to live, and so feeling, died, her last words being a prayer for the welfare of her son.

Thus our little family, detached from its moorings by an untoward event, floated for a while like driftwood on the turbulent stream, only at last to be dispersed and lost. Saddest of days were these to me, for doubly unfortunate is the child bereft of a mother's love. All the warmth and sweet juices of life that make childhood a vision of love are lodged in her breast, and with her gone the gates of heaven are as if closed forever. In this way, and as I have described, there passed out of the world's busy life two youthful and loving hearts that only a little while before had fondly looked forward to a life of companionship and sweet contentment.

CHAPTER VI

LOVE'S IDEALS

All men, and more especially those of a sympathetic nature, have in their youth not one divinity only, but many, toward which their minds turn with love and fond entreaty. Afterward, when these romantic attachments have given place to other and more serious things, our lives are still colored by them, and to our lasting benefit. For such attachments, however evanescent, shape the destinies of men and sweeten their lives as with the gentle fragrance of a flower.

Nor are we less sincere in youth because the glass that reflects the image of our love to-day shadows forth another picture quite as attractive on the morrow. All are real, and add to the attractiveness of men's lives, as does every comforting or ennobling thought. The opening prospect of youth ever mirrors the present to the exclusion of the future, for which it has no thought; and, similarly, the newness of the world and its constant changes crowd out the imagery of yesterday with the expectations of to-day. For that which is past there is, for the present, no retrospective glance. Its attachments and delusions, however, are none the less real, and though seemingly without purpose, serve to enrich the heart and build up a love of life's graces that sweetens and softens the character of men forever afterward. Lacking such food, the mind and heart are deficient in the things that make men something more than animals. For the imagery of life, be it good or bad, has its growth in youth, but its pictures pass so quickly, one upon the other, that only in after years do they recur to charm our lives with their reflected glow or darken it with their somber shadows.

These thoughts, however trite they may be, recur to me now when I recall the memory of my mother. So long as she lived she possessed my tenderest affection, and nowhere except in her could I discern all that was good and beautiful in woman. While, however, I set her thus apart, a being to revere and worship, other imaginings of which I was not conscious were already beginning to light the fires of love along the pathway of my opening life. Looking back now over the fast-fading years of my youth, I cannot recall any period that did not thus have its imagery of love—its reflection of a youthful face set about with some sweet femininity that attracted and held me, but unobtrusively as a lily might take my fancy or the green of a meadow bordered about with trees and flowers. Such impressions have no consciousness at the time, and are doubly tender and lasting because thus expressionless; for woven in with the little things of life, they form the ideals of our youth and the tender strands that expand the heart and make mature existence tolerable.

In my mother I saw perfection, and if I found in another some sweet intrusion of character or line of beauty, it was but a reflection of something more perfect in her. Because of this great love, I have ever esteemed it the most happy circumstance of my being that at the time of losing her there should have come into my life one who was like her in gentleness and sweetness of character. So that while I ever cherished her memory with tenderest affection, I could never afterward picture her as different in any way from the sweet being who now came to take her place in all the dreams and longings of my life.

Such was Constance Seymour, of whom I speak; and it being true that we were both motherless and in a measure forlorn in the world, we straightway came to love each other, and in that sweet solace of life found the contentment and happiness our hearts so greatly craved; and it was wholly due to her love and gentle nature that I did not lose interest in the soft amenities of life after my mother's death or cease to make some effort to fulfill the aims to which she had so hopefully looked forward. Thus buoyed and cheered in my new life, and with my heart overflowing with love for the sweet creature, and desire above all things for her good opinion, I was able to look upon the mishaps that befell me as things not worth considering in comparison with the happiness of being thought well of by her.

CHAPTER VII

GILBERT'S FLIGHT

Thus, in the way I have described, my life passed without any great shock from the old to the new, and now, some time having elapsed and Constance being with me, I passed my last day at Wild Plum happily, if not in forgetfulness of what had gone before. Together we visited the little brook and the red-leaved plum-trees and the great forest beyond, on the edge of which we had passed so many happy hours. Every place about the old home we visited, my leave-taking of each sweet belonging being so filled with her dear companionship that its melancholy was for the moment quite lost upon me. This, however, was always the way, her presence causing me to forget what was sorrowful in life in the delight of being near her.

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,