Fashion and Famine Part 17

"I rayther think you must be a stranger in these parts, for everybody knows how long I've been upon the place; nigh upon ten years, isn't it, Mabel?"

"Ten years last spring," replied the woman, in a pleasant, low tone; "jist three years before Lucy was born."

"That's it! she's as good as an almanac at dates; could beat a hull cla.s.s of us boys at cyphering when we went to school together, couldn't you, Mabel?"

The wife answered with a blush, and a good-humored smile divided cordially between her husband and Jacob.

"You must not think us over-shiftless," she said, "for living in the old house so long; we've talked of building every year, but somehow the right time hasn't come yet; besides, my old man don't exactly like to tear the old house down."

"Tear it down!" cried Jacob, with a degree of feeling that surprised the worthy couple--"tear the old homestead down! don't do it--don't do it, friend. There are people in the world who would give a piece of gold for every shingle on the roof rather than see a beam loosened."

"I guess you must have been in this neighborhood afore this," said the farmer, looking at his wife with shrewd surprise; "know something about the old homestead, I shouldn't wonder!"

"Yes, I pa.s.sed through here many years ago; a man at that time, older than you are now, lived on the place; his name was--let me think----"

"Wilc.o.x--was that the name?"

"Yes, that was it--a tall man, with dark eyes."

"That's the man, poor old fellow; why we bought the farm of him."

"I wonder he ever brought himself to part with it! His wife seemed so fond of the place, and--and his daughter: he had a daughter, if I recollect right?"

"Yes, we heard so; I never saw her; but the folks around here talk about her wild, bright ways, and her good looks, to this day; a harnsome, smart gal she was if what they say can be relied on."

"But what became of her? Did she settle anywhere in these parts?"

"Wal, no, I reckon not. A young fellow from somewhere about Boston or York, come up the river one summer to hunt and fish in the hills, he married the gal, and carried her off to the city."

"And did she never come back?"

"No; but a year or two after, the young man come and brought a little girl with him, the purtyest creature you ever sat eyes on. Hard words pa.s.sed between him and the old man, for Wilc.o.x wouldn't let any human being breathe a whisper agin his daughter. n.o.body ever knew exactly what happened, but the young man went away and left his child with the old people. It wasn't long after this before the old man kinder seemed to give up, he and his wife too, just as if that bright little grandchild had brought a canker into the house.

"After that things went wrong, nothing on earth could make the old people neighborly; they gin up going to meeting, and sat all Sunday long on the hearth, there, looking into the fire. Wal, you know the best of us will talk when anything happens that is not quite understood. Some said one thing, and some another, and Wilc.o.x, arter a while, got so shy of his neighbors that they took a sort of distaste to him."

"Did the old people live alone after their daughter went away?" asked Jacob, in a husky voice. "There was a young man or boy in the family when I knew anything about it."

"Oh, yes, I jist remember, there was a young chap that Mr. Wilc.o.x brought up--a clever critter as ever lived. He went away just arter the gal was married, and n.o.body ever knew what became of him. People thought the old man pined about that too: at any rate, one thing and another broke him down, and his wife with him."

"You do not mean to say that Mr. Wilc.o.x and his wife are dead?"

The farmer turned his eyes suddenly on the form of Jacob Strong, as these words were uttered, for there was something in the tone that took his honest heart by surprise. Jacob sat before him like a criminal, pale, and shrinking in his chair.

"No, I did not mean to say that they died, but when a tough, cheerful man, like Wilc.o.x, gives up, it is worse than death."

"What happened then--where did he go? is the child living?" almost shouted Jacob Strong, unable to control the agony of his impatience a moment longer; but the astonished look of his auditors checked the burst of impetuous feeling, and he continued more quietly----

"I took an interest in this family long ago, and stopped in the valley over night, on purpose to visit the old gentleman. I had no idea he would ever leave the farm, and was surprised to find strangers here, more so than you could have been at seeing me. Tell me now where the Wilc.o.x family can be found?"

"That is more, by half, than I know myself," answered the farmer. "I bought the farm, paid cash down for everything, land, stock, furniture, and all."

"But where did they go?" cried Jacob, breathless with suspense.

"To Portland; they took one wagon load of things, and when the teamster came back, he said they were left in the hold of a schooner lying at the wharf."

"But where was she bound?--what was her name?"

"That was exactly what we asked the teamster, but he could tell nothing about it; and from that day to this, no person in these parts has ever heard a word about them!"

Jacob arose and supported himself by his chair.

"And is this all? Gone, no one knows where? Is this all?"

"All that I or any one else can tell you," answered the kind-hearted farmer.

"But the teamster, where is he?"

"Dead!"

Jacob left the house without another word. He knew that these tidings would be more terrible to another than they had been to him, and yet that seemed scarcely possible, for all the rude strength of his nature was prostrated by the news that he heard.

The twilight had given place to a full moon, and all the valley lay flooded in a sea of silver. The meadows were full of fireflies, and a whip-poor-will on the mountain-side poured his mournful cry upon the air. Jacob could not endure the thought of meeting his friend and mistress, with tidings that he knew would rend her heart. He left the homestead, tortured by all that he had heard, and plunged into a hollow which opened to the trout stream. In this hollow stood a tall elm tree, with great, sweeping branches, that drooped almost to the ground. A spring of never-failing water gushed out from a rocky bank, which it shaded, and the sweet gurgle of its progress as it flowed away through the cowslips and blue flag that choked up the outlet to the mountain streams, fell like the memory of an old love upon his senses.

He drew near the tree, and there, sitting upon the fragment of rock, with her head resting against the rugged trunk of the elm, sat Ada Leicester. Her face shone white in the moonbeams, and Jacob could hear her sobs long before she was conscious of his presence.

She heard his approach, and starting to her feet, came out into the full light. The hand with which she wildly seized his was damp and cold, and he could see that heavy tear-drops were trembling on her cheek.

"You--you have seen them--are they alive? I saw you go in, and have been waiting all this time. Tell me, Jacob, will they let me sleep in the old house to-night?"

"They are all gone; no one of the whole family are there!" answered Jacob Strong, too much excited for ordinary prudence.

A wild cry, scarcely louder than the scream of a bird, but oh, how full of agony! rang down the valley, and terror-stricken at what he had done, Jacob saw his mistress lying at his feet, her deathly face, her lifeless hands, and the white shawl which she had flung about her, huddled together in the pale moonlight.

The strong man lost all self-control. He looked fiercely around, as if some one might attempt to stop him; then gathered Ada Leicester up in his huge arms, and folded her close to his bosom. It was not a light burden to carry; but he neither wavered nor paused, but strode down the hollow, folding her tighter and tighter against his heart; and a joy broke over his features, as the moonlight fell upon them, that seemed scarcely human.

"Ada Wilc.o.x--little Ada--I have carried you so a thousand times. Then, Ada, you would lift up your little arms, and fold them over my neck, and lay your cheek against mine, as it is now, Ada."

His face sunk slowly toward hers. He gave a sudden start.

"G.o.d forgive me! oh, Ada, forgive me!" broke from him, as he looked down upon the pale forehead which his lips had almost pressed.

He stood still, holding his breath, trembling in all his limbs, and beginning to move to and fro, as he perceived that her pale eyelids began to quiver in the moonlight.

It was a delusion; the fainting fit had been too sudden; the exhaustion complete. She lay in his arms like one from whom life had just departed--her pale limbs relaxed--her eyelids closed. He stood thus awhile, and then she began to move in his arms.

"Do not move, Ada--Ada Wilc.o.x; it is Jacob, your father's bound boy. We are all alone, in the home meadow. He has carried you down to the brook a thousand times, when you knew all about it and laughed and--and----; not yet--not yet," he said pa.s.sionately; "you are not strong enough to stand alone."

Still she struggled, for in his excitement he girded her form with those strong arms, till the pain restored her to consciousness.