“I suppose you have often wondered where I was born, and who my parents were,” Chip said, one Sunday afternoon, when she and Aunt Abby were alone, “and I want to thank you for never, never asking.” And then, omitting much, she briefly outlined her history.
“I was born close to the wilderness,” she said, “and my mother died when I was about eight years old. Then my father took me into the woods, where I worked at a kind of a boarding house for lumbermen. I ran away from that when I was about sixteen. I had to; the reasons I don’t want to tell. I found some people camping in the woods when I’d been gone three days and ’most starved. They felt pity for me, I guess, and took care of me. I stayed at their camp that summer, and then they fetched me home with them and I was sent to school. Somebody said something to me there, somebody who hated me. She had been pestering me all the time, and I ran away. Uncle Jud found me and took care of me until you came, and that’s all I want to tell. I could tell a lot more, but I don’t ever want these people to find me or take me back where they live, and that’s why I don’t tell where I came from. Then I felt I was so dependent on them–I was twitted of it–that it’s another reason why I ran away. I wouldn’t have stayed with Uncle Jud more than over night except I had a chance to work and earn my board.”
“But wasn’t it unkind of you–isn’t it now–not to let these people know you are alive?” answered Aunt Abby. “They were certainly good to you.”
“I know that they were,” returned Chip, somewhat contritely; “but I couldn’t stand being dependent on them any longer. If they found where I was, they’d come and fetch me back; and I’d feel so ashamed I couldn’t look ’em in the face. I’d rather they’d think I was dead.”
“Well, perhaps it is best you do not,” returned Aunt Abby, sighing; “but years of doubt, and not knowing whether some one we care for is dead or alive, are hard to bear. And now that you have told me some of your history, I will tell you a lifelong case of not knowing some one’s fate. Many years ago my sister and myself, who were born here, became acquainted with two young men, sailor boys from Bayport, named Cyrus and Judson Walker. Cyrus became attached to me and we were engaged to marry. It never came to pass, however, for the ship that Judson was captain of, with Cyrus as first mate, foundered at sea. All hands took to the two boats. The one Judson was in was picked up, but the other was never heard of afterward. In due time Judson and my sister Amanda married. He gave up a sailor’s life, and they settled down where they now live. I waited many years, vainly hoping for my sweetheart’s return, and finally, realizing that he must be dead, married Captain Bemis. That all happened so long ago that I do not care to count the years; and yet all through them has lingered that pitiful thread of doubt and uncertainty, that vain hope that somehow and someway Cyrus may have escaped death and may return. I know it will never happen. I know he is dead; and yet I cannot put away that faint hope and quite believe it is so, and never shall so long as I live. Now you have left those who must have cared something for you in much the same pitiful state of doubt, and it is not right.”
For one moment something almost akin to horror flashed over Chip.
“And was he called–was he never–I mean this brother, ever heard from?” she stammered, recovering herself in time.
“Why, no,” answered Aunt Abby, looking at her curiously, “of course not. Why, what ails you? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
“Oh, nothing,” returned Chip, now more composed; “only the story and how strange it was.”
It ended the conversation, for Chip, so overwhelmed by the flood of possibilities contained in this story, dared not trust herself longer with Aunt Abby, and soon escaped to her room.