Aunt Mandy, however, showed more emotion, for when Old Cy rather awkwardly stooped to kiss her, the long ago of Sister Abby’s sorrow welled up in her heart, and the tears came.
That evening’s reunion, with its two life histories to be exchanged, did not close until the tall clock had ticked time into the wee, small hours.
All of Old Cy’s almost marvellous adventures had to be told by him, and not the least interesting were the last few years at the wilderness home of the hermit. Chip’s entry into it and her history formed another chapter fully as thrilling, with Uncle Jud’s rescue of her for a dénouement.
The most pathetic feature of this intermingled history–the years while sweet Abby Grey waited and watched for her lover–was left untold. Only once was it referred to by Aunt Mandy, in an indirect way; but the quick lowering of Old Cy’s eyes and the shadow that overspread his face, checked her at once. Almost intuitively she realized its unwisdom, and that it was a sorrow best not referred to.
Old Cy evidently felt it a subject to avoid, and not until the next day did he even ask how Aunt Abby looked or what had been her life experiences. A little of this reticence wore away in due time, however, and then Aunt Mandy once more referred to her sister.
“I kinder feel you blame Abby somehow, Cyrus, the way you act,” she said, “and yet thar ain’t no cause for it. She’d waited ’most seven years. We’d all given you up for dead, and life in Christmas Cove wa’n’t promisin’ much for Abby.”
“I don’t blame her a mite,” Old Cy answered quickly, “an’ no need o’ yer thinkin’ so. I don’t blame no woman fer makin’ the best shift they kin. They’ve got to hev a home ’n’ pertecter, bless ’em, or be nobody in this world. Comin’ here and findin’ how things are, sorter makes me realize how much I’ve missed in life, though, an’ how much sorrer I’ve had to outgrow. I don’t lay up nothin’ ’gainst Abby, not fer a minit. Only I hated to hev ye tell me what I knew ye’d hev to, that fust night.”
“But you’re goin’ to see her, ain’t ye, Cyrus?” Aunt Mandy asked anxiously. “Ye won’t shame her by not goin’, will ye?”
“Wal, mebbe,” he answered slowly, and after a long pause. “I wouldn’t want to hurt her knowin’ly. I callate I’ve done more grievin’n she has, though, ten times over, an’ seein’ her now’s a good deal like openin’ an old tomb–a sorter invitin’ ghosts o’ old heartaches to step out. Abby’s outgrowed the old times, ’n’ I’m sartin, too, won’t be the happier by seein’ me ag’in. I may be wrong, but I’ve a notion she’ll sorter hate to see me. ’Twas to keep her from feelin’ ’shamed ’n’ miserable ’n’ spoilin’ her life, I’ve never let her nor nobody that knew her find out I was alive. I’m doubtin’ I would now if she hadn’t larned it from Chip.”
He relented a little from this strange and almost cruel whim a week later, and after visiting the Riggsville store and obtaining what really amounted to a disguise in new garments, he announced his plans.