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.