Pocket Island

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"I presume you will be so considered," he responded, with a shade of
annoyance on his face, "if you go to dances in this town. I wish the
busybodies of that church would mind their business."

He made no further comment regarding the dance, but sat looking gloomily
at the fire.

"What ails you to-night?" asked Liddy, finally breaking the silence;
"you seem out of sorts."

"I am all right," he replied, with forced cheerfulness. "I have been
trying to solve the problem of a future vocation when I leave school
next spring, and I do not know what to do."

Liddy was silent. Perhaps some intuitive idea of what was in his mind
came to her, for, although he had never uttered a word of love to her
except by inference, she knew in her own heart he cared for her and
cared a good deal.

"Come, Charlie," she said at last, "don't worry about a vocation now.
It's time enough to cross bridges when you come to them. Do you know,"
she continued, thinking to take his mind from his troubles, "that I have
discovered why Mr. Webber does not like me? It's simply because I do not
flatter him enough. I have known for a long time I was not a favorite of
his, and now I know why. You know what a little bunch of mischief Alice
Barnes is. She whispers more than any other girl in school, and makes
more fun of him, and yet she is one of his prime favorites. Well, one
day last week, at noontime, while she was talking with three or four of
us girls, he came along, and she up and asked him if he wouldn't read
'The Raven' the next Wednesday afternoon when, you know, we all have
compositions, and then she winked at us. He took it all right, and you
ought to have heard the self-satisfied way in which he said: 'Certainly,
Miss Barnes. I shall be very happy to read it for you.' The way he
strutted across the schoolroom after that! Lida Stanton said he reminded
her of a turkey gobbler."

Manson laughed.

"Webber doesn't like me, either," he said, "and never has from the
first. I don't care. I came to the academy to learn, and not to curry
favor with him. Willie Converse is another of his pets and is cutting up
all the time, but he never sees it, or makes believe he does not."

The discussion of school affairs ended here, for even Manson's evident
dislike of the principal was not strong enough to overcome the mood he
was in. He sat in glum silence for a time, apparently buried in deep
thought, while Liddy rocked idly in her low chair opposite. The
crackling fire and the loud tick of the tall clock out in the hall were
the only sounds.

At last he arose, and going to the center table, where the lamp stood,
he took up a small daguerrotype of Liddy in a short dress, and looked at
it. The face was that of a young and pretty girl of ten, with big,
wondering eyes, a sweet mouth, and hair in curls.

"That was the way you looked," he said finally, "at the district school
the day I wrote a painful verse in your album and you gave me a lock of
hair. How time flies!"

"You are in a more painful mood to-night," responded Liddy, glad to talk
about anything. "You have the worst case of blues I ever saw;" and then
she added, after a pause, and in a low voice: "It makes me blue, too."

Manson made no reply, but sat down again and studied the fire. The
little note of sympathy in her voice was a strong temptation to him to
make a clean breast of it all; to tell her there and then how much he
loved her; what his hopes were, and how utterly in the dark he was as to
any definite plans in life. The thought made his heart beat loudly. He
looked at Liddy, quietly rocking on the opposite side of the fireplace.
A little touch of sadness had crept into her face, and the warmth of the
fire had lent an unusual color to her cheeks and a more golden gleam to
her hair. As he looked at the sweet picture his courage began to leave
him. "No, not yet," he said to himself, "she will think me a fool."

"Let's pop some corn," said Liddy suddenly, still anxious to say
anything or do anything to break what seemed to her his unhappy train of
thought; "the fire is just right."

She waited for no answer, but stepped quickly into the kitchen and
returned with a long-handled popper, three small ears of popcorn, and a
dish.

"There," she said, cheerfully, "you hold the popper while I shell the
corn. I am going to make you work now, to drive away the blues. I
believe it's the best medicine for you."

There is no doubt she understood his needs better than he supposed, for
with the popping of the corn the cloud upon his face wore away. When it
came time to go Liddy rested her hand a moment on his arm and said, in a
low voice: "Charlie, we have known each other for a good many years, and
have been very good friends. I am going to give you a little advice:
Don't borrow trouble, and don't brood over your future so much. It will
shape itself all in due time, and you will win your way as other men
have done. I have faith in you."

Her brave and sisterly words cheered him wonderfully, and when he had
gone Liddy sat down a moment to watch the dying embers. She, too, had
felt the contagion of his mood, and strange to say, his hopes and fears
were insensibly merging themselves into her own. She watched the fading
fire for a full half hour, absorbed in retrospection, and then lighting
a small lamp and turning out the large one, she walked down the hall and
upstairs to her room.

"I wish that clock wouldn't tick so loud," she thought as she reached
her door, "it makes the house sound like a tomb."

CHAPTER X.

HISTORY.

From the time Manson, as a barefooted boy, caught trout in Ragged Brook,
until the winter of '62, when, a sturdy young man of eighteen, he had
fallen deeply in love with Liddy Camp, a few changes had taken place in
Southton. Three different principals had been in charge of the academy,
one of these, a Mr. Snow, being very capable and universally popular.
Later, when Mr. Webber succeeded to that position, the question of
popularity may have been considered an open one. We must do him the
justice to say he was efficient, however, and if he had an exaggerated
idea of his own importance, it was inherited, and a failing that neither
time nor experience could eradicate.

The two worthy dominies continued to try to convert sinners by
exhaustive arguments on predestination and infant damnation, but strange
to say, made little progress. A few of the good townspeople who were not
members of either church, as well as some that were, had been for many
years reading and thinking for themselves, and had come to realize that
the dry bones of Calvinistic argument had lost their force, and that the
Supreme Being was not the merciless God the churches had for years
depicted him, but rather a Father whose love and mercy was infinite. The
then ultra-liberal Unitarian idea had begun to spread and a few who had
outgrown the orthodox religion organized a Unitarian Society, and built
a modest church to worship in. Among these pioneers in thought were
Loring Camp and Jesse Olney, the latter the author of some of the best
school-books then used; a deep thinker and a leader in town affairs.
There were other thinking men, of course, who were prominent in this new
movement, but, as this simple story is not an historical narrative,
their names need not be mentioned. This new church and its followers of
course incurred the condemnation of the other two, especially the one
led by Parson Jotham, who exhausted all argument and invective to
convince his hearers that Unitarianism and sin were synonymous terms,
and that all the new church followers were surely slated for the fiery
furnace. So vigorous were his utterances in this connection, and so
explicit his description of the fire that is never quenched and the
torture that never ends, that it was said some of his hearers could
smell brimstone and discern a blue halo about his venerable white head.
One of his favorite arguments was to describe the intense joy those who
were saved through his scheme of salvation would feel when they came to
look over the heavenly walls and see the writhing agony of all sinners
in the burning lake below. When his eloquence reached this climax he
would cease pounding his open Bible and glare over the top of his tall
pulpit at the assembled congregation, in the hope, perhaps, of
discovering among them some Unitarian sinner who could thus be made to
realize his doom.

In justice to Parson Jotham it must be said that his intentions were of
the best, no doubt, but his estimate of the motive forces of human
action was too narrow. He believed the only way to win people from vice
to virtue and good conduct was to scare them into it.

In spite of all the denunciations of the other two churches, the new
one, though feeble at first, slowly increased its following. To this one
with their respective parents, came Liddy and Manson. While perhaps not
mature enough to understand the wide distinction between Unitarianism
and Calvinism, they realized a little of the inexpressible horror of
Rev. Mr. Jotham's theories of infant damnation and the like, and were
glad to hear no more of them. Like many other young people to-day, they
accepted their parents' opinions on all such matters as best and wisest.

They were not regular in their church attendance, either, for Liddy
could not always leave her invalid mother, and occasionally she and
Manson found a drive in the summer's woods or a visit to the top of Blue
Hill more alluring than even the Unitarian church. Of similar tastes in
that respect, and both ardent admirers of nature, and loving fields and
flowers, birds and brooks, as the lovers of nature do, they often
worshipped in that broad church. Manson especially, who had from
childhood spent countless hours alone in the forests or roaming over the
hills or along the streams, had learned all the lessons there taught,
and now found Liddy a wonderfully sympathetic and sweet companion. To
spend a few quiet hours on pleasant Sundays in showing her some pretty
cascade where the foam-flecks floated around and around in the pool
below; or a dark gorge, where the roots of the trees along its bank grew
out and over the rocks like the arms of fabled gnomes, was a supreme
delight to him. He knew where every bed of trailing arbutus for miles
around could be found; where sweet flag and checkerberries grew; where
all the shady glens and pretty grottoes were, and to show her all these
charming places and unfold to her his quaint and peculiar ideas about
nature and all things that pertain to the woods and mountains delighted
his heart.

Since the evening when she had given him the wise advice not to cross
bridges till he came to them, they had grown nearer together in thought
and feeling, and whether in summer, when they drove in shady woods or
visited a beautiful waterfall, where the rising mist seemed full of
rainbows when the sun shone through it; or in winter, when they went
sleighing over the hills, after an ice storm, and were breathless with
admiration at the wondrous vision, no words or declaration of love had
as yet passed his lips. He had vowed to himself that none should until
the time came when he had more than mere love to offer. Since all his
acts and words showed her so plainly what his feelings were, she began
to realize what it must all mean in the end, and that in due time he
would ask her the one important question that contains the joy or sorrow
of a woman's life. As this belief began to grow upon her it caused her
many hours of serious thought, and had she not discovered in her own
heart an answering throb of love it is certain she was far too honorable
to have allowed his attentions to continue.

How the townspeople viewed the affair may be gathered from a remark made
by Aunt Sally Hart, the village gossip, one Sunday at church.

"They tell me," she said, "that young Manson's keeping stiddy company
with Liddy Camp, and they're likely to make a match. Wonder if they'll
go to live on his father's farm, or what he will do?"

As Aunt Sally was an estimable lady of uncertain age, who, never having
had a love affair of her own, felt a keen interest in those of others,
and as she occupied a place in Southton akin to the "personal mention"
column of a modern society newspaper, it may be said her remark was a
sufficient reflex of public opinion.

When there were any social gatherings where they were invited, he was by
tacit consent considered as her proper and accepted escort. At the
academy she had never been in the habit of discussing her private
affairs with her mates, and so perhaps was spared what might have become
an annoyance. While she listened to much gossip, she seldom repeated it,
and, by reason of a certain dignified reticence among even her most
intimate schoolgirl friends, no one felt free to tell her of the
opinions current among them regarding herself and Manson. For this
reason a little deviation from the usual rule, made one day by her
nearest friend, Emily Hobart, came with all the greater force.

"Do you know," said Emily, when they were alone, "it is common talk here
in school that you and Charlie Manson are engaged? Oh, you need not
blush so," she continued, as she saw the color rise in Liddy's face,
"everybody says so and believes it, too. Shall I congratulate you?"

This did not please Liddy at all.

"I wish everybody would mind their own business," she said with a snap,
"and leave me to mind mine."

"Oh, fiddlesticks," continued Emily; "what do you care? He is a nice
fellow, and comes of a good family. We have all noticed that he has no
eyes for any other girl but you, and never had. They say he fell in love
with you when you wore short dresses."

When Liddy went home that night she held a communion with herself. So
everybody believed it, did they? And she, in spite of her invariable
reticence, was being gossiped about, was she? "I've a good mind never
to set foot in the academy again," she said to herself.

For a solitary hour she was miserable, and then the reaction came. She
began to think it all over, and all the years she had known him from his
boyhood passed in review. And in all those years there was not one
unsightly fact, or one hour, or one word she could wish were blotted
out. And they said he had loved her from the days of short dresses!
Well, what if he had? It was no disgrace. Then pride came in and she
began to feel thankful he had, and as the recollection of it all came
crowding into her thoughts and surging through her heart, she arose and
looked into her mirror. She saw the reflection of a sweet face with
flushing cheeks, red lips, bright eyes, and--was it possible! a faint
glistening of moisture on her eyelashes!

"Pshaw," she said to herself as she turned away, "I believe I am losing
my senses."

The next two days at school she barely nodded to him each day. "At least
he shall not see it," she thought.

When the next Sunday eve came she dressed herself with unusual care, and
as it was a cold night she piled the parlor fireplace full of wood and
started it early.

Then she sat down to wait. The time of his usual coming passed, but
there was no knock at the door. The hall clock with slow and solemn tick
marked one hour of waiting, and still he did not come. She arose and
added fuel to the fire, and then, taking a book, tried to read. It was
of no use, she could not fix her mind upon anything, and she laid the
book down and, crossing the room, looked out of the window. How
cheerless the snowclad dooryard, and what a cold glitter the stars
seemed to have! She sat down again and watched the fire. The tall clock
just outside the parlor door seemed to say: "Never--never--never!"

She arose and shut the door, for every one of those slow and solemn
beats was like a blow upon her aching heart. Then she seated herself
again by the dying fire, and as she gazed at the fading embers a little
realization of what woman's love and woman's waiting means came to her.
When the room had grown chill, she lighted her lamp and retired to her
chamber.

"I have never realized it before," she said, as she looked at the sad,
sweet face in the mirror. And that night it was long ere slumber came to
her pillow.

CHAPTER XI.

WAR CLOUDS.

When Liddy reached her desk at the academy the next day she found a note
in a well-known hand that said:

"My father was very ill. I could not call last eve. I hope to next
Sunday."

It was a bitter-sweet message. At times during the week she felt her
face burn at the recollection of how disappointed she had felt the
previous Sunday eve. "I am a fool to care," she would say to herself,
and then when she caught sight of his face and saw the cloud resting
upon it she felt puzzled. She had asked regarding his father's illness
and learned he was better, so the ominous shadow was not from that
source. She felt sure it was not from an impending declaration of love
brewing in his heart, for she knew him well enough to feel that when it
came to that, he would have the manly courage to express his feelings in
his usual outspoken way.

When Sunday evening came again she awaited his coming with a new
anxiety, and when he arrived her heart felt heavy. He greeted her as
though nothing was amiss, and began chatting in an offhand manner, as if
to prevent any question from her. He even joked and told stories, but
with a seeming effort and not in accord with his feelings. Liddy watched
him quietly, feeling sure he was acting a part and for a purpose. The
more he tried to dissemble, the deeper became her dread. At last, when
the chance came, she said in her direct way:

"Charlie, you are not yourself to-night, and I believe you have some
serious trouble on your mind. I wish you would tell me what it is."

He looked at her a moment before replying, and then said:

"Oh, well, perhaps I have; but please don't notice it. I do not like to
talk of my troubles here. You will dislike me if I do."

"I shall feel hurt if you do not," she answered.

"Don't say that!" he replied; and then, after looking into her earnest
face a moment he continued in a lower tone: "You are the last person in
the world I would knowingly hurt."

He remained silent for a long time, looking at the fire in a vacant way,
and then rising suddenly he said:

"There is no use; I can't talk to-night. I am out of sorts. I think I
will go home."

"No, no, Charlie," she replied, trying hard to keep the pain out of her
voice: "don't go yet! It's too early, and we have not had a visit for
two weeks. Please sit down and tell me all about it. Can't you trust
me?"

He remained standing and looking earnestly into her upturned face and
pleading eyes for a few moments in silence; then he said:

"Yes, I can trust you, Liddy, and I am not afraid to, either! I am not
afraid to trust you with every thought and impulse that ever came to me,
but I can't bring myself to hurt you," and then he turned away.

His words almost brought the tears to her eyes, but she kept them back.
When he had his coat on and was at the door, she made one more effort.
She clasped his arm with both hands, as if to hold him, and said:

"You have made me very wretched, Charlie! Don't leave me in suspense! I
do not deserve it. No matter what it is, please tell me!"

He remained silent, but with one hand he softly caressed the two little
ones that clasped his arm. Then as her face sank slowly upon them he
stooped suddenly and kissed her hair. "When I come again you shall know
all," he whispered; "good-night!" and he tore himself away.

The meadows were growing green and the first spring violets were in
bloom ere he called again.

To explain his strange mood a little history must be inserted here.

The summer and fall of '61 and the winter and spring of '62 were
momentous in the annals of Southton. Fort Sumter had been fired upon,
and the war for the preservation of the Union had begun. The President's
first call for volunteers had been issued; the Bull Run retreat had
occurred, and the seven days' horror of the Chickahominy swamp, followed
by the battle of Fair Oaks and the siege of Fredericksburg, had startled
the country. Secession was rampant, and Washington was threatened. The
second call for volunteers had come and the entire North was alarmed.

In the spring of '62 came the third call, and by that time the spirit of
patriotism was spreading over Southton. Captain Samuel Woodruff, a born
soldier and a brave man, began to raise a company in that town. It did
not require a great effort, for the best and bravest of her sons rallied
to his call. This spirit even reached the oldest of the academy boys,
and was the cause of Manson's strange reticence with Liddy. Among his
mates were many who openly asserted their intention to enlist. Before
and after school and at noon it was talked about. Some were, like
Manson, the sons of peaceful tillers of the soil, and others the sons of
tradesmen, but all were animated by the same patriotic spirit and that
was to defend their country in her hour of danger. The example of a few
became contagious, and seemed likely to affect all the young men of the
academy of suitable age. In fact it did, for out of about thirty that
were old enough, eighteen finally enlisted and went to war. Were it not
that a list of their names is not pertinent to the thread of this
narrative, that roll of honor should be inserted here, for it deserves
to be; but it is not necessary. It is well known in Southton, and there
the names of those young heroes will never be forgotten.

For weeks while the fever of enlistment was spreading, Manson had passed
through serious mental torture. To sign the possibly fatal roll or not
to sign was the question! He dared not tell Liddy; he dared not tell his
parents. An only son, and one whom he knew his father loved, he felt
torn by conflicting duty. Never in his simple life had he passed through
such a struggle. Perhaps pride and the example of his mates were strong
factors in bringing him to a decision, but he reached one at last, and
upon a Saturday during the latter part of April he quietly wrote his
name upon the enlistment paper in Captain Woodruff's office, and the
deed was done.

In the meantime, and for the few weeks in which he did not call, Liddy
lived in an agony of suspense. She knew what was going on, for it was
current gossip in school, and there was something in his face that
seemed to her ominous. In school she tried hard to act unconcerned, even
when, as often was the case, other girls whose young and loving hearts
were sore, gave way to tears. Each day she smiled and nodded to him as
usual; but the smile had grown pathetic, and into her eyes had crept a
look of dread. He saw it all, and hardly dared speak to her. Each Sunday
eve she dressed herself for his coming and watched the fire while the
tall clock ticked in solemn silence. She dreaded to hear her father
speak of the war news, and when at school the gossip as to who had or
who was going to enlist was referred to she walked away. She grew silent
and morose, and clouds were on her face at all times. There were plenty
of sad and worried looks on other girls' faces at school during those
weeks, so she was not alone in her gloom.

Manson had felt that deep down in her heart she cared a good deal more
for him than her conduct showed, and to tell her of his intentions
before he carried them out would be to subject her to needless days of
suspense and possibly affect his own sense of duty. Now that it was all
over, she must be the first to be told, and how much he dreaded it only
those who have passed through the same experiences can tell. He scarcely
slept at all that night, and when he presented himself at her house the
next day, just before church time, he looked pale and haggard. It was an
unusual thing for him to call at that hour, and when Liddy met him her
heart sank. Without any formality he asked her to put on her wraps and
take a ride.

"I have come to tell you all," he said, "and I can talk better away from
the house, and where we are alone."

When they were well on their way and driving along the wooded road
toward the top of one of the Blue Hills--a lookout point whence all
Southton's area could be seen--he turned his face and looked at hers for
the first time since starting. What he saw there smote his heart.

"It's a nice day for a ride, isn't it, Liddy?" he said pleasantly,
trying hard to act natural.

Her answer was peculiar.

"I can't talk of the day or anything else, Charlie, till I know the
worst. Remember, you have kept me in suspense four long, weary weeks.
Tell me now as soon as you can."

He made no reply, and spoke not another word until they reached the
lookout place. In silence he assisted her to alight, and taking the
carriage robe, he spread it upon a rock where they had often sat viewing
the landscape below. Then he said, in a low voice:

"Please sit down, Liddy. I've fixed a nice seat for you, and now I can
talk to you."

Then their eyes met for the second time since starting. Her face and
lips were pale, and her eyes full of fear. She clasped her hands before
her face as if to ward off the coming blow.

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