Evelyn Byrd

Chapter the Eighth

WE hadn’t been many days in Chicago when one morning about daybreak my father waked me and said that Campbell was after me, so that we must hurry. My father had bought me a lot of things in Chicago – clothes of many kinds, and a few books. I reckon he didn’t know much about clothes or books – poor papa – for all the clothes were red, and the books, as I now know, were intended for much older people than I was. But he said that red was the prettiest colour, and as for the books, the man that sold them had told him that they were “standard works.” I remember that one of them was called Burke’s Works, and another Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. I simply couldn’t like Burke’s Works, but I reckon that was only because I didn’t know what Mr. Burke was talking about. I reckon I didn’t understand Gibbon very well, but I liked him, because he told some good stories, and because his sentences were musical. I liked Macaulay’s Miscellanies for the same reason, and I liked Macaulay’s History because it was so simple that I could understand it. Best of all, I liked Rasselas, The Vicar of Wakefield, Robinson Crusoe, and The British Drama, and Shakespeare – at least, in parts. I liked to read about Parolles, and the way he was tricked and his cowardice exposed. I identified him with Campbell, and rejoiced when he got into trouble. I suppose that was wicked, but I’m telling you all my thoughts, Dorothy, so that you may know the whole truth about me and not be deceived. I liked Falstaff, too.

I liked Rasselas, because in his happy valley there was no man like Campbell. And I liked Robinson Crusoe for the same reason. Somehow I liked to live with him on his island, because I knew that if Campbell should land there, Robinson Crusoe would shoot him.

But above all, I liked the British Drama, because it opened a new and larger life to me than any that I had ever known.

When my father waked me up on that morning, I hurriedly packed my books and clothes into a trunk. There were very few underclothes, for my father knew nothing about such things, but there were many red dresses and red cloaks and red hats. And there were two fur coats – big enough for a grown woman to wear.

We got on board a train and travelled all day. Then we took another train and travelled all night, till we came to the end of the railroad. Then we got into a cart and travelled three or four days into the woods.

Finally we came to a camp in the woods, where my father seemed to be master of everything and everybody. There were Indians there and half-breeds, and Canadian lumber-men, for it was a lumber-camp. There was a Great Lake there, and many little lakes not far away. I reckon the Great Lake was Lake Superior, but I don’t know for certain.

There were no women in the camp except squaws and half-breeds. They were pretty good people, but very dirty, so I could not live with them. My father made the men build a little log house for him and me, and he made them hew a bath-tub for me out of a big log. Then he hired a half-breed girl to heat water every day and fill the tub for me to bathe in. As for himself, he jumped into the lake every morning, even when he had to make the men cut a hole in the ice for his use.

I liked the lumber-camp life because I was free there, and because there were big fires at night, like bonfires. One of them was just before my door, and my father made an Indian boy keep it blazing all night for me, so that I might see the light of it whenever I waked. I used to sit by it and read my books, even when the snow was deep on the ground; for by turning first one side and then the other to the fire I could keep warm. And the Canadians and the half-breeds and the Indians used to squat on the ground near me and beg me to read the books aloud to them. As they all spoke French, and understood no word of English, of course they didn’t understand what I read to them, but they liked to hear me read, and it was sometimes hard to drive them away to their beds, even when midnight came.

They taught me French during the year I lived among them. You tell me it is very bad French, and I reckon it is; but it was all they knew: they did their best, and I reckon that is all that anybody can do. At any rate, they were kind to me, and they taught me all the ways of the birds and the animals. I tried to teach them to be kind to the birds and the animals, after I began to understand the wild creatures; but the camp people never would learn that. Their only idea of an animal or a bird was to eat its flesh and sell its skin.

There was a young priest there who knew better, and he ought to have loved the birds and animals. But he used to talk about God’s having given man dominion over the beasts and the birds, and that doctrine perverted his mind, I think. He killed a pretty little chipmunk, one day, to get its skin to stuff. That chipmunk was my friend. I had taught it to climb up into my lap and eat out of my hand. He persuaded it to climb into his lap, and then he betrayed its confidence and killed it. I was very angry with him. I picked up an ox-whip and struck him with it twice. I was only a little girl, but I had grown strong in the outdoor life of the camp, and it doesn’t take much strength to make an ox-whip hurt.

There was great commotion in the camp when this occurred. The people there were very religious in their way, but they seemed to me to worship the priest rather than God. They didn’t mind sinning as much as they pleased, because they knew that the priest would forgive their sins on easy terms; but they thought that my act in striking the priest with the ox-whip was a peculiarly heinous crime. Perhaps it was, but I can’t even yet so look upon it. They regarded him as a “man of God”; but if he was so, why did he deceive the poor little chipmunk, and persuade it to trust him, and then kill it cruelly? Dorothy, I am not a bit sorry, even now, that I chastised him with the ox-whip.

[“Neither am I,” wrote Dorothy in the margin of the manuscript.]

But the occurrence created a great disturbance in the camp, and so my father had to take me away, for fear that the lumber-men would kill me. Curious, isn’t it, that while they were so religious as to feel in that way about the priest, who after all was only a man, they were yet so wicked that they were ready to commit murder in revenge? But those people were very ignorant and very superstitious. They thought some terrible calamity would fall upon them if I were permitted to remain in the camp. I think they cared more about that than they did about the priest. Even those who had been kind to me, teaching me to ride bareback and to shoot and to fish and to make baskets, and all the rest of it, turned against me; so that my father had to stand by me with his pistols cocked and ready in his hand, till he could get me out of the camp.

Chapter the Ninth

FROM that camp my father took me way up to Hudson’s Bay. We travelled over the snow on sledges drawn by dogs, and I learned to know the dogs as nobody else did. They were savage creatures, and would bite anybody who came near them. But somehow they never bit me. They didn’t like to be petted, but they let me pet them. I don’t know why this was so, but it was so.

We did not remain long at Hudson’s Bay – only a few weeks. After that, we went somewhere – I don’t know where it was – where the whale-men came ashore and rendered out the blubber they had got out at sea.

You must remember that my father had many interests. He owned part of the lumber-camp we had stayed in, he had a fur trade at Hudson’s Bay, and he had an interest in some whaling-ships. Wherever we went, my father seemed to be at home and to be master of the men about him. I admired him greatly, and loved him very much. I wondered how my mother could have left him and married Campbell. I am wondering over that even yet.

It was while we were at Hudson’s Bay that I began to understand something about my father. He sat down with me one day (he didn’t often sit down for more than a few minutes at a time, but on this occasion he sat with me for nearly half a day) and explained things to me.

“I want to tell you some things, little girl,” he said, “and I want you to try to understand them. Above all, I want you to remember them. You know sometimes I have a great deal of money, and sometimes I have none at all. That is because my business is a risky one. Sometimes I make a great deal of money out of it, and sometimes I lose a great deal.

“Now, when your mother left me, I made up my mind to provide well for her and you, so that no matter what else should happen, you and she might never come to want. You see, I still loved your mother. I insured my life for a large sum, and as I had plenty of money then, I paid for the insurance cash down. You don’t understand about such things, and it isn’t necessary that you should. But by insuring my life and paying cash for the insurance, I made it certain that whenever I should die, a rich insurance company would pay you a big sum of money; I had purposely made it payable to you and not to your mother, because I knew you would take care of your mother, while she could never take care of anybody or anything. I also bought some bonds and stocks and put them in your name, and placed them in a bank in New York.

“Now, I want you to pay close attention and try to understand what I tell you. Here are some papers that I want you to keep always by you – always in your little satchel. Always have them by you when you go to bed, and always lock them up by day. Take them with you wherever you go.

“This one is my will. It gives you everything that I may happen to own when I die.” With that, he handed me the papers.

“This one is the life-insurance policy. When I die, you, or whoever is acting for you, will have to present that to the life-insurance company, together with doctors’ certificates that I am really dead. Then the company will pay you the money.

“This one is a list of the securities – the bonds and stocks – that I have deposited in your name in the Chemical Bank of New York. You see, it is signed by the cashier of that bank. It is a receipt for the bonds and stocks. So you must keep it very carefully.

“Now, another thing you must remember: you can’t draw the money on my life-insurance policy until I die; but you can get these bonds and stocks at any time that you please, merely by presenting the receipt and asking for them. So long as you are a little girl under age, you couldn’t do this for yourself. Somebody must do it for you. You must be very careful whom you select for that purpose.”

Then he gave me the names and addresses of several gentlemen, who, he said, were his friends and honest men, and advised me to apply to them to act for me if I ever had occasion to do anything of the kind. Then he went on to say:

“The scoundrel, Campbell, knows that you own all this, besides some houses and lands (here’s a memorandum of them) which I have deeded to you. In the hope of getting hold of your property, he, as your stepfather, has had himself appointed your guardian. It is a shame that the courts allow that, but he owns a judge or two, and he has managed to get it done. That is why he is following us and trying to get hold of you. He doesn’t know what your property is, or where, and he thinks you will have these papers. So, if he can get hold of you, he thinks he can get hold of the property also. If I can manage to get you to New York, I’ll take the papers out of your hands and place them in charge of some men there whom I can trust. But as I may fail in that, and as something may happen to me, I want you to have the papers.

“I am pretty well off just now, but my business is very uncertain. When I die, I may be very rich, or I may ‘go broke’ any day between now and then. That is why I have put this property into your hands while I have it. I am a reckless fellow. I ‘take the very longest chances’ sometimes in my business enterprises. Sometimes I suddenly lose pretty nearly everything I have in the world, and I might die just at such a time. So I have provided for you in any case.

“If I can get to New York with you, I am going to hide you completely from that man, Campbell. There is an excellent gentlewoman there in whose hands I intend to put you. She is a woman to be trusted, and she is rather poor, so she will be glad to take charge of you and keep you out of Campbell’s way, damn him! Pardon me, dear! I didn’t mean to swear in your presence. I only mean that I can give that lady plenty of money, and she can take you wherever she thinks you will be safe.”

“But I had much rather stay with you, Father,” I answered, with tears in my eyes.

“Yes, I know. And God knows,” he said, “that I had rather have you with me. But everything is a gamble with me. I have many enemies, child, and some one of them may make an end of me any day. The other way will be safest for you.”

“I don’t care for myself,” I answered. “I only care for you, and to be with you. I’ll take the risks, and if any of your enemies ever makes an end of you, as you say, I want to be there to wreak vengeance. You know I can shoot as straight as any man alive, whether with a pistol or a rifle or a shot-gun.”

“You dear child!” he responded, “I know all that. And that is why I want to house you safely. You have it in you to be as reckless as your dad is, and I don’t intend that you shall have occasion or opportunity.”

How I did love my father! I don’t believe he was ever bad, Dorothy, though they said he was. People who liked him used to say he was “uncommonly quick on trigger”; people who hated him called him a desperado. I call him my father, and I love his memory, for he is dead now, as you will hear later.

But I was anxious to remember all that he had told me, and to make no mistake about it. I had taught myself how to write, during my stay at the lumber-camp and on Hudson’s Bay, so I got some old blank books from the agency, books which had been partly written in by a clerk who made his lines so hairlike that I could write all over them and yet make my writing quite legible. In these I wrote all that my father had said, just as he had said it, meaning to commit it to memory if I had got it right. When it was done, I took it to him and he read it. He laughed when he came to the swear word, and said: —

“You might have omitted that. Still, I’m glad you didn’t, because it shows how bravely truthful you are, and I love that in you better than anything else.”

I have always remembered that, Dorothy. I don’t know how far those who have left us know what we do; but I always think that if my father knows, he will be glad to have me perfectly truthful, and I love him so much that I would make any sacrifice to make him glad.

After he had read over what I had written, and had corrected a word here and there, I set to work to commit it to memory, so that I should never forget a line or a word of it. That is how it comes about that I am able to report it all to you exactly.

Now I know you are tired, so I am going to begin a new chapter, and you can rest as long as you like before reading it.

XXVI

EVELYN’S BOOK, CONTINUED

IT was Dorothy’s habit when reading a book to stop for an hour now and then, and devote that space to careful thinking. She explained her practice to Arthur one day, saying: —

“If a book be interesting, it is apt to dominate the mind, and sometimes to mislead the judgment. I think it well to suspend the reading now and then, and give myself a chance to shake off the glamour of the narrative, and to think out for myself what it means and to what it tends. One must do that, indeed, if one doesn’t want to surrender himself or herself completely to the dominance of an author’s thought, but chooses instead to do his or her own thinking.”

So Dorothy took an hour or two for thinking before going on with the reading of Evelyn’s book. Evelyn knew her habit, and she had recognised it by changing chapters at this point.

When Dorothy took up the pages again, she read as follows: —

Chapter the Tenth

WE stayed a long time among the whaling people, and they taught me many things. I learned from them how to tie all sorts of knots, and how to catch sea fish, and how to row, and best of all, how to sail a boat.

They were a curious kind of men. They swore all the time, in almost every sentence. But their swearing didn’t mean anything, and so it didn’t shock me in the least. They were not at all angry when they swore. They swore, I think, merely because they hadn’t any adjectives with which to express their thoughts. They called me a “damned nice gal,” and they meant it for a compliment. In the same way, they spoke of a tangle in a fish-line as “a damned ugly snarl,” or of a fish as “a damned big catch.” I suppose one might cure them of swearing by teaching them some adjectives. But nobody ever took the trouble to do that.

They were good fellows – strong and brave, and wonderfully enduring. When I went out fishing with them, and the tide was out on our return, so that we couldn’t come up to a pier, one of them would jump overboard in the mud, pick me up, swing me to his broad shoulders, and carry me ashore dry-shod, without seeming to think anything of it.

One day we had a storm while I was out in a fishing-boat. As soon as it came on, all the boats came to the side of ours, though it was dangerous to do so, just to make sure of my safety. The boat I was in was swamped, and I was spilled overboard. But I was no sooner in the angry sea than I was grabbed by the arms of a stout young fellow who gallantly bore me toward a little sloop that lay at hand. A mast broke off and fell. It hit the poor fellow, and, finding himself unable to do any more, he called to a comrade to take me, and he sank in the water and was drowned. He didn’t seem to care for himself at all, but only to save me, and all the rest of them seemed to think that that was a matter of course. I got my father to give me some money, and I hired a stone-cutter to put up a monument over the poor fellow’s grave; for we recovered his body, with both arms broken by the blow from the falling mast. There are lots of heroes, Dorothy, who are never engaged in wars.

At last my father took me away from the whaling town, and we went to New York in a little schooner. It took us a long time, because the winds were adverse, but we got there after a while, and went to a hotel. It was the Astor House, I think, and it had a beautiful little park nearly in front of it. I don’t think that is of any consequence, but, you see, I am trying to tell you everything. You can skip anything you don’t care for.

[“I’m not skipping anything,” wrote Dorothy in the margin.]

As soon as we were settled at the hotel, my father sent for the gentlewoman he had spoken about, and placed me in her care. Then something happened that I never understood. Before my father could take the papers from me and place them in the hands of the gentleman he intended to leave them with, he was somehow compelled to leave the city. He went away suddenly after midnight, and I never saw him again. I still kept the papers after he left New York so suddenly.

The lady was greatly excited when my father’s note came to her, saying that he had gone away, and she seemed to fear some danger for me. So, between midnight and morning, she packed our things, and we went to a boarding-house away up-town. Even there she didn’t feel safe, and so, within a day or so, we went on board a canal boat, and went up the river, and then along the canal for many days.

I asked the lady (Mrs. Dennison was her name) why we hadn’t taken a railroad train instead, so as to travel faster. She answered: “They were watching all the trains, dear, and would have caught you if we had tried to take one. They didn’t think of canal boats, because nobody travels by them in these days.”

After we had travelled by canal boat for several days (a week or more, I think), we left the boat at a very little village, and went away across country to a little house in a sparsely settled district. There Mrs. Dennison and I lived quite alone for more than a year. It was a very happy year, except that I couldn’t see my father, and except for another thing. Mrs. Dennison made me wear a boy’s clothes and call myself by a false name, “Charlie Dennison.” She did that to prevent Campbell from finding me. I suppose it really didn’t matter much, but somehow I didn’t like the thought of wearing a disguise and going by an assumed name.

Of course, as a boy, I couldn’t go much with the few girls there were in the neighbourhood, and at the same time, being in fact a girl, I couldn’t go out and associate with the boys. So my only companion was Mrs. Dennison. We lived together in a tiny bit of a house that belonged to her, and she was the only real teacher I ever had. I reckon she didn’t know much about books. At any rate, she didn’t care about them. But she let me read mine as much as I pleased, and she taught me how to do all sorts of household things. Especially she taught me to do needlework, and as I used to do it in our little porch in the summertime, the boys thought it strange for a boy to use a needle, so they used to call me “Miss Charlotte” and gibe and jeer at me a good deal. But I didn’t mind, particularly as there was a woodland near our house, so that I could see a great deal of my birds and squirrels. It was then, too, that I made acquaintance with many insects and bugs – pinch-bugs, ants, yellow-jackets, and a lot more. You can’t imagine how greatly interested I became in studying the ways of these creatures. They all have characters of their own; and when one really becomes acquainted with them, they are vastly more interesting than commonplace people are.

Chapter the Eleventh

AFTER we had lived for more than a year in the little cottage, Mrs. Dennison one day told me we must go away quickly, and we left within an hour. She let me put my girl’s clothes on before we started.

“They have found out that you are disguised as a boy,” she explained, “and when they set out to find us again, they’ll probably look for a lady and a boy. So, by wearing girl’s clothes again, you’ll have a better chance to escape their clutches.”

I was getting to be a pretty big girl by that time, and so I had been ashamed of wearing boy’s clothes for some time past. But when I put on my gowns again, they made me still more ashamed, because they were so short.

So, as soon as we got to a place where we could stop for a few days, Mrs. Dennison sent for two dressmakers to fashion some new gowns for me, and I really looked quite like another person when I put them on.

That must have been about four years ago. According to what I was afterward told, I was then thirteen years old. I know now that I was fifteen. But I’ll tell you all about that further on.

All this while, Mrs. Dennison was receiving money from my father at regular intervals, and there was plenty of it. But it never came directly from my father. It came from a bank, with a very formal note saying that the money was sent “by order of Mr. Jackson Byrd,” and asking Mrs. Dennison to sign and return a receipt for it. My father sent us no letters and no messages. This troubled me very much when I got to thinking about it. And that made me very unhappy, for I loved my father dearly, and I remembered how happy I had been with him. But after thinking more about it, I saw that he hadn’t forgotten his little girl and hadn’t quit caring about her, because if he had, the money wouldn’t have come so regularly.

Still, that troubled me more than ever, because it must mean that my father was in some kind of difficulty, that he could not send any letters to us. I learned afterward that this was so, but Mrs. Dennison would never tell me anything about it.

We were moving about a good deal at this time, generally starting suddenly – sometimes so suddenly as to leave many of our things behind. But I always carried the little satchel that contained the papers my father had given me.

At last, one day when we left the train at Chicago and entered a carriage to drive to a little hotel that we were to live at, a man came to the carriage door and handed Mrs. Dennison a paper. He said something which I did not understand, and Mrs. Dennison kissed me and got out of the carriage. The man got in, and ordered the carriage to drive away with us, leaving Mrs. Dennison standing there on the sidewalk.