Belford's Magazine, Vol 2, December 1888

He was handsome, tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, and always well-dressed. His mustache and hair were dark, almost black; his eyes gray.

In the furnishing of his room, which was on the second story of the store building, a taste almost effeminate was displayed. A stranger entering it would think a woman dwelt there.

When he went to it after leaving the McAnay ball he sat down, not to think in superstitious wonder of the strange fancy of Bill Kellar's, but to recall the words, actions, looks, of the graceful and willowy girl who had said, "I will, John."

"She has more pride than Queen Elizabeth," he muttered. "No 'Thank you' to me; but 'I will, John.' Lizzī, you are the comeliest girl I know, and I have got your promise to be my wife. Well, so much."

Hard, unfeeling words, dictated by passion. Love is tender, generous; Passion, harsh and selfish. They sit opposite at the same feast. Love surrenders to the intoxication of the scene, grateful to be allowed there. Passion glances scornfully at foolish Love and considers his presence at the banquet a compliment to the giver. Love treasures the crumbs. Passion wastes basketfuls.

"So far, so good," Gill murmured. "I'll go to Jim Harker to-morrow."

And without one tender thought for the woman, who even then, all a-tremble with delight at being his betrothed, was uttering a prayer for him, he threw himself on the bed and went asleep.

Lizzī did not sleep. Gill's declaration of love, as she regarded his proposition of marriage, had opened the door of the future, and her eyes were fastened on the scenes that imagination conjured up beyond the threshold. She lay awake looking at them, all beaming in the sunlight.

"Squire, can you keep a secret?"

James Harker, shoemaker to Three-Sisters, sat in front of his shop, smoking, when Gill addressed him. The title flattered him, coming from so influential a person. He was a candidate for the office of Justice of the Peace. At the polls on the following Tuesday – the McAnay ball was on Wednesday – it would be decided whether Squire Parsons should retain the right to issue warrants and summon law-breakers before him, or have only the dignity of the title, while James Harker, formerly shoemaker, occupied the office and received the fees.

Jim looked piqued by Gill's question.

"Keep a secret? Humph! do yer take me fer a woman?"

Gill laughed and stroked his mustache. "I'll bet you ten dollars if I was to tell you a secret that you couldn't keep it an hour."

"Ten dollars is skeerce with me, Gill; but I'll hev ter go yer thet much anyhow."

From somewhere in his clothes Jim produced a greasy wallet, which he opened. He took from it a ten-dollar gold piece. Gill promptly mated it, but modified the time.

"An hour's too short a time for a fair test."

Jim replaced the money in his wallet. Gill tossed his gold piece into the air, caught it as it fell, balanced it on the tip of his finger, and said:

"Jim, how would you like to have this shiner for your first wedding-fee?"

Jim's eyes dilated.

"Well, yer wouldn't think I'd objec', would yer?"

Gill laughed and slipped the coin into his pocket. Jim's face betrayed his eagerness for the gold.

"Let's go into the shop. I've something particular to say to you," said Gill.

They entered, and Jim shut the door. Gill dropped into the shoemaker's seat and laid the lap-board on his knees.

"Do you know, Jim, that Squire Parsons is going to be hard to beat?"

Jim sat down on a stool and drew a heavy breath, which was an admission that he was of that opinion.

Gill had a knife in his hand and was cutting a piece of leather into strips. The shoemaker, too cunning to force the conversation, looked on in silence. Finally Gill said: "But I believe we can do it, Jim."

"Think so?" Jim asked carelessly.

Gill took another piece of leather and, after whetting the knife on the side of the bench, began cutting a shoe-string. When he finished it, he said:

"Jim, if you will promise to do me a favor, I'll elect you."'

Without looking up, or waiting for an answer, he began cutting another string, running the knife dextrously around the circular piece of leather. With great difficulty Jim restrained a promise to do anything Gill might ask. He began to feel his way cautiously.

"If it be in my power as an honest jedge."

"I am not in the habit of asking impossibilities."

Gill was pointing the ends of the shoe-strings, and appeared very indifferent as to whether Squire Parsons remained in office or not. His coolness proved too much for the shoemaker, whose greed had been greatly excited. He leaped to his feet and held up his right hand.

"I'll do it. I swear I will."

"Sit down, Jim, and keep cool. This is to be a bargain, and bargains made in cold blood are surest kept."

Jim resumed his seat and stared in amazement at Gill, who, sure of his man, seemed to take interest only in the shoe-strings he held before him.

"Guess I'll send these to Squire Parsons with your compliments, Jim, as a hint that we'll string him up."

A poor attempt at wit, but it had the desired effect, and Jim was soon as calm as Gill could desire. Then he threw the shoe-strings away and proceeded to business.

"I mean to elect you Justice of the Peace, Jim. That office will materially increase your income. In return for my exertions in your behalf, I expect you to marry me. You will be elected on Tuesday. On Wednesday night you will meet me at the church and unite me to the woman of my choice. I will pay you a fee and, besides, will bet you twenty dollars in gold that you will be the first to tell of a marriage which for good reasons my intended wife and I desire to be kept secret for some time."

Jim rose, delighted that the favor asked of him would be so easily granted.

"Say, Gill, thet's all right; yer needn't make the bet. Yer jist 'lect me squire, an' I'll marry yer fer nuthin' and never tell a soul."

"But I think I'll win, that's why I want to bet."

"Well, then, I'll jist take yer up."

"All right; it's a wager."

His business completed, Gill returned to the store.

Squire Parsons was defeated by two votes, and great was the astonishment in Three-Sisters, where everybody believed that John Gillfillan, clerk of the election, was a surety against fraud.

But Gill gave little thought to the deceit that had placed Jim Harker in the office of Justice of the Peace, for he had a weightier matter on his mind – theft. For more than two years he had been stealing systematically from the cash-box, and protected himself from discovery by false entries in the books. The money thus obtained he had lost at the gaming-table during his semi-annual visits to the city for the purpose of buying goods. As soon as he got back to the store he began thieving again in small amounts, in order to accumulate capital for another venture when he next visited the city.

Luck having been so persistently against him, he had determined to learn the art of juggling with cards, and purchased a book of instruction in that line. With this open before him and a pack of cards in his hands he sat in his daintily furnished room on the night of the election. He continued to shuffle and cut the cards until near midnight, when he rose, muttering as he concealed the pack and book:

"I think that practice will make me an expert at cards, and I'll win next time; but I don't propose to risk much longer the chances of being caught by Colonel Hornberger. Something has got to happen to those books, or they will tell on me."

CHAPTER III.

IN SUGAR CAMP HOLLOW

Gill did not caution Lizzī to keep their engagement secret. He knew she would, for every true woman enjoys alone for a short time the knowledge that her love is reciprocated. She does not hasten to tell that she has had a proposal and accepted it. To her such conduct seems eagerness to boast of a good bargain. And Gill reckoned rightly when he esteemed Lizzī a true woman.

He did not speak of his intended marriage to any one but Jim Harker. It did not occur to Lizzī that he was trying to see as little of her as possible. Very busy at opening and marking the fall invoice of new goods, he saw her only when he passed the Block on his way to the warehouse, or when she came to the store. On these occasions he was very gallant, and addressed her with a meaning in his tones and looks that her heart quickly interpreted.

Sugar Camp Hollow was the shortest cut from Three-Sisters to the farm on which an uncle of Lizzī lived. It was a long, deep ravine, where grew great towering pines and graceful sugar-maples. These latter gave it the name. Every spring there was a sugar-boiling at the mouth of the hollow. In the fall and winter the deer herded in the laurel thickets near the top of the mountain. A narrow path ran the length of the ravine, and from a spring near the mountain-top a noisy brook rolled to the mountain's foot and tumbled into the river.

Lizzī's aunt was ill, and, on the Sunday following her engagement, Lizzī, with a basket full of good things, went to visit her. The day was very still, and she enjoyed the deep silence of the woods, broken only by the rustling of the dead leaves as she stepped lightly on them. Sometimes she paused to let the quiet rest her.

As she turned a sharp bend in the path she discovered Gill waiting for her, and uttered an exclamation of glad surprise. Putting down the basket, she let him fold her in his arms. Her heart beat quickly and strongly. He felt it throb, and a thrill startled his steady nerves. Lifting her head from his shoulder, he took her face in both hands and drew it slowly closer to his, feasting his eyes on it. She looked a quick protest and then yielded. A flush mantled her cheeks.

He would have repeated the kiss, but she would not let him. Repetition would be profanation in her eyes and he understood her refusal. Ever after in her life she regarded that first kiss as sacred.

Usually his manner was lightsome, but to-day it was subdued.

"Why have you got such a long face, John? Ain't you glad to see me?"

"Of course I am."

He pressed her hand and looked away from her. The sad smile on his face was succeeded by an expression of dejection.

"Sit down on this log and tell me what's the matter."

Gill sat on the log and looked down the mountain-side to the village below. Lizzī took a seat close to him, and waited for his confidence. Apparently he was hesitating.

"What am I for if you can't tell me your troubles?" she asked impulsively, and caught him by the arm.

Thus encouraged, Gill said:

"I had a letter from mother, yesterday."

She withdrew her hand quickly, sat erect and waited for him to continue, ready to become intensely jealous of that mother, who was probably some selfish old woman that would not let her son marry.

Gill took from his pocket a neatly folded, daintily perfumed letter, the chirography of which was like steel-engraving. From it he read:

"'There are indications in your letter just received and read with the eagerness of a mother homesick for her only child, that your affections for the first time in your life are feeling with restless tendrils for a place to cling to in another woman's heart.'"

Gill could see from the corner of his eye the resolute expression melt on Lizzī's face and a gentle glow of color appear on her cheeks, while a soft look suffused her eyes. He continued:

"'Now I hasten to warn you. I care not how beautiful, how accomplished the woman is who enthralls you; if I hear again of this – rather, I should say, that if you do not write to me that you are free, I shall make my will according to your father's directions.'"

Lizzī had placed one arm on his shoulder and was reading the beautifully written lines, breathlessly looking for the threat she knew they embodied. When she saw it she rose to her feet, and passed her hand quickly over her eyes as if to brush away something that prevented her from seeing clearly. Gill stood up too, and, grasping her shoulder with one hand, gave her a little shake.

"Don't you see, Lizzī? I have been in love with you for a long time and gave mother a hint to learn her opinion, and then before the reply came, my heart broke from its bonds, and I told you my love."

"Yes?" said Lizzī, interrogatively.

"And then I got this letter, threatening to disinherit me, as my father directed I should be if I married without my mother's consent."

"Yes?" again the plaintive interrogation. Then by a sudden great effort she overcame the doubt that had for the moment shackled her. She loosed his grasp, picked up the basket, and, standing erect with one foot advanced, a queen abdicating a throne, said:

"Write to her you are free."

"But I will not."

His reply was positive. He stood before her, blocking her way, himself aroused to earnestness that needed no affectation, for it was honest. He had just discovered how unselfish a woman's love can be, and reckoned upon it as the last means of retaining his promised wife.

"See," and he tore into bits the beautiful letter. "Thus do I leave my mother for you, Elizabeth; but it will break her heart, it will shorten her life."

His head drooped, his chin touched his chest. Lizzī was touched by his grief, and for him had great compassion. She still held the basket on her left bended arm. With her free hand she gave his forehead a quivering pressure.

"Wait, John, till your mother dies; then I will be your wife."

"I cannot. I will not!"

He lifted his hand determinedly. She still held the basket, her right hand clasping the left, her posture signifying that she was pausing for him to let her pass. He gave her an imploring look, but she was inflexible. Her face had assumed a softened yet determined expression. Regret and resolve had mingled their lines and gave her features a sad tenderness. She was merciful, yet resolute.

Gill pulled aside the overhanging branch of a tree and bowed to let her pass.

A sigh parted her lips as she gave him her hand in farewell. He seized it eagerly and held it firmly. She endeavored to take it from him, but not rudely. He loosed his grasp slightly and his hold became clinging in its significance. Her bursting heart, for she was giving up her life to her pride, rightly interpreted the meaning of this change in the pressure of his hand, and she thought of the tendrils spoken of in his mother's letter. Yes, they clung to her heart, and she could not roughly tear them away. So she lingered.

He gave her hand a pull, bending it until the wrist would not give way. Holding it thus, he said despairingly.

"I thought, Lizzī, you could arrange it some way."

He tried to lift her hand to his lips, but her wrist was firm.

"Can't you help me, Lizzī?"

The wrist yielded, her hand was at his lips. She let him kiss it, and then set down her basket.

Gill knew he had won. But she would have her hand free, for that would give her a feeling of independence. At the first hint he released it. She interlocked it with the other and looked meditatively at the ground, moving a loose stone with the toe of her shoe.

"I don't like bein' married as if I was ashamed of it."

She was suggesting a clandestine marriage, just what he wanted. He met the question frankly.

"It does look cowardly in me to ask such a thing; but if I get that money, I could buy an interest in the furnaces from Colonel Hornberger, and we could live as well as they do."

"It would be nice to have a home like the Hornbergers'. If we was rich, I'd want long hair. Guess it will grow, though;" and she ran one hand through it, shaking it out.

"I like it better as it is," and he played with it too.

"Do you, dear? Then I'll never have it long again."

"And your father is old enough to quit working. We could give him and your mother a good home, and I'd help Levi become a lawyer. We could do lots of things if we had mother's money. She is old and won't live long, perhaps a couple of years."

"Let us wait for two years."

"No, I will not. If you do not marry me, I will go away."

"John, would you marry me and give up the money – marry me before people and send your mother word?"

"I would, indeed."

"Then I will marry you and not let people know."

"Thank you, sweetheart. You are so good!"

He would have kissed her again, but she would not let him. Her heart was sore at having consented to a secret marriage.

"Let us be married on Wednesday night after prayer-meeting."

"Oh! I couldn't get a new dress by that time."

Gill laughed at her vanity.

"I thought you looked the prettiest I ever saw you on your birthday."

"Would you like me to wear that dress?"

"Yes, dear."

"I will if you want me to, but I must hurry to aunt's, or she'll think I'm lost."

Gill lifted the heavy basket and went with her.

The gentle autumn day was asleep on the crazy patchwork quilt spread over the vast mountains, and the lovers walked along in silence, lest they should disturb its rest.

CHAPTER IV.

THREE-SISTERS

It is one town and not three contiguous villages as its name might suggest. Three blast-furnaces stood on the bank of the river below the town. These Colonel Hornberger had named for his daughters, Martha, Sarah, and Henrietta. So the town that grew up near them came to be known as Three-Sisters, and was often spoken of as Three-Girls.

On all sides of it mountains, through which there were three gaps, rise precipitously. Through one of the gaps Boomer Creek, a clear and rapid stream, given to sudden rises, runs into the river, which is picturesque and famous, and almost encircles the town. Through another gap the river glides to the village, and by still another pursues its journey towards the sea.

Beginning above the town, and running parallel to the river, the race conducts the water to the huge wheels in the bellows-house and at the saw-mill.

The railroad runs to the left of the village, crossing the flat on which it is built, while the river flows to the right.

A long wooden covered bridge spans the river and race, and the island between them, and connects Three-Sisters with Boomer Creek Valley, in which are many farms that are gradually encroaching on the forests.

Many of the streets and alleys in the town were given high-sounding titles, but nearly all have their nicknames. The street on which the proprietor dwells is called Big-bug Avenue. There are Goose Street and Backbiter's Alley. Harmony Lane is where the worst wranglers in the village live. And there is the Block-of-Blazes, standing at the head of Big-bug Avenue, yet giving it the cold shoulder, for not a door of the Block opens, not a window looks, except askance, upon the Avenue.

The people of Three-Sisters, in the days of this story, were laborious, frugal, and patient; they had few grievances. Strikes were unheard of, and no trouble was fermented, except by the tavern whiskey, which flowed freely on Saturday nights, when there were frequent fights among the men.

The women were given to gossip, but were honest. Scandal was rare among them, and they prided themselves on being good cooks and tidy housewives.

CHAPTER V.

THE QUEEN'S WEDDING

"Weddin's-day."

Lizzī's happy thoughts would play upon the word Wednesday, and the gentle breeze in the pines above her made sweet accompaniment to the tuneful repetition.

She sat where Gill had said he would meet her, in the pine-grove at the edge of which stood the church. She had dressed and left home early, apparently for a walk, but now when the church-bell rung the call for prayer she was at the trysting-place.

"My wedding-bell," she murmured as the mellow solemn tones fell quivering on the air. When they ceased the echo floated to her, a far-away sound almost silence. Clasping her hands, she bowed her head in thankfulness.

"The angels up in heaven ring my weddin'-bell too, and that means John and I will be happy."

There was in this muscular daughter of the forest (she was born in a cabin in the woods) a gentle womanliness that was charming. As the hour drew near when she would give up her maiden name and freedom, she thought Time surely ought to go more slowly. He had taken his ease from Sunday until now, though she, running ahead, had pulled him along; but now, when only one short hour of her maidenhood was left, the contrary old fellow would run.

She blushed when, all too soon, she saw her promised husband enter the grove; and when he took her hand it trembled.

"What, Lizzī, not scared by the dark?"

The pressure he gave her hand and the light laugh that followed his words corrected their impression, and the sharp pain they caused was soothed by the knowledge that he really understood.

"What if it had been some other man going through the grove?" he asked.

"Then my hand wouldn't have shook."

It was the coming of the bridegroom that made her heart beat more quickly and her hand unsteady.

Gill repaid her for the pretty compliment with a kiss. Then they approached the church, which was wrapped in darkness.

Jim Harker, sexton and squire, had put out the lights after prayer-meeting was dismissed, and closed the shutters. Inside the church he was waiting.

Lizzī hesitated when, in answer to Gill's knock, the door was thrown open and she saw that the church was dark.

"Go in, Lizzī," said Gill. "We'll have a light as soon as the door is shut. If the church was lit up, somebody would see us go in, and come to peep to see what we was doin'."

She stepped into the close darkness. Gill followed, and Jim shut the door. Lizzī gave a little start when she heard the click of the latch, and a shiver ran over her. She was not frightened, only realizing that the door of her maiden life was closed behind her.

Squire Harker lighted two candles, and Lizzī's eyes blinked in the yellow light but soon they were able to pierce the semi-darkness, and to her surprise she could discover no preacher. She had thought him part of the romance. To no plan of Gill's had she objected after consenting to a secret marriage, but she had never dreamed otherwise than that the ceremony would be performed by a clergyman. When she saw Squire Harker, she supposed, because he was sexton, Gill had taken him into confidence and he was present because of his duties at the church, putting out the lights and locking it up.

Gill seemed as much astounded as she that there was no preacher present, and asked rather sharply why he had gone. Squire Harker replied that the preacher had been detained at the other end of the circuit by quarterly meeting.

"It's too confounded bad!" said Gill, angrily.

"It's bad luck to put off a weddin'," said Lizzī, disappointed.

"I think so, too," Gill remarked, and then asked, as if the idea had just struck him:

"Why not be married by the Squire?"

Lizzī, dressed in her best, demurred. She thought a church-wedding should be conducted by a preacher.

"A marriage ceremony performed by a Justice of the Peace is as binding and respectable as any churchman's," Gill urged.

"It's common-like, though," Lizzī replied; "but I'd be married by a squire rather than put it off."

"You will have to do it then," Gill said, in a tone that did not conceal his chagrin at having to be wedded by a Justice of the Peace.

While Squire Harker was gone for his books, pen, ink, and paper, which were concealed in a thorn-bush near the church, Lizzī sat silent in a pew and wondered if the angels would make merry over a church-wedding conducted by a squire.

When Squire Harker thought he had allowed himself time enough to get to his office and back, he tapped at the church door. Gill shaded the candles and called to him to enter. He closed the door and made a hat-peg of the key, the black slouch effectually preventing any peeping through the keyhole.

He took a position behind the table on which he had placed the candles, and Gill and Lizzī stood before it. The candles threw their weird shadows on the walls and ceiling of the low lecture-room. The shadows deepened and faded, advanced and retreated, nodded and bowed in the uncertain light from the candles which seemed to struggle against their own consumption, yet were never quite able to master the eating fire that at intervals flashed greedily.

The Squire took up the church book and began to read the ceremony, but Lizzī stopped him.