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Transcriber's note


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THE LOVE STORY OF ABNER STONE




   THE LOVE STORY

   OF

   ABNER STONE

   _By_
   EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY



   NEW YORK
   A. S. BARNES AND COMPANY
   MCMII




   _Copyright, 1902_
   BY A. S. BARNES AND COMPANY
   _Published June, 1902_

   ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

   REPRINTED JULY, 1902

   UNIVERSITY PRESS. JOHN WILSON
   AND SON. CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.




TO HER




Preface


It seems a little strange that I, Abner Stone, now verging upon my
seventieth year, should bring pen, ink, and paper before me, with the
avowed purpose of setting down the love story of my life, which I had
thought locked fast in my heart forever. A thing very sacred to me; of
the world, it is true, yet still apart from it, the blessed memory of it
all has abode in my breast with the unfading distinctness of an old
picture done in oils, and has brightened the years I have thus far lived
on the shadowed <DW72> of life. And now has come the firm belief that the
world may be made better by the telling of this story--as my life has
been made better by having lived it--and so I shall essay the brief and
simple task before my fingers have grown too stiff to hold the pen,
trusting that some printer of books will be good enough to put my story
into a little volume for all who would care to read. And I, as I pursue
the work which I have appointed unto myself, shall again stroll through
the meadows and forests of dear Kentucky, shall tread her dusty highways
under the spell of a bygone June, and shall sit within the portals of an
old home whose floors are now pressed by an alien foot. Now, ere I have
scarce begun, the recollections come upon me like a flood, and this page
becomes blurred to my failing sight. O Memory! Memory! and the visions
of thine!




THE LOVE STORY _of_ ABNER STONE




I


It is a long path which stretches from forty-five to seventy. A path
easy enough to make, for each day's journey through life is a part of
it, but very difficult to retrace. When we turn at that advanced
mile-stone and look back, things seem misty. For there is many a twist
and angle in the highway of a life, and often the things which we would
forget stand out the clearest. But I would not drive from my brain this
quiet afternoon the visions which enfold it,--the blessed recollections
of over a score of years ago. For the sweet voice which speaks in my
ear as I write I have never ceased to hear; the face which the mirror of
my mind ever reflects before my eyes I have looked upon with
never-tiring eagerness, and the tender hand which I can imagine betimes
creeping into my own, is the chiefest blessing of a life nearly spent.

There is no haunting memory of past misdeeds to shadow the quiet rest of
my last days. As I bid my mind go back over the path which my feet have
trod, no ghost uprises to confront it; no voice cries out for
retribution or justice; not even does a dumb animal whine at a blow
inflicted, nor a worm which my foot has wantonly pressed, appear. I
would show forth no self-praise in this, but rather a devout
thankfulness unto the Creator who made me as I am, with a heart of mercy
for all living things, and a reverent love for all His wonderful works.
The beauty of tree, and flowering plant, and lowly creeper abides with
me as an everlasting joy, and the song of the humblest singer the forest
shelters finds a response in my heart. Without my window now, as I sit
down to make a history of part of my life, a brown-coated English
sparrow is chattering in a strange jargon to his mate on the limb of an
Early Harvest apple tree, and I pause a moment to listen to his shrill
little voice, and to watch the black patch under his throat puff up and
down.

It is the fall of the year, and the afternoon is gray. At times an arrow
of sunlight breaks through the shields of clouds, and kisses the brown
earth with a quivering spot of light. Across the sloping, unkept lawn,
about midway between the house and the whitewashed gate leading from the
yard, a rabbit hops, aimlessly, his back humped up, and his white tail
showing plainly amid his sombre surroundings. I can see the muscles
about his nostrils twitching, as he stops now and again to nibble at a
withered tuft of grass. A lonely jay flits from one tree to another; a
cardinal speeds by my window, a line of color across a dark background;
and one by one the dry leaves drop noiselessly down, making thicker the
soft covering which Nature is spreading over the breast of Mother Earth.

It may be that I shall not see the resurrection of another spring. Each
winter that has passed for the last few years has grown a little harder
for me, and my breathing becomes difficult in the damp, cold weather.
Perhaps my eyes shall not again behold the glorious flood of light and
color which follows the footsteps of spring; perhaps when the earth is
wrapped once more in its mantle of leaves they shall lie over my breast
as well. For man's years upon this earth are measured in Holy Writ as
threescore and ten, and come December fourth next, I shall have lived my
allotted time. My ways have not all been ways of pleasantness, nor all
my paths peace. But I am glad to have lived; to have known the hopes of
youth and the trials of manhood. To have felt within my soul that
emotion which rules the earth and the universes, and which is Heaven's
undefiled gift to Man. From books I have gained knowledge; from the
lessons of life I have learned wisdom; from love I have found the way
which leads to life eternal.

Old age is treacherous, and it comes to me now that maybe I have delayed
my work too long. For the mind of age does not move with the nimbleness
of a young colt, but rather with the labored efforts of a beast of
burden whose limbs are stiff from a life of toil. But this I know, that
there is a period in my existence which the years cannot dim. I have
lived it over again and again, winter and summer, summer and winter,
here in my quiet country home among the hills. There has been nothing to
my life but that; first, the living of it, and then the memory of it.

It is my love story.




II


In the spring of 1860, I was a lodger in a respectable boarding-house on
Chestnut Street, in Louisville. My father--God rest his soul--had passed
away ten years before, and I was able to live comfortably upon the
income of my modest inheritance, as I was his sole child, and my dear
mother was to me but an elusive memory of childhood. Sometimes, in still
evenings just before I lit my student's lamp, and I sat alone musing, I
would catch vague glimpses of a sweet, pure face with calm, gray
eyes--but that was all. No figure, no voice, not even her hair, but
sometimes my mind would picture an aureole around her head. I have
often wondered why she was taken from me before I could have known her,
but I have also striven not to be rebellious. But she must have been an
unusual woman, for my father never recovered from her loss, and to the
day of his death he wore a tress of her hair in a locket over his heart.
I have it now, and I wear it always.

I was of a timid disposition, and retiring nature, and so my
acquaintances were few, and of close friends I had not one. My mornings
and evenings were spent with my books, and in the afternoons I took
solitary walks, often wandering out into the country, if the weather was
fine, for the blue sky had a charm for me, and I loved to look at the
distant hills,--the hazy and purple undulations which marked the
horizon. And Nature was never the same to me. Always changing, always
some beauty before undiscovered bursting on my sight, and her limitless
halls were full of paintings and of songs of which I would never tire.
Then, as evening closed in, and I would reluctantly turn back to my
crowded quarters, the sordid streets and the cramped appearance of
everything would fret me, and almost make me envious of the sparrow
perched on the telegraph wire over my head. For he, at least, was lifted
above this thoughtless, hurrying throng among which I was compelled to
pass, and the piteous, supplicating voice of the blind beggar at the
corner did not remind him that even thus he might some day become. And
thus, when my feet brought me to the line of traffic, as I returned
home, I would unconsciously hasten my steps, for the moil and toil of a
city's strife I could not bear.

In the spring of 1860, these long walks to the country became more
frequent. I had been cooped up for four rigorous months, a
predisposition to taking cold always before me as a warning that I must
be careful in bad weather. And the confines of a fourteen by eighteen
room naturally become irksome after weeks and weeks of intimate
acquaintance. It is true there were two windows to my apartment. A
glance from one only showed me the side of a house adjoining the one in
which I stayed, but the other gave me a view of a thoroughfare, and by
this window I sat through many a bleak winter day, watching the
passers-by. One night there was a sleet, and when I looked out the next
morning, everything was covered in a gray coat of ice. A young maple
grew directly under my window, and its poor head was bent over as though
in sorrow at the treatment it had to endure, and its branches hung
listlessly in their icy case, with a frozen raindrop at the end of each
twig. The sidewalks were treacherous, and I found some amusement in
watching the pedestrians as they warily proceeded along the slippery
pavement, most of them treading as though walking on egg-shells. There
went an old gentleman who must have had business down town, for I had
seen him pass every day. This morning he carried a stick in his hand,
and I discovered that it was pointed with some sharp substance that
would assist him, for every time he lifted it up, it left a little white
spot in the coating of ice. There went a schoolboy, helter-skelter,
swinging his books by a strap, running and sliding along the pavement in
profound contempt for its dangers. A jaunty little Miss with fur wraps
and veiled face, but through the thin obstruction I could plainly see
two rosy cheeks, and a pair of dancing eyes. Her tiny feet, likewise,
passed on without fear, and she disappeared. Heaven grant they may rest
as firm on every path through life!

Next came an aged woman, who moved with faltering feet, and always kept
one hand upon the iron fence enclosing the small yard, as a support.
Each step was taken slowly, and with trepidation, and I wished for the
moment that I was beside her, to lend her my arm. Some errand of mercy
or dire necessity called her forth on such a perilous venture, and I
felt that, whatever the motive be, it would shield her from mishap. And
so they passed, youth and age, as the day wore on. In the afternoon the
old gentleman re-passed, and I saw that his back was a little more
stooped, and he leaned heavier on his stick. For each day adds weight to
the shoulders of age.

And now a miserable cur came sniffing along the gutter on the opposite
side of the street. His ribs showed plainly through his dirty yellow
coat, the scrubby hair along his back stood on end, and his tail was
held closely between his legs. And so he tipped along, half-starved,
vainly seeking some morsel of food. He stopped and looked up, shivering
visibly as the cold wind pierced him through and through, then trotted
to the middle of the street, and began nosing something lying there. A
handsome coupe darted around the corner, taking the centre of the road.
The starving cur never moved, so intent was he on obtaining food, and
thus it happened that a pitiful yelp of pain reached my ears, muffled by
the closed window. The coupe whirled on its journey, and below, in the
chill, desolate grayness of a winter afternoon, an ugly pup sat howling
at the leaden skies, his right foreleg upheld, part of it dangling in a
very unnatural manner. A pang of compassion for the dumb unfortunate
stirred in my breast, but I sat still and watched. He tried to walk, but
the effort was a failure, and again he sat down and howled, this time
with his meagre face upturned to my window. The street was empty, as far
as I could see, for twilight was almost come, and cheery firesides were
more tempting than slippery pavements and stinging winds. The muffled
tones of distress became weaker and more despairing, and I could endure
them no longer. I quickly arose and cast off my dressing-gown and
slippers. In less than a minute I had on shoes, coat, and great-coat,
and was quietly stealing down the stairs. Tenderly I took the shivering,
whining form up in my arms, casting my eyes around and breathing a sigh
of relief that no one had seen, and thanking my stars, as I entered my
room, that I had not encountered my landlady, who had a great aversion
to cats and dogs.

It was little enough of surgery I knew, veterinary or otherwise, but a
simpleton could have seen that a broken leg was at least one of the
injuries my charge had suffered. I laid the dirty yellow object down on
the heavy rug before the fire, and he stopped the whining, and his
trembling, too, as soon as the soothing heat began to permeate his
half-frozen body. I knew there was a pine board in my closet, and from
this I made some splints and bound up the broken limb as gently as I
could, but my fingers were not very deft nor my skill more than
ordinary, and as a consequence a few fresh howls were the result. But at
last it was done, and then I made an examination of the other limbs,
finding them as nature intended they should be, with the exception of a
few scars and their unnatural boniness. So I got one of my old coats and
made a bed on the corner of the hearth, to which I proceeded to
transfer my rescued cur. He was grateful, as dogs ever are for a
kindness, and licked my hands as I put him down. And he found strength
somehow to wag his tail in token of thankfulness, so I felt repaid for
my act of mercy, and very well satisfied. A surreptitious visit to the
dining-room resulted in a purloined chunk of cold roast beef, and two or
three dry, hard biscuits, which I found in the corner of a cupboard. Thus
laden with my plunder, I started back, and in the hall came face to face
with my boarding-house mistress.

"Why, Mr. Stone, what in the world!" she began, before I could open my
mouth or put my hands behind my back.

"I--that is--Mrs. Moss, I have a friend with me to-night who is very
eccentric. He has been out in the cold quite a while, and he dislikes
meeting strangers, so that I thought I would let him thaw out in my
room while I came down and got us a little bite. You needn't expect us
at supper, for I have enough here for both."

"If it pleases you, Mr. Stone, I have no objections. But I should be
glad to send your meals to your room as long as your friend remains."

I had reached the foot of the stair, and was now going up it.

"He leaves to-morrow, Mrs. Moss,--I think. Thank you for your kindness,"
and I dodged into my room and shut the door.

My charge was waiting where I had left him, with bright eyes of
anticipation. I took a newspaper and spread it on the floor close up to
him, and depositing the result of my foraging expedition on this, I
stood up and watched him attack the beef with a vigor I did not suppose
he possessed.

"Enjoy it, you little wretch!" I muttered, as he bolted one mouthful
after another. "I came nearer telling a lie for you, than I ever did in
my life before."

Then I made myself comfortable again, drew up my easy-chair, and lit my
lamp, and with pipe and book beguiled the hours till bed-time.




III


I named him Fido, after much deliberation and great hesitancy. My
principal objection to this name was that nearly every diminutive dog
bore it, but then it was old fashioned, and I had a weakness for
old-fashioned things, if this taste could be spoken of in such a manner.
I had really intended setting him adrift after his leg was strong, but
during the days of his convalescence I became so strongly attached to
him that I completely forgot my former idea. He was great company for
me, and after I had given him several baths, and all he could eat every
day, he wasn't such a bad-looking dog, after all. The hair on his back
lay down now, and his pinched body rounded out till I began to fear
obesity