The story of A fourth of July.

Whenever one writes with photographic exactness of frontier life he is accused of inventing improbable things.

“Old Davy Lindsley” lived in a queer cabin on the Pomme de Terre River.  If you should ever ride over the new Northern Pacific when it shall be completed, or over that branch of it which crosses the Pomme de Terre, you can get out at a station which will, no doubt, be called for an old settler, Gager’s Station; and if you would like to see some beautiful scenery, take a canoe and float down the Pomme de Terre River.  You will have to make some portages, and you will have a good appetite for supper when you reach the old Lindsley house, ten miles from Gager’s, but its present owner is hospitable.

A queer old chap was Lindsley the last time I saw him.  I remember how he took me all over his claim and showed me the beauties of Lindsleyville, as he called it.  His long iron-gray hair fluttered in the wind, and his face seemed like a wizard’s, penetrating but unearthly.  That was long before the great tide of immigrants had begun to find their way into this paradise through the highway of the Sauk Valley.  Lindsleyville was a hundred and fifty miles out of the world at that time.  Its population numbered two - Lindsley and his daughter.  The old man had tried to make a fortune in many ways.  There was no sort of useless invention that he had not attempted, and you will find in the Patent Office models without number of beehives and cannons, steam cut-offs and baby jumpers, lightning churns and flying machines on which he had taken out patents, assured of making a fortune from each one.  He had raised fancy chickens, figured himself rich on two swarms of bees, traveled with a magic lantern, written a philosophic novel, and started a newspaper.  There was but one purpose in which he was fixed - which was, to guard his daughter jealously.  To do this, and to make the experiment of building a Utopian city, he had traveled to the summit of this knoll on the right bank of the Pomme de Terre.  There never was a more beautiful landscape than that which Lindsleyville commanded.  But the town did not grow, chiefly because it was so far beyond the border, though the conditions in his deeds intended to secure the character of the city from deterioration were so many that nobody would have been willing to buy the lots.

At the time I speak of David Lindsley had dwelt on the Pomme de Terre for five years.  He had removed suddenly from the Connecticut village in which he had been living because he discovered that his daughter had, in spite of his watchfulness, formed an attachment for a young man who had the effrontery to disclose the whole thing to him by politely asking his consent to their marriage.

“Marry my daughter!” choked the old man.  “Why, Mr. Brown, you are crazy!  I have educated her upon the combined principles of Rousseau, of Pestalozzi, of Froebel, and of Herbert Spencer.  And you - you only graduated at Yale, an old fogy mediaeval institution!  No, sir! not till I meet a philosopher whose mind has been symmetrically developed can I consent for my Emilia to marry.”

And the old man became so frantic, that, to save him from the madhouse, Emilia wrote a letter, at his dictation, to young Brown, peremptorily breaking off all relations; and he, a sensitive, romantic man, was heartbroken, and left the village.  He only sent a farewell to his friends the day before he was to sail from New Bedford on a whaling voyage.  He carried with him the impression that an unaccountable change of mind in Emilia had left no hope for him.

To prevent a recurrence of such an untoward accident as this, and, as he expressed it, “to bring his daughter’s mind into intimate relations with nature,” the fanatical philosopher established the town of Lindsleyville, determined that no family in which there was a young man should settle on his town plot, unless, indeed, the young man should prove to be the paragon he was looking for.

Emilia’s motherless life had not been a cheerful one, subjected to the ever-changing whims of a visionary father, with whom one of her practical cast of mind could have no point of sympathy.  And since she came to Lindsleyville it was harder than ever, for there was no neighbor nearer than Gager’s, ten miles away, and there was not a woman within fifty miles.  There is no place so lonesome as a prairie; the horizon is so wide, and the earth is so empty!

Lindsley had spent all his own money long ago, and it was only the small annuity of his daughter, inherited from her mother’s family, the capital of which was tied up to keep it out of his reach, that prevented them from starving.  Emilia was starving indeed, not in body, but in soul.  Cut off from human sympathy, she used to sit at the gable window of the cabin and look out over the boundless meadow until it seemed to her that she would lose her reason.  The wild geese screaming to one another overhead, the bald eagles building in the solitary elm that grew by the river, the flocks of great white pelicans that were fishing on the beach of Swan Lake, three miles away, were all objects of envy to the lonesome heart of the girl; for they had companions of their kind - they were husbands and wives, and parents and children, while she - here she checked her thoughts, lest she should be disloyal to her father.  To her disordered fancy the universe seemed to be a wheel.  The sun and the stars came up and went down over the monotonous sea of grass with frightful regularity, and she could not tell whether there was a God or not.  When she thought of God at all, it was as a relentless giant turning the crank that kept the sky going round.  The universe was an awful machine.  The prayers her mother taught her in infancy died upon her lips, and instead of praying to God she cried out to her mother.  Un-protestant as the sentiment is, I can not forbear saying that this talking to the dead is one of the most natural things in the world.  To Emilia the dimly remembered love of her mother was all of tenderness there was in the universe, the only revelation of God that had come to her, except the other love, which was to her a paradise lost.  For the great hard fate that turned the prairie universe round with a crank motion had also - so it seemed to her - snatched away from her the object of her love.  This disordered, faithless state was all the fruit she tasted of the peculiar education so much vaunted by her father.  She had eaten the husks he gave her and was hungry.

I said she had no company.  An old daguerreotype of her mother and a carefully hidden photograph (marked on the back, in a rather immature hand, “E.  Brown”) seemed to answer with looks of love and sympathy when she wetted them with her tears.  They were her rosary and her crucifix; they were the gifts of a beclouded life, through which God shone in dimly upon her.

This poor girl looked and longed so for the company of human kind that she counted those red-letter days on which a half-breed voyageur traveled over the trail in front of the house, and even a party of begging and beggarly Sioux, hungry for all they could get to eat, offering importunately to sell “hompoes” (moccasins) to her father, were not wholly unwelcome.  But the days of all days were those on which Edwards, the tall, long-haired American trapper, fished in the Pomme de Terre in sight of the Lindsley cabin.  On such occasions the old man Lindsley would leave his work and stay about the house, and watch jealously and uneasily every movement of the trapper.  On one or two occasions when that picturesque individual, wearing a wolf-skin cap, with the wolf’s tail hanging down between his shoulders, presented himself at the door of the cabin to crave some little courtesy, Lindsley closed the front door and brought out the article asked for from the back, like a mediaeval chieftain guarding his castle.  But all the time that poor Emilia could hear the voice of the tall trapper her heart beat two beats for one.  For was it not a human voice speaking her own language?  And the days on which he was visible were accounted as the gates of paradise, and the moments in which he spoke in her hearing were as paradise itself.

This churlish, inhospitable manner made Lindsley many enemies in a land in which one can not afford to have enemies.  Every half-breed hunter took the old man’s suspicious manner as a personal affront.  “He thinks we are horse thieves,” they said scornfully.  And Jacques Bourdon, the half-breed who had “filed on” the claim alongside Lindsley’s, and even claimed unjustly a “forty” of Lindsley’s town plot, had no difficulty in securing the sympathy of the settlers and nomads, who looked on Lindsley as a monster quite capable of anything.  He was even reported to have beaten his daughter, and to have confined her in the wilderness that he might keep her out of an immense fortune which she had inherited.  So Lindsley grew every day in disfavor in a region where unpopularity in its mildest form is sure to take a most unpleasant way of making itself known.  Emilia knew enough to understand this danger, and she was shaken with a nameless fear whenever she heard the sharp words that passed between her father and Bourdon, the half-breed.  The resentment of the latter reached its climax when the decision of the land office was rendered in favor of Mr. Lindsley.  From that hour the revenge of this man, whose hot French was mixed with relentless Indian blood, hung over the head of the old man, who still read and wrote, and invented and theorized, in utter ignorance of any peril except the danger that some man, not a fool, should marry his daughter.

The Fourth of July was celebrated at Gager’s.  People came from fifty miles round.  Patriotism?  No! but love of human fellowship.  The celebrated Pierre Bottineau and the other Canadians and half-breeds were there, mellowed with drink, singing the sensual and almost lewd French rowing songs their fathers had sung on the St. Lawrence.  “Whisky Jim,” the retired stage driver, and Hans Brinkerhoff and the other German settlers, with two or three Yankees, completed the slender crowd, which comprised almost the entire population of six skeleton counties.  And the ever-popular Edwards was among them, his grave face and flowing ringlets rising above them all.  A man so ready to serve anybody as he was idolized among frontiermen, whose gratitude is almost equal to their revenge.  Captain Oscar, the popular politician, who wore his hair long and swore and drank, just to keep in with his widely scattered constituents, whom he represented in the Minnesota Senate each winter (and who usually cast half a dozen votes each for him), made a buncombe speech, and then Edwards, who wouldn’t drink, but who knew how to tell strange stories, kept them laughing for half an hour.  Edwards was a type of man not so uncommon on the frontier as those imagine who think the trapper always a half-horse, half-alligator creature, such as they read of in the Beadle novels.  I knew one trapper who was a student of numismatics, another who devoted his spare time to astronomy, and several traders and trappers who were men of considerable culture, though they are generally men who are a little morbid or eccentric in their mental structure.  All Edwards’s natural abilities, which were sufficient to have earned him distinction had he been “in civilization,” were concentrated on the pursuits of his wild life, and such a man always surpasses the coarser and duller Indian or half-breed in his own field.

After a game of ball, and other sports imitated from the Indians, the bois brules began to be too much softened with whisky to keep up athletic exercises, and something in their manner led Edwards to suspect that there were other amusements on the programme into the secret of which he had not been admitted.

By adroit management he contrived to overhear part of a conversation in which “poudre a canon” was mixed up with the name of Linds_lee_.  He inferred that the blowing up of Lindsley’s house was to finish the celebration of the national holiday.  Treating Bourdon to an extra glass of whisky, and seasoning it with some well-timed denunciations of “the old monster,” he gathered that the plan was to plant a keg of powder under the chimney on the north side of the cabin and blow it to pieces, just to scare the monster out, or kill him and his daughter, it did not matter which.  Edwards praised the plan.  He said that if it were not that he had to go to Pelican Lake that very night he would go along and help blow up the old rascal.

Soon after this he shook hands all around and wished them bon voyage in their trip to Lindsleyville.  He winked his eyes knowingly, playing the hypocrite handsomely.  Oscar and Bottineau left in different directions, the Germans had gone home drunk, and only “Whisky Jim” joined the half-breeds in their trip.  They took possession of an immigrant team that was in Gager’s stable, and just after sunset started on their patriotic errand.  They were going to celebrate the Fourth by blowing up the tyrant.

Meantime Edwards had taken long strides, but his moccasin-clad feet were not carrying him in the direction of Pelican Lake.  Half the time walking as only “the long trapper” could walk, half the time in a swinging trot, he made the best possible speed toward Lindsleyville.  He had the start of the half-breeds, but how much he could not tell; and there was no time to be lost.  At the summit of every knoll he looked back to see if they were coming, crouching in the grass lest they should discover him.

Lindsley received him as suspiciously as ever, and positively refused to believe his story.  But by using his telescope Edwards soon convinced him that the party were just leaving Gager’s.  The dusk of the evening was coming on, and Lindsley’s fright was great as he realized his daughter’s peril.

“I will fight them to the death,” he said, getting down his revolver, with an air that would have done honor to Don Quixote.

“If you fight them and whip them, they will waylay you and kill you.  But there are ten of them, and if you fight them you will be killed, and this lady will be without a protector.  If you run away, the house will be destroyed, and you will be killed whenever you are found.  But what have you here - a magic lantern?”

The old gentleman had, before Edwards’s arrival, taken down the instrument to introduce some improvement which he had just invented.  When Edwards stumbled over it and called it a magic lantern he looked at him scornfully.

“A magic lantern!” he cried.  “No, sir; that is a dissolving view, oxy-calcium, panto-sciostereoscopticon.”

“With this we must save you and your daughter from the half-breeds,” said the trapper, a little impatient at this ill-timed manifestation of pedantry.  “Get ready for action immediately.”

“I have no oxygen gas.”

“Make it at once,” said Edwards.  He picked up some papers marked “chlor. potass.” and “black oxide.”

“Here is your material,” he said.

“Do you understand chemistry?” asked Lindsley.  But the trapper did not answer.  He got out the retort, and in five minutes the oxygen was bubbling furiously through the wash bottle into the India-rubber receiver.  Edwards stood at the window scanning the road toward Gager’s with his telescope until it grew dark, which in that latitude was at about ten o’clock.  Then the magic lantern was removed to the little grass-roofed stable, in which dwelt a solitary pony, and by Edwards’s direction the focus was carefully set so that it would throw a picture against the house.  Edwards selected two pictures and adjusted them for use in the two tubes.

The half-breeds were not in haste, and in all the long hour of suspense Emilia, hidden in the barn with her father and young Edwards, was positively happy.  For here was human companionship, and a hungry soul will gladly risk death if by that means companionship can be purchased.  It did not matter either that conversation was out of the question.  It is presence, and not talk, that makes companionship.

But hark! the bois brules are on the bank of the river below.  Emilia’s heart grew still as she heard them swear.  Their sacr-r-r-r-re rolled like the rattle of a rattlesnake.  They were coming up the hill, quarreling drunkenly about the powder.  Now they were between the house and the stable, getting ready to dig a hole for the “poudre a canon”

“I’ll give them fireworks!” said Edwards in a whisper.

A picture of Thorwaldsen’s bas-relief of “Morning” having been previously placed in the instrument, Edwards now removed the cap, and the beautiful flying female figure, with the infant in her arms, shone out upon the side of the house with marvelous vividness.

“By thunder!” said Whisky Jim, steadying himself, while every hair stood on end.

“Mon Dieu!” cried the bois brules, who had never seen a picture in their lives except in the cathedral of St. Boniface, at Fort Garry. “Mon Dieu!  La Sainte Vierge!” And they fell on their knees before this apparition of the Blessed Virgin, and crossed themselves and prayed lustily.

But “Whisky Jim” straightened himself up, and hiccoughed, and stammered “By thunder!” and added some words which, being Saxon, I will not print.

“The devil!” cried Jim, a minute later, starting down the hill at full speed, for, by Edwards’s direction, the light had been shifted to the other tube in such a way as to dissolve the “Morning” into a hideous picture of the conventional horned and hoofed devil.  The picture was originally meant to be comic, but it now set Jim to running for dear life.

“Oui, c’est lé diable! lé diable! lé diable!” cried the frantic bois brules, breaking off their invocations to the Virgin most abruptly, and fleeing pellmell down the hill after Jim, falling over one another as they ran.  Quick as a flash Edwards threw about him a sheet which he had ready, and pursued the fleeing Frenchmen.  Jim had already seized the reins, and, on the plan of “the devil take the hindmost,” was driving at a pace that would have done him credit in the Central Park, up the trail toward Gager’s, leaving the half-breeds to get on as best they could.  Bourdon stumbled and fell, and Edwards lavished some blows upon him that must have satisfied the bois brûle that ghosts have a most solid corporeal existence.

Then Edwards returned and captured the keg of powder.  He assured the Lindsleys that the superstitious half-breeds would never again venture within five miles of a house that was guarded by the Holy Virgin and the devil in partnership.  And they never did.  Even the Indians were afraid to approach the place, pronouncing it “Wakan,” or supernaturally inhabited.  They regarded Lindsley as a “medicine-man” of great power.

But what a night that was!  For Edwards stayed two hours, and made the acquaintance of Lindsley and his daughter.  And how he talked, while Emilia thought she had never known how heaven felt before; and the old man forgot his inventions, and did not broach more than twenty of his theories in the two hours.  He was so much interested in the tall trapper that he forgot the rest.  Edwards ate a supper set out by the hands of Emilia, and left at three o’clock.  He was at Pelican Lake next morning, and no man suspected his share in the affair except Gager, who had sense enough to say nothing.  And Emilia lay down and dreamed of angels about the house.  One was like Thorwaldsen’s “Morning,” and the other wore long hair and beard, and was very tall.

This abortive attempt to make a skyrocket out of Lindsley’s cabin wrought only good to Emilia at first.  The father was now wholly in love with the trapper.  He praised him at all hours.

“He is a philosopher, my daughter.  He understands chemistry.  He lives in the arcana of nature and reads her secrets.  No foolish study of the heathen classics; no training after mediaeval fashion in one of our colleges, which are anachronisms, has perverted his taste.  Here is the Emile worthy of my Emilia,” he would say, much to the daughter’s annoyance.

But when Edwards came the hours were golden.  Hanging his wolf-skin cap behind the door, and shaking back his long locks as he took his seat, he would entrance father and daughter alike with his talk of adventure.  From the time of his first visit new life came to the heart of Emilia; and Mr. Lindsley, whose every whim the trapper humored, was as much fascinated as his daughter.  But now commenced a fierce battle in the heart of Emilia.  Edwards loved her.  By all the speech that his eyes were capable of, he told her so.  And by all the beating of her own heart she knew that she loved the brown-faced, long-haired trapper in return.  But what about the fair-eyed student, who for very love and disappointment had gone to the arctic seas?  He was not at hand to plead his cause, and for this very reason her conscience pleaded it for him.  When her soul had fed on the words of the trapper as upon manna in the wilderness, she took up the old photograph and the eyes reproached her.  She shed bitter tears of penitence upon it for her disloyalty to the storm-tossed sailor, but rejoiced again when she saw the tall figure of the trapper coming down the trail.  A desolate and lonely heart can not live forever on the memory of a dead love.  And have ye not read what David did when he was an hungered?  Do not, therefore, reproach a starving soul for partaking of this feast in the desert.

And so Emilia tried to believe that Brown was long since dead - poor fellow!  She shed tears over an imaginary grave in Labrador with a great sense of comfort.  She tried to think that he had long since married and forgotten her, and she endeavored to nurse some feeble pangs of jealousy toward an imaginary wife.

Now it was very improper, doubtless, in Brown to come to life just at this moment.  One lover too many is as destructive to the happiness of a conscientious girl as one too few.  If Emilia had been trained in society, her joy at having two lovers would have had no alloy save her grief that there were not four of them.  But it was one of the misfortunes of her solitary and peculiar education that she had conscience and maidenly modesty.  Wherefore it was a source of bitter distress and embarrassment to her that, at the end of a long letter from a neighbor who had taken a notion after years of silence to write her all the gossip of the old village, she found these words:  “Your old friend Brown did not jump into the sea at grief for his rejection, after all.  He has written to somebody here that he is coming home.  I believe he said that he loved you all the same as ever.”

The greatest grief of Emilia was that she should have been so wicked as to be grieved.  Had she not prayed all these years, when she could pray at all, for the safety of the young student?  Had she not prayed against storms and icebergs?  And now that he was coming, her heart smote her as if he were a ghost of some one whom she had murdered!  Whether she loved him, or Edwards, or anybody, indeed she could not tell.  But she would do penance for her crime.  And so, when next she heard the quiet voice of “the long trapper” asking for her, she refused to see him, though the refusal all but killed her.

Poor Edwards!  How he paced the shore of Swan Lake all that night!  For when love comes into the soul of a solitary man it has all the force that all the thousand interests of life have to one in the busy world.  How terrible were the temptations that sometimes assailed the religious eremites we can never guess.

Sunset of the next day found Edwards in the Red River Valley, far on his way toward Fort Garry, bent on spending the rest of his life as a “free trader” in British America.  As for Emilia, she was now in total darkness.  The sun had set, and the moon had not appeared.  Brown might be dead, or she might not love him, or he might never find her.  And she had thrown away her paradise, and there was only blackness left.

Edwards had already come within a few miles of Georgetown, where he was to take passage in that strangest of all the craft that ever frightened away the elk, the little seven-by-nine steamer Anson Northrup, when, as he was striding desperately along the trail, he was suddenly checked by a thought.  He stood five minutes in indecision, then turned and began to walk rapidly in the opposite direction.  At Breckinridge he found a stage, and getting out at Gager’s he went down the trail toward Lindsley’s.

Now Davy Lindsley had been in a terrible state of ferment.  When he had found the philosopher, “the uncontaminated child of Nature, the self-educated combination of civilized and savage man,” his daughter had perversely refused him, and the old man had taken the disappointment so to heart that he was in a state bordering on frenzy.

“Misfortune always pursues me!” he began, when he met Edwards under the hill.  “Fifty times I have been near achieving some great result, and my ill luck has spoiled it all.  You see me a broken-hearted man.  To have allied my family with a child of Nature like yourself would have given me the greatest joy.  But - how shall I express my grief?” And here the old man struck a pathetically tragic attitude and drew out his handkerchief, weeping with a profound self-pity.

“Mr. Lindsley, do you know why Miss Lindsley has become so suddenly displeased with me?” asked the trapper, trembling.

“Miss Lindsley, sir, is perverse.  It is the one evil trait that my enlightened system of education, drawn from Rousseau, Pestalozzi, Froebel, and Herbert Spencer, and combined by my own genius - it is the one evil trait that my system has failed to eradicate.  She is perverse.  I fear, sir, she is yet worshiping the image of a misguided youth who, filled and puffed up with the useless learning of the schools, ventured to address her.  I am the most unfortunate of men.”

“Mr. Lindsley, can I see your daughter alone?”

The old man thought he could.  But she was very perverse.  In truth, that very morning Emilia had, in a sublime spirit of self-immolation, vowed that she would love none but the long-lost lover, and that if Brown never came back she would die heroically devoted to him, and thus she had sacrificed to her conscience and it was appeased.  But right atop this vow came the request of Edwards for an interview.  Was ever a girl so beset?  Could she trust herself?  On thinking it over she was afraid not; so that it was only by much persuasion that she was prevailed on to grant the request.

While Edwards talked she could but listen, frightened all the time at the faintness of her solemn resolution, which had seemed so irrevocable when she made it.  He frankly demanded the reason for her change of conduct toward him.  And she, like an honest and simple-hearted girl, told the other love story with a trembling voice, while Edwards listened with eyes downcast.

“This was five years ago?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And the young man’s name?”

“Was Edward Brown.”

“Curious!  I think,” he said slowly, pausing as if to get breath and keep his self-control, “I think, if my hair were cut off short and parted on one side as Edward Brown wore his, instead of in the middle, and if my whiskers were shaven off, and if the tan of five years’ exposure were gone from my face, and if I were five years younger, and two inches shorter, I think - ” He paused here and looked at her.

“Please say the rest quickly,” she said in a faint whisper.  For the setting sun was streaming in at the west window upon the face of the trapper.  His hair was thrown back, and he was looking into her eyes with a look she had never seen before.  But he dropped his head upon his hand now and looked at the floor.

“It might be,” he spoke musingly, “it might be that Edward Brown failed to reach his ship in time at New Bedford, and changed his mind and came here, and that after Emilia came he watched this house day and night till his heart came nigh to bursting.  But I was going to say,” he said, rousing himself, “that in case the years and the tan and the hair could be taken off, and this trapper coat changed into one of finer cut and material, and the name reversed, that Browne Edwards, the trapper, would be nearer of kin than a twin brother to Edward Brown, the broken-hearted student.”

What Emilia did just here I do not know, and if I did I should not tell you.  To faint would have been the proper thing.  But, poor girl! her education had been neglected, and I think she did not faint.  When the old philosopher came in he was charmed with the situation, and that evening, when they two walked together on the bank of the Pomme de Terre, Emilia pointed to the stars, and said:  “Do you know that in all these years God has seemed to me a cruel monster turning a crank?  And to-night every star seems to be an eye through which God is looking at me, as my mother used to.  I feel as though God were loving me.  See, the stars are laughing in my face!  Now I love Him as I did my mother.  And to-night I am going to read that curious story about Christ at the wedding.”

For God, who is love, loves to find his way to a human heart through love.  And Edwards, who had been in bitterness and rebellion during the years of his exile, listened now to the voice of love as to that of an angel whom God had sent out of heaven to bring him back home again.

Mr. Lindsley is an invalid now.  Lindsleyville belongs to Browne Edwards and his wife.  And old Davy has made a will on twenty quires of legal cap, bequeathing to his son-in-law all his right, title, and interest in certain and sundry patents on churns, cannons, beehives, magic lanterns, flying machines, etc., together with some extraordinary secret discoveries.  The old gentleman is slowly dying in the full conviction that he is bequeathing the foundation of an immense fortune to his son-in-law, and more wisdom to the world than has been contributed to its stock by all that have gone before.  And he often reminds Emilia that she has to thank him for getting so good a husband.  If it hadn’t been for him she might have married that sickly student.

1871.