20. XX.
FIRST LOVE.
GEORGE pushed his horse gaily up the mountain
road, and ere long reached the spur upon which
was situated the cabin of his singular host of the
day before.
As he approached it he observed above the great rock in
rear, a light cloud of smoke which puzzled him greatly. It
plainly did not issue from the chimney of the house; and as
no outbuildings were attached to the cabin, the smoke could
not be that of the kitchen. Still, there it was: an unmistakable
cloud, rising slowly it seemed from the very fissure
of the great mass of rock, and gently floating away among
the fir trees.
George was still occupied with this singular phenomenon,
when all at once a form appeared at the door of the house
which routed all his speculations, and gave him something
else to think about.
It was the figure of Cannie: and in an instant the youth
had thrown himself from his horse, and held in his own one
of the soft hands of the girl, which she abandoned to him
with her old air of grave sweetness and simplicity. There
was much less constraint in her air now, however, than at
first. She had evidently become acquainted with George:
and thus her greeting was more familiar and unceremonious.
“I'm so glad you have come!” she said simply, “I did not
expect to see you so soon.”
“I thought you might be sick from your wetting,” he
replied with a smile, as he looked into the pure sweet face.
Cannie smiled in return.
“Oh no!” she said, “I am very well, I think, though I
certainly have caught cold—but I am subject to colds.”
With which she coughed slightly; and led the way into
the house.
“I don't see your father,” said George, “is he absent?”
“He is my grandfather,” returned Cannie, in her low,
musical voice; “and he is not far—shall I call him?”
“Oh no! unless you're already very tired of me—Cannie.”
George uttered the girl's name with a slight tremor in his
voice; and the tell-tale blood rushed to his cheek as he
gazed at her. Cannie exhibited no similar emotion—indeed
seemed, rather, very much pleased at this absence of ceremony.
“I beg your pardon for my familiarity,” said George,
blushing. “I scarcely knew I was speaking so—calling you
plain `Cannie.' ”
“Beg my pardon?” said the girl, in a tone of surprise,
“why should you? I wish you always to call me Cannie, if
you please. We are friends—and you know that you saved
my life.”
The words were uttered very simply and sweetly,—so
sweetly indeed that George heard the tones of her voice
many hours afterwards. His confusion disappeared entirely
ere long: and proposing to Cannie a stroll on the mountain
side—a proposition to which she at once assented—the boy
and the girl were very soon rambling beneath the magnificent
foliage of the autumn forest.
Bright hours full of magical tints and odors!—filled with
so much romance and delight! They became a portion of
his memory and heart: and long afterwards, far away in
other scenes of hardship and pain, he remembered them, and
sighed for his bright boyhood. They wandered away along
the mountain side thus, with no aim in their wanderings, no
consciousness of the sentiment that was ripening in their
hearts. George only knew that Cannie was there at his
side with her pure sweet face, and kind good eyes; her lips
full of cheerful, loving smiles; her voice like soft music in his
ears. When she rested on his arm in crossing some mountain
rivulet, or gave him her hand to mount to the summit
of a rock, George felt, he knew not why, a singular beating
of the heart, and his cheeks flushed without the least reason.
Bright days of youth!—brighter thoughts of the heart!
They are flowers that bloom but once, and then die. What
remains is the wiry stalk and bald head. It may contain the
seed, but the odor and the bloom, where are they?
So George and Cannie wandered away for hours: and the
golden autumn day sank into their hearts, and filled them
with its magical delight. When they came back home, they
were silent, and happy. It seemed but a moment since they
had left the house.
In the main room they encountered the old man.
“Grandpapa,” said Cannie, “here is George.”
The old man returned the young man's greeting with easy
courtesy. They then commenced conversing, Cannie joining
easily in their talk.
In the midst of one of the speaker's sentences, George observed
a glittering object lying on the floor. It was a carolus,
as the gold coin was then called, and George picked it,
up. To his astonishment it was atmost hot: and his look,
as he held it out, betrayed his wonder. His host took it with
a sardonic smile, which George afterwards remembered.
“It is a coin I have just been experimenting on,” said the
old man; “I dropped it and forgot to pick it up. I am a
savant, or chymist, Master George, you must understand. I
experiment on gold and silver. You no doubt saw the
smoke from my furnace up there—and so let us turn to something
more interesting.”
With these words the speaker calmly put the coin in his
pocket, and changed the topic with the ease and grace of a
thorough man of the world. George had never heard such
brilliant and profound talk from any one; and for more than
an hour he sat listening with delight to the absorbing monologue
of the stranger.
It was not until evening that the youth took his departure;
and then it was with a promise that he would come
again.
“Remember I am lonely,” said Cannie, smiling and giving
him her hand, “as grandpapa is often busy. Come back
soon!”
George required no urging, and all the way back to
Greenway, heard her voice.
