THE RETURN
It was James Lawrence, the English rancher, and Miss Carrington who told
me what happened to those we left behind after the fateful moment when the
canoe first slipped clear of the shingle bank. Lawrence accompanied the
party on their return journey, and it was he who suggested sending Grace
and Miss Carrington across in the canoe. The river ran high that morning,
and he felt dubious about the ford, because several pack-horses had
already been drowned there.
The first intimation he had of anything wrong was a cry from the girl, and
he saw a strip of water widen between the canoe and the bank. He ran his
hardest, but made little headway, for thorny bushes and fern formed
thickets along the bank, while when he reached the boulders he felt that
he had come too late, because no swimmer could then overtake the canoe,
even if he escaped destruction in the first rapid immediately below.
Nevertheless, after a glance at the drawn face of the girl, which haunted
him long afterward, as with the first shock of terror on her she labored
helplessly at the paddle, he would even have made the hopeless attempt but
that Colonel Carrington, who of all the trio had retained his common
sense, intervened. It was not without reason that the Colonel had earned
the reputation of being a hard man.
"Come back! Stop him! Geoffrey, are you mad?" he roared; and Lawrence, who
had now recovered his wits, flung himself upon a man who, stripping
himself to the waist as he ran, floundered at breakneck speed among the
boulders. They went down together heavily, and the next moment the runner
had him by the throat, hissing through his teeth, "Let go, you fool,
before I murder you!"
Lawrence was strong, however, and held fast half-choked for a moment or
two, until the Colonel's cry reached them again:
"Get up, Geoffrey, you lunatic! Follow, and head them off along the
bank!"
The shouts and the confusion had startled his restive horse, and by the
time he had mounted the pair were on their feet again stumbling over the
boulders or smashing through the undergrowth in a desperate race, with the
horse blundering behind them and the canoe ahead. They might possibly have
overtaken it except for the rapid, Lawrence said, but it swept like a
toboggan down that seething rush, and, as realizing that it was almost
hopeless, they held on, there was a clatter on the opposite slope, and
they saw me break out at headlong gallop from the woods. They halted when
I crawled into the canoe, for we were beyond all human help from that bank
now; and, flinging himself from the saddle, Colonel Carrington stood with
clenched hands and quivering lips, staring after us, so Lawrence said, out
of awful eyes.
"Bravo!" he gasped at length. "He'll reach the gravel-spit. Another two
good strokes--they're almost in the eddy;" but the next words were frozen
on his lips, for the backwash from a boulder swept away the bows of the
canoe, and the words that followed came hoarse and brokenly, "My God--he's
too late!"
Colonel Carrington was right, for, as held still and spellbound they
watched, the canoe leaped down the entrance rapid and was lost in the mist
of the black canyon. The Colonel said nothing further, though he groaned
aloud, and Lawrence did not care to look at him; but Ormond's face was
ashy until a livid fury filled it as he turned upon the rancher.
"Confusion to you! Why must you stop me then?" he demanded.
"You would only have drowned yourself in the rapid and done nobody any
good," Lawrence said.
"I wish to heaven I had," answered Ormond, with cold deliberateness. "As
it is, you have helped that man to rob me again, even at the last, and I
would give all I have to change places now with him."
Then, while Lawrence wondered what he meant, though when I heard the story
I fully understood, the head of my horse rose for an instant out of the
tumbling waters, sank, and rising, went down again, while a tremor ran
through the Colonel's rigid frame, and he leaned against a hemlock with
great beads of sweat on his forehead. The poor beast had doubtless been
mangled against a boulder, and the sight was horribly suggestive.
"A very grim man," said Lawrence, when he narrated what happened; "but I
felt most cruelly sorry for him. Didn't say very much--his sort never do;
but he was in mortal anguish, and I knew how he would miss the girl."
Colonel Carrington was, nevertheless, the first to master his feelings,
and his voice was steady once more when he turned to Ormond.
"Geoffrey, you will go back and send my sister round with the Indian by
Tomlinson's crossing. Then you will return and overtake us in the ravine
yonder. We are going to follow the crest of the canyon to--to--see what we
can find."
It was a stiff climb up the ravine, trying in places to a mountaineer, but
the old man held close behind his companion, and Lawrence wondered at him.
He also felt sorry for Ormond, whose task it was to overtake them, but
when at last they hurried breathless through the pinewoods toward the edge
of the chasm above the fall, the latter, looking like a ghost, came
panting up with them. Then, standing on the dizzy brink, Colonel
Carrington gazed down at the spout of green water and the whirling spray,
which were dwarfed by the distance.
"That is the greatest danger, that and the whirlpool. Anything would swing
round in the eddy, would it not?" he said. "Now, I want only the
truth--you understand these rivers--could any white man take a canoe down
there and through the pool safely?" and Lawrence, who dare not prevaricate
with that gaze upon him, answered reluctantly, "I do not think so."
The Colonel's thin face twitched. "I thank you. No other possible landing
place or foothold, is there? And it would take a day to go back to
Tomlinson's and portage a canoe. Well, we'll go on to the end in a last
hope that they have got through."
Now climbing is difficult in that region, because where the mountain
slopes do not consist of almost precipitous snow-ground rock, they are
clothed with forest and dense undergrowth, and it was therefore some time
before the three had traversed the league or so that divided the summit
from the outlet valley. Neither when they got there did they find the
canoe, because when I helped Grace ashore I did not care where it went,
and, once on terra firma she fainted suddenly, and then lay for a time
sobbing on my shoulder in a state of nervous collapse. As she said, though
a brave one, she was after all only a woman, and what had happened would
have tested the endurance of many a man. At last, however, I managed to
help her up a ravine leading down to the river, after which she leaned
heavily on my arm as we plodded through the forest until we reached a
small rancher's shanty, where, as the owner was absent, I took the
liberty of lighting his stove and preparing hot tea. Then I left Grace to
dry her garments.
We must have spent several hours at the ranch, for Grace was badly shaken,
and I felt that rest was needful for both of us, while, when I returned to
the cabin after drying myself in the sun, she lay back in a hide-chair
sleeping peacefully. So while the shadows of the firs lengthened across
the clearing I sat very still, until with a light touch I ventured to
rouse her. She woke with a gasp of horror, looked around with frightened
eyes, then clung to me, and I knelt beside the chair with my arms about
her, until at last with a happy little laugh she said:
"Ralph, I have lost my character, and you know I am a coward at heart;
but, and until to-day I should not have believed it, it is so comforting
to know I have a--I have you to protect me." Then she laid her hand on my
brow, adding gently, "Poor forehead that was wounded in my service! But it
is getting late, Ralph, and my father will be feverishly anxious about
me."
Grace was right in this, because, long before we borrowed the rancher's
Cayuse pony and set out again, Colonel Carrington and the others reached
the bank of the river, and saw only a broad stretch of muddy current
racing beneath the rigid branches of the firs. Then after they had
searched the few shingle bars--the one we landed on was by this time
covered deeply--the old man sat down on a boulder apart from the rest, and
neither dare speak to him, though Lawrence heard him say softly to
himself:
"My daughter--my daughter! I would to God I might join her."
They turned homeward in solemn silence, though perhaps a last spark of
hope burned in the Colonel's breast that by some wholly unexpected chance
we had reached it before they did, because Lawrence said he seemed to
make a stern effort to restrain himself when they saw only Miss Carrington
sitting dejectedly near the window. Thereupon Lawrence was glad to escape,
and Ormond, who rode out to gather the miners for a systematic search,
left them mercifully alone.
Afterward the old man brokenly narrated what had passed, and then there
was a heavy silence in the room, out of which the sunlight slowly faded,
until, as Miss Carrington told me, the ticking of a nickeled clock grew
maddening. At last she rose and flung the window open wide, and the
sighing of the pines drifted in mournfully with a faint coolness that came
down from the snow. Meantime, Colonel Carrington paced with a deadly
regularity up and down, neither speaking nor glancing at her, until he
started as a faint beat of horse hoofs came out of the shadows.
"Only Geoffrey returning!" he said bitterly. "But I have been listening,
listening every moment for the last hour. It is utterly hopeless, I know,
and we must bear the last black sorrow that has fallen upon us; but yet I
cannot quite believe her dead."
The tramp of hoofs grew nearer, and the Colonel leaned out through the
open casement with the hand that gripped its ledge quivering.
"That is an Indian pony, not Geoffrey's horse, and a man on foot is
leading it," he said. "They are coming this way; I will meet them."
Miss Carrington, however, laid a restraining grasp upon him, and very
slowly the clock ticked off the seconds until, when two figures came out
through the thinning forest into the clearing, the Colonel's face grew
white as death. For a moment he choked for breath, and his sister sobbed
aloud when he recovered himself, for she too had seen.
"I thank a merciful Providence--it is Grace," he said.
I lifted Grace from the pony's back, led her toward the house, and saw the
old man fold his arms about her. Then I heard her happy cry, and while for
a time they forgot all about me, I stood holding the pony's rein and
thinking. My first impulse was to go forward and claim her before them,
but that was too much like taking advantage of her father's relief. Also,
I felt that some things are sacred, and the presence of any stranger would
be an intrusion then, while it seemed hardly fitting to forthwith demand
such a reward for what any other should doubtless have done gladly. So,
trusting that Grace would understand, I turned away, determined to call on
the Colonel the next morning, and, though I am not sure that the result
would otherwise have been different, I afterward regretted it. Now I know
that any excess of delicacy or consideration for others which may cause
unnecessary sorrow to those nearest us is only folly.
No one called me back, or apparently noticed me, and though with much
difficulty I reached the ranch, and was hospitably entertained there, I
never closed my eyes all night. I returned to the Colonel's dwelling as
early as possible the next morning, and was at once received by him. The
events of the preceding day had left their impression even on him, and for
once his eyes were kindly, while it was with perceptible emotion he
grasped my hand.
"I am indebted to you for life, and you acted with discernment as well as
gallantry," he said. "You have an old man's fervent thanks, and if he can
ever repay such a service you may rely on his gratitude."
I do not know why, for they were evidently sincere enough, but the words
struck me unpleasantly. They seemed to emphasize the difference between
us, and there was only one favor I would ever ask of him.
"You can return it now with the greatest honor it is in your power to
grant any living man," I answered bluntly. "I ask the promise of Miss
Carrington's hand."
I feel sure now that there was pity in his eyes for a moment, though I
scarcely noticed it then, and he answered gravely:
"I am sorry. You have asked the one thing impossible. When Miss Carrington
marries it will be in accordance with my wishes and an arrangement made
with a dead kinsman long ago."
I think he would have continued, but that I broke in: "But I love her, and
she trusts me. Ever since I came to this country I have been fighting my
way upward with this one object in view. We are both young, sir, and I
shall not always be poor--" but here he stopped me with a gesture,
repeating dryly, "I am sorry for you."
He paced the long room twice before he again turned toward me, saying with
a tone of authority, "Sit down there. I am not in the habit of explaining
my motives, but I will make an exception now. My daughter has been brought
up luxuriously, as far as circumstances permitted, and in her case they
permitted it in a measure even on the prairie--I arranged it so. She has
scarcely had a wish I could not gratify, and at Carrington Manor her word
was law. I need hardly say she ordered wisely."
I bent my head in token of comprehension and agreement as the speaker
paused, and then, with a different and incisive inflection, he continued:
"And what would her life be with you? A constant battle with hardship and
penury on a little prairie farm, where with her own hands she must bake
and wash and sew for you, or, even worse, a lonely waiting in some poor
lodging while you were away months together railroad building. Is this the
lot you would propose for her? Now, and there is no reason I should
explain why, after my death there will be little left her besides an
expensive and occasionally unprofitable farm, and so I have had otherwise
to provide for her future!"
"There are, however, two things you take for granted," I interposed again;
"that I shall never have much to offer her--and in this I hope you may be
wrong--and Miss Carrington's acquiescence in your plans."
The old grim smile flickered in the Colonel's eyes as he answered: "Miss
Carrington will respect her father's wishes--she has never failed to do so
hitherto--and I do not know that there is much to be made out of such
railroad contracts as your present one."
This was certainly true enough, and I winced under the allusion before I
made a last appeal.
"Then suppose, sir, that after all fortune favored me, and there was some
reason why what you look for failed to come about--all human expectation,
human life itself, is uncertain--would you then withhold your consent?"
He looked at me keenly a moment, saying nothing, and it was always
unpleasant to withstand the semi-ironical gaze of Colonel Carrington,
though I had noticed a slight movement when quite at random I alluded to
the uncertainty of life. Then he answered slowly:
"I think in that case we could discuss all this again, though it would be
better far for you to consider my refusal as definite. Now I have such
confidence in my daughter's obedience that on the one condition that you
do not seek to prejudice her against me I do not absolutely forbid your
seeing Miss Carrington--on occasion--but you must write no letters, and
you may take it as a compliment that I should tell you I have acted only
as seemed best in her interest. Neither should it be needful to inform you
that she will never marry without my consent. And now, reiterating my
thanks, I fail to see how anything would be gained by prolonging this
interview."
I knew from his face that this was so, and that further words might be a
fatal mistake, and I went out hurriedly, forgetting, I am afraid, to
return his salutation, though when I met his sister she glanced at me with
sympathy as she pointed toward another door. When I entered this Grace
rose to meet me. The time we spent in the canyon had drawn us closer
together than many months of companionship might have done, and it was
with no affectation of bashful diffidence that she beckoned me to a place
beside her on the casement logs, saying simply, "You have bad news,
sweetheart. Tell me everything."
Her father had exacted no promise about secrecy. Indeed, if the
arrangement mentioned compromised a prospective husband, as I thought it
did, Grace was doubtless fully acquainted with it; and I told her what had
passed. Then she drew herself away from me.
"And is there nothing to be added? Have you lost your usual eloquence?"
she said.
"Yes," I continued, "I was coming to it. It is this: while I live I will
never abandon the hope of winning you; and, with such a hope, whatever
difficulty must be grappled with first, I know that some day I shall do
it."
"And," said Grace, with a heightened color, and her liquid eyes shining,
"is there still nothing else?" And while I glanced at her in a bewildered
fashion she continued, "Do you, like my father, take my consent for
granted? Well, I will give it to you. Ralph, while you are living, and
after, if you must go a little before I do, I will never look with favor
upon any man. Meantime, sweetheart--for, as he said, I will not resist my
father's will, save only in one matter--you must work and I must wait,
trusting in what the future may bring. And so--you must leave me now; and
it may be long before I see you. Go, and God bless you, taking my promise
with you."
She laid her little hand in mine, and I bent down until the flushed face
was level with my own. When I found myself in the open air again, I strode
through the scented shadows triumphantly. The Colonel's opposition counted
as nothing then. I was sanguine and young, and I knew, because she had
said it, that until I had worsted fortune Grace Carrington would wait for
me.