Nature never vouchsafed to wearied man a lovelier day of rest than the
still Sunday on which Frank Armitage rode slowly back from the station.
The soft, mellow tone of the church-bell, tolling the summons for
morning service, floated out from the brown tower, and was echoed back
from the rocky cliff glistening in the August sunshine on the northern
bluff. Groups of villagers hung about the steps of the little sanctuary
and gazed with mild curiosity at the arriving parties from the cottages
and the hotel. The big red omnibus came up with a load of worshippers,
and farther away, down the vista of the road, Armitage could see others
on foot and in carriages, all wending their way to church. He was in no
mood to meet them. The story that he had been out pursuing a tramp
during the night was pretty thoroughly circulated by this time, he felt
assured, and every one would connect his early ride to the station, in
some way, with the adventure that the grooms, hostlers, cooks, and
kitchen-maids had all been dilating upon ever since daybreak. He dreaded
to meet the curious glances of the women, and the questions of the few
men whom he had taken so far into his confidence as to ask about the
mysterious person who came over in the stage with them. He reined up his
horse, and then, seeing a little pathway leading into the thick wood to
his right, he turned in thither and followed it some fifty yards among
bordering treasures of coreopsis and golden-rod and wild luxuriance of
vine and foliage. Dismounting in the shade, he threw the reins over his
arm and let his horse crop the juicy grasses, while he seated himself on
a little stump and fell to thinking again. He could hear the reverent
voices of one or two visitors strolling about among the peaceful,
flower-decked graves behind the little church and only a short
stone's-throw away through the shrubbery. He could hear the low, solemn
voluntary of the organ, and presently the glad outburst of young voices
in the opening hymn, but he knew that belated ones would still be coming
to church, and he would not come forth from his covert until all were
out of the way. Then, too, he was glad of a little longer time to think:
he did not want to tell the colonel the result of his morning
investigations.
To begin with: the watchman, the driver, and the two men whom he had
questioned were all of an opinion as to the character of the stranger:
"he was a military man." The passengers described his voice as that of a
man of education and social position; the driver and passengers declared
his walk and carriage to be that of a soldier: he was taller, they said,
than the tall, stalwart Saxon captain, but by no means so heavily built.
As to age, they could not tell: his beard was black and curly,--no gray
hairs; his movements were quick and elastic; but his eyes were hidden by
those colored glasses, and his forehead by the slouch of that
broad-brimmed felt hat.
At the station, while awaiting the answer to his despatch, Armitage had
questioned the agent as to whether any man of that description had
arrived by the night train from the north. He had seen none, he said,
but there was Larsen over at the post-office store, who came down on
that train; perhaps he could tell. Oddly enough, Mr. Larsen recalled
just such a party,--tall, slim, dark, dark-bearded, with blue glasses
and dark hat and clothes,--but he was bound for Lakeville, the station
beyond, and he remained in the car when he, Larsen, got off. Larsen
remembered the man well, because he sat in the rear corner of the
smoker and had nothing to say to anybody, but kept reading a newspaper;
and the way he came to take note of him was that while standing with two
friends at that end of the car they happened to be right around the man.
The Saturday evening train from the city is always crowded with people
from the river towns who have been up to market or the _matinées_, and
even the smoker was filled with standing men until they got some thirty
miles down. Larsen wanted to light a fresh cigar, and offered one to
each of his friends: then it was found they had no matches, and one of
them, who had been drinking a little and felt jovial, turned to the dark
stranger and asked him for a light, and the man, without speaking,
handed out a little silver match-box. It was just then that the
conductor came along, and Larsen saw his ticket. It was a "round trip"
to Lakeville: he was evidently going there for a visit, and therefore,
said Larsen, he didn't get off at Sablon Station, which was six miles
above.
But Armitage knew better. It was evident that he had quietly slipped out
on the platform of the car after the regular passengers had got out of
the way, and let himself off into the darkness on the side opposite the
station. Thence he had an open and unimpeded walk of a few hundred yards
until he reached the common, and then, when overtaken by the hotel
omnibus, he could jump aboard and ride. There was only one road, only
one way over to the hotel, and he could not miss it. There was no doubt
now that, whoever he was, the night visitor had come down on the evening
train from the city; and his return ticket would indicate that he meant
to go back the way he came. It was half-past ten when that train
arrived. It was nearly midnight when the man appeared at the cottage
window. It was after two when Armitage gave up the search and went to
bed. It was possible for the man to have walked to Lakeville, six miles
south, and reached the station there in abundant time to take the
up-train which passed Sablon, without stopping, a little before
daybreak. If he took that train, and if he was Jerrold, he would have
been in the city before seven, and could have been at Fort Sibley before
or by eight o'clock. But Chester's despatch showed clearly that at
8.30--the hour for signing the company morning reports--Mr. Jerrold was
not at his post. Was he still in the neighborhood and waiting for the
noon train? If so, could he be confronted on the cars and accused of his
crime? He looked at his watch; it was nearly eleven, and he must push on
to the hotel before that hour, report to the colonel, then hasten back
to the station. He sprang to his feet, and was just about to mount,
when a vision of white and scarlet came suddenly into view. There,
within twenty feet of him, making her dainty way through the shrubbery
from the direction of the church, sunshine and shadow alternately
flitting across her lovely face and form, Alice Renwick stepped forth
into the pathway, and, shading her eyes with her hand, gazed along the
leafy lane towards the road, as though expectant of another's coming.
Then, attracted by the beauty of the golden-rod, she bent and busied
herself with gathering in the yellow sprays. Armitage, with one foot in
the stirrup, stood stock-still, half in surprise, half stunned by a
sudden and painful thought. Could it be that she was there in hopes of
meeting--any one?
He retook his foot from the stirrup, and, relaxing the rein, still stood
gazing at her over his horse's back. That placid quadruped, whose years
had been spent in these pleasant by-ways and were too many to warrant an
exhibition of coltish surprise, promptly lowered his head and resumed
his occupation of grass-nibbling, making a little crunching noise which
Miss Renwick might have heard, but apparently did not. She was singing
very softly to herself,--
"Daisy, tell my fortune, pray:
He loves me not,--he loves me."
And still Armitage stood and gazed, while she, absorbed in her pleasant
task, still pulled and plucked at the golden-rod. In all his life no
"vision of fair women" had been to him fair and sacred and exquisite as
this. Down to the tip of her arched and slender foot, peeping from
beneath the broidered hem of her snowy skirt, she stood the lady born
and bred, and his eyes looked on and worshipped her,--worshipped, yet
questioned, Why came she here? Absorbed, he released his hold on the
rein, and Dobbin, nothing loath, reached with his long, lean neck for
further herbage, and stepped in among the trees. Still stood his
negligent master, fascinated in his study of the lovely, graceful girl.
Again she raised her head and looked northward along the winding, shaded
wood-path. A few yards away were other great clusters of the wild
flowers she loved, more sun-kissed golden-rod, and, with a little murmur
of delight, gathering her dainty skirts in one hand, she flitted up the
pathway like an unconscious humming-bird garnering the sweets from every
blossom. A little farther on the pathway bent among the trees, and she
would be hidden from his sight; but still he stood and studied her
every movement, drank in the soft, cooing melody of her voice as she
sang, and then there came a sweet, solemn strain from the brown, sunlit
walls just visible through the trees, and reverent voices and the
resonant chords of the organ thrilled through the listening woods the
glorious anthem of the church militant.
At the first notes she lifted up her queenly head and stood, listening
and appreciative. Then he saw her rounded throat swelling like a bird's,
and the rich, full tones of her voice rang out through the welcoming
sunshine, and the fluttering wrens, and proud red-breasted robins, and
rival song-queens, the brown-winged thrushes,--even the impudent
shrieking jays,--seemed to hush and listen. Dobbin, fairly astonished,
lifted up his hollow-eyed head and looked amazedly at the white
songstress whose scarlet sash and neck-ribbons gleamed in such vivid
contrast to the foliage about her. A wondering little "cotton-tail"
rabbit, shy and wild as a hawk, came darting through the bushes into the
sunshiny patchwork on the path, and then, uptilted and with quivering
ears and nostrils and wide-staring eyes, stood paralyzed with helpless
amaze, ignoring the tall man in gray as did the singer herself. Richer,
rounder, fuller grew the melody, as, abandoning herself to the impulse
of the sacred hour, she joined with all her girlish heart in the words
of praise and thanksgiving,--in the glad and triumphant chorus of the Te
Deum. From beginning to end she sang, now ringing and exultant, now soft
and plaintive, following the solemn words of the ritual,--sweet and low
and suppliant in the petition, "We therefore pray Thee help Thy servants
whom Thou hast redeemed with Thy precious blood," confident and exulting
in the declaration, "Thou art the King of Glory, O Christ," and then
rich with fearless trust and faith in the thrilling climax, "Let me
never be confounded." Armitage listened as one in a trance. From the
depth of her heart the girl had joined her glorious voice to the chorus
of praise and adoration, and now that all was stilled once more her head
had fallen forward on her bosom, her hands, laden with golden-rod, were
joined together: it seemed as though she were lost in prayer.
And this was the girl, this the pure, God-worshipping, God-fearing
woman, who for one black instant he had dared to fancy had come here
expectant of a meeting with the man whose aim had been frustrated but
the night before! He could have thrown himself at her feet and implored
her pardon. He _did_ step forth, and then, hat in hand, baring his
proud Saxon head as his forefathers would have uncovered to their
monarch, he waited until she lifted up her eyes and saw him, and knew by
the look in his frank face that he had stood by, a mute listener to her
unstudied devotions. A lovely flush rose to her very temples, and her
eyes drooped their pallid lids until the long lashes swept the crimson
of her cheeks.
"Have _you_ been here, captain? I never saw you," was her fluttering
question.
"I rode in here on my way back from the station, not caring to meet all
the good people going to church. I felt like an outcast."
"I, too, am a recreant to-day. It is the first time I have missed
service in a long while. Mamma felt too unstrung to come, and I had
given up the idea, but both she and Aunt Grace urged me. I was too late
for the omnibus, and walked up, and then I would not go in because
service was begun, and I wanted to be home again before noon. I cannot
bear to be late at church, or to leave it until everything is over, but
I can't be away from mother so long to-day. Shall we walk that way now?"
"In a minute. I must find my horse. He is in here somewhere. Tell me how
the colonel is feeling, and Mrs. Maynard."
"Both very nervous and worried, though I see nothing extraordinary in
the adventure. We read of poor hungry tramps everywhere, and they rarely
do harm."
"I wonder a little at your venturing here in the wood-paths, after what
occurred last night."
"Why, Captain Armitage, no one would harm me here, so close to the
church. Indeed, I never thought of such a thing until you mentioned it.
Did you discover anything about the man?"
"Nothing definite; but I must be at the station again to meet the
up-train, and have to see the colonel meantime. Let me find Dobbin, or
whatever they call this venerable relic I'm riding, and then I'll escort
you home."
But Dobbin had strayed deeper into the wood. It was some minutes before
the captain could find and catch him. The rich melody of sacred music
was again thrilling through the perfumed woods, the glad sunshine was
pouring its warmth and blessing over all the earth, glinting on bluff
and brake and palisaded cliff, the birds were all singing their
rivalling psaltery, and Nature seemed pouring forth its homage to the
Creator and Preserver of all on this His holy day, when Frank Armitage
once more reached the bowered lane where, fairest, sweetest sight of
all, his lady stood waiting him. She turned to him as she heard the
hoof-beat on the turf, and smiled.
"Can we wait and hear that hymn through?"
"Ay. Sing it."
She looked suddenly in his face. Something in the very tone in which he
spoke startled her,--something deeper, more fervent, than she had ever
heard before,--and the expression in the steady, deep-blue eyes was
another revelation. Alice Renwick had a woman's intuition, and yet she
had not known this man a day. The color again mounted to her temples,
and her eyes fell after one quick glance.
"I heard you joining in the Te Deum," he urged. "Sing once more: I love
it. There, they are just beginning again. Do you know the words?"
She nodded, then raised her head, and her glad young voice carolled
through the listening woods:
"Holy, holy, holy! All
Heaven's triumphant choir shall sing,
When the ransomed nations fall
At the footstool of their King:
Then shall saints and seraphim,
Hearts and voices, swell one hymn
Round the throne with full accord,
Holy, holy, holy Lord!"
There was silence when the music ceased. She had turned her face towards
the church, and, as the melody died away in one prolonged, triumphant
chord, she still stood in reverent attitude, as though listening for the
words of benediction. He, too, was silent, but his eyes were fixed on
her. He was thirty-five, she not twenty. He had lived his soldier life
wifeless, but, like other soldiers, his heart had had its rubs and aches
in the days gone by. Years before he had thought life a black void when
the girl he fancied while yet he wore the Academic gray calmly told him
she preferred another. Nor had the intervening years been devoid of
their occasional yearnings for a mate of his own in the isolation of the
frontier or the monotony of garrison life; but flitting fancies had left
no trace upon his strong heart. The love of his life only dawned upon
him at this late day when he looked into her glorious eyes and his whole
soul went out in passionate worship of the fair girl whose presence
made that sunlit lane a heaven. Were he to live a thousand years, no
scene on earth could rival in his eyes the love-haunted woodland pathway
wherein like forest queen she stood, the sunshine and leafy shadows
dancing over her graceful form, the golden-rod enhancing her dark and
glowing beauty, the sacred influences of the day throwing their mystic
charm about her as though angels guarded and shielded her from harm. His
life had reached its climax; his fate was sealed; his heart and soul
were centred in one sweet girl,--and all in one brief hour in the
woodland lane at Sablon.
She could not fail to see the deep emotion in his eyes as at last she
turned to break the silence.
"Shall we go?" she said, simply.
"It is time; but I wish we could remain."
"You do not go to church very often at Sibley, do you?"
"I have not, heretofore; but you would teach me to worship." "You _have_
taught me," he muttered below his breath, as he extended a hand to
assist her down the sloping bank towards the avenue. She looked up
quickly once more, pleased, yet shy, and shifted her great bunch of
golden-rod so that she could lay her hand in his and lean upon its
steady strength down the incline; and so, hand in hand, with old Dobbin
ambling placidly behind, they passed out from the shaded pathway to the
glow and radiance of the sunlit road.