BRAVE DAYS FOR YOUNG HEARTS
Back at Fort Beatrix the time passed in weary suspense. The wounded men
recovered slowly. The enemy remained inactive beyond the river and the
dark forest. Only the haze of their cooking-fires, melting against the
sky, told of their presence. The inaction ate into the courage of the
English men and women like rust. The boat-building and the iron-working
at the forge were carried on listlessly, and without the old-time spurs
of song and laughter. Even William Trigget and Tom Bent displayed sombre
faces to their little world.
Bernard Kingswell, however, found life eventful. He was not blind to the
danger of their position, and he continued to do double duty in
everything; but for all that he awoke each day with keen anticipation
for whatever might befall, and, sleeping, dreamed of other things than
the poised menace and the monotony. Why should he regret Bristol, or any
other city of the outer world, when Beatrix Westleigh was domiciled
within the rough walls of the fort on Gray Goose River? His heart would
not descend to those depths of despondency in which lurk fear and
hopeless anxiety. What power of man, in that wilderness, could break
down his guard and harm the most wonderful being in the world? The
girl's brief season of unkindness toward him was as a cloud that her
later friendliness had dispersed as the sun disperses the morning fog.
He had caught a glimpse of her heart in her music, in her eyes, in her
voice, and on several occasions something that had set his heart
thumping in the touch of her hand. At least she was neither averse nor
indifferent to his society, and the glances of her magnificent eyes were
open to translations that set him looking out upon life and that
wilderness through a golden haze. Let a dozen black-visaged D'Antons
draw their rapiers upon him--he would out-thrust, out-play, and
out-stamp them all! Let a hundred fur-clad savages howl about the
fort--he, Bernard Kingswell, with his lady's favour on his breast, would
scatter them like straw! And all this because, for the first time in his
life of twenty-one years, he was bitten with love for a woman,--and
twenty-one was a fair, manly age in those days. He had won to it
unknowingly, by the brave paths of adventure and the sea. So let not
even the oldest of us criticize his attitude toward life. A man's
emotions cannot always be herded and driven by the outward circumstances
of need and danger, like a flock of sheep at the mercy of a dog and a
dull countryman. That to which cautious Worldliness has given the name
of madness, from the earliest times, is nothing but a spark of God's own
courage and imagination in the heart of youth: the years having not yet
smothered it with the ashes of cowardice and calculation.
Bernard Kingswell had never displayed any but an assured front to the
world. Now this love that had him so irresistibly in its services only
heightened the confidence of his address toward men and events; but in
the presence of its inspiration it clothed him in unaccustomed and
unconscious meekness. You may be sure that Beatrix had been quick to
notice the change. It pleased her mightily, of course; for was it not a
greater and a more pleasant matter to have brought a high-hearted,
adventure-bred youth like this to bondage and slavery than to have a
dozen idle courtiers bowing before one, and a dozen sentimental poets
mouthing verses that could, with equal sincerity, be applied to any
charming lady? So Mistress Beatrix decided, and could not find it in her
heart to regret the beaux of London Town. But she did not know her
heart as the man knew his--and as she knew his.
One morning they walked together along the river-bank, before the open
gate of the fort. The air was clearer than any crystal. The shadows
along the snow were bluer than the dome of the sky. The girl talked
cheerily; for in the bright daytime, with the sounds of peaceful labour
rising from the fort so close at hand, and with a strong and worshipping
man, sword-girt, within arm's length, it was hard to remember the menace
concealed by the southern woods. Her eyes were very bright, and the
blood mantled under the clear skin of her cheeks at the wind's caress.
Now and then, for a bar or two, she broke into song.
Their path was one that Kingswell had beaten firm with his snow-shoes,
after the last storm, expressly as a promenade for Mistress Westleigh.
It was about a hundred yards in length, and broad enough for two persons
to walk in abreast, and firm enough to make the wearing of snow-shoes
unnecessary. It ran north and south, parallel with the stockade and the
course of the river at that point. When the turn was made at either end
of the beat, Kingswell's glance searched the horizon and every tree,
every knoll, and hollow. It was done almost unconsciously, as a
traveller instinctively loosens his sword in its sheath at the sound of
voices ahead of him on a dark road.
After a time the girl noticed her companion's vigilance. "What do you
expect to see?" she asked, touching his arm lightly and swiftly with her
gloved hand. For a moment he was confused, but recovered his wits with
an effort.
"Nothing," he replied, "or surely we would not be walking here."
She smiled at that. "Are you afraid?" she inquired.
He looked down at her, displayed the desperate condition of his heart in
his eyes, and then looked back again to the strip of woods that
approached them along the back.
"I am not afraid," he said--and then, with a gasp of dismay, he caught
her and swung her behind him. She did not resist, but cowered against
his sheltering back.
"We must return to the fort," he said. "Something is going on in that
covert."
"Come! We will run!" she whispered, pulling at his elbows to turn him
around.
"No," he replied. "I shall walk backwards, and you must keep behind me,
and guide me. It is no great matter to avoid an arrow, if one knows in
what quarter to look for it."
She made no reply. They began the retreat along the narrow branch path
that led to the gate of the fort, he stepping cautiously, heels first,
and she pulling at his belt and gazing fearfully past his shoulder at
the woods. They were within a few yards of the gate when he suddenly put
his arms behind him, caught her close, and lurched to one side. The
unexpected movement threw the girl to her knees in the deep snow beside
the path. Her cry of dismay brought her father and two others from the
fort. They found Kingswell staggering and confusedly apologizing to
Beatrix for his roughness. In the thickness of his left shoulder stuck a
war-arrow. Supporting Kingswell and fairly dragging the frightened girl,
they rushed back to safety and closed and barred the gate.
Hour after hour passed without the hidden warriors of Panounia making
any further signs of hostility, or even of their existence. The watchers
on the stockade scanned the woods in vain for any movement. A shot was
fired into the nearest cover from one of the cannon, but without
apparent effect.
Kingswell was on duty again within an hour of the receiving of his
wound. The ragged cut caused him a deal of pain; but the salve that
really took the sting and ache out of it was the thought that he had
been serving Beatrix as a shield when the arrow struck him. He went the
rounds of the stockades with a glowing heart and dauntless bearing, and
his air of calm assurance put courage into the men. He saw to the
strengthening of several points of the defence, cleared the loopholes of
drifted snow, and gave out an extra supply of powder and ball.
It was dusk of that day before Kingswell again saw Mistress Westleigh.
He was passing the baronet's cabin, and she opened the door and called
to him shyly. He turned and stepped close to her, the better to see her
face in the gathering twilight. She extended her hands to him, with a
quick gesture of invitation. He dropped his heavy gloves on the snow
before clasping them in eager fingers.
"But you must not stand here, without anything 'round your shoulders,"
he said; but, for all his solicitude, he maintained his firm hold of her
hands. She laughed, very softly, and a slight pressure of her fingers
drove his anxiety to the winds. He would have nothing of evil befall
her, God knows!--nay, not so much as a chill--but how could he keep it
in his mind that she wore no cloak when his whole being was a-thrill
with love and worship? So he stood there, speechless, gazing into her
flushed face. Presently her eyes lowered before his ardent regard.
"I called to you to thank you for saving my life," she murmured. He had
nothing to say to that. Perhaps he had saved her life--and again,
perhaps he had not. At that moment he was the last person in the world
to decide the question. His heart and mind were altogether with the
immediate present. He realized that her hands were strong and yet tender
to the touch of his. The faint fragrance of her hair was in his brain
like some divine vintage. The sweet curves of cheek and lips--how near
they were! She had called to him with more than kindness in her voice.
God had made a high heaven of this fort in the wilderness.
"You were very brave," she said, leaning nearer ever so slightly. Sweet
madness completely overthrew the lad's native caution, and he was about
to catch her to him bodily, when she slipped nimbly into the cabin, and
left him standing with arms extended in silent invitation toward the
figure of the imperturbed Sir Ralph.
"Well, my lad?" inquired the baronet, calmly.
"Good evening to you, Sir Ralph," replied Kingswell, hiding his chagrin
and confusion with exceeding skill.
"You looked just now as if you were expecting me," said the elder. "Come
in, come in. We can talk better by the fire."
Kingswell's blushes were safe in the dusk. He picked up his gloves from
the trampled snow by the threshold, and silently followed the baronet
into the fire-lit living-room. Beatrix was not there--which fact the
lover noticed with a sinking of the heart. He was alone with her father,
and evidently under marked suspicion,--a fearful matter to a young man
who aspires to the hand of an angel, and has not yet his line of action
quite laid down. He took a deep breath, trembled at thought of his
presumption, called the respectability of his parents and his income to
his aid, and was ready for the baronet when that gentleman turned and
faced him in front of the fire.
"I love your daughter," he said, with his voice not quite so cool and
manly as he had intended it to be.
Sir Ralph bowed, but said nothing. His back was to the fire, and so his
face was in heavy shadow.
"I love her very dearly," continued the other. "I believe no man could
love a woman more, for it is with my whole heart, and with every fibre
of my being. I know, sir, that my rank is not exalted, and that she is
the--"
The baronet raised his hand sharply.
The gesture silenced Kingswell in the middle of his sentence more
effectively than a clap of thunder would have done it.
"Yes," said Sir Ralph, harshly, "she is the daughter of a blackleg. She
is the daughter of a criminal exile. She is the daughter of a broken
gamester. Ay, Bernard, you do indeed look high,--you, the son of a
humble merchant of Bristol."
Kingswell was dismayed for the moment. Then, with a hardy oath, he
slapped his hand to his hip.
"Though she were the daughter of the devil himself," he began, and came
to a lame stop. The baronet's smile passed unseen. It was a kindly
smile, and yet a bitter one by the same tokens. Kingswell gave up all
attempt at politic speech. He had his own feelings to express. "Your
daughter, sir, is the best and the loveliest," he said, huskily.
"Whatever your backslidings and misfortunes have been, they can reflect
in no way on her sweetness, and wisdom, and virtue. But, sir, I do not
mean to sit in judgment on any man, and last of all on the father of the
most glorious woman in the world. I remember you in your strength,--the
greatest man in the county and my father's noble friend. The world has
taken a twirl since then, but you may be sure that, whatever betide, my
heart is with you warmer than my worthy father's ever was."