A JUNE DAY
On a warm morning in June, Beatrice took her despised sewing under an
unwilling arm and went over to Mrs. Howard's. Mrs. Franklin was there
also, and they all sat on the porch, under the impression that it was
cooler there than indoors.
"I wish you girls would show me how this goes," pleaded Beatrice.
She was making herself a gown of pink calico, and encountering new
difficulties at every turn.
"Where's your pattern," asked Katherine.
"I haven't any map," returned Beatrice; "I lost it. I sawed this out
by an old one."
"It looks as if it had been sawed," laughed Mrs. Franklin. "Why didn't
you ask Mrs. Mackenzie to help you cut it?"
"Because I didn't want Aunt Eleanor to be ashamed of me."
"She doesn't mind us," put in Katherine.
"Stop teasing," commanded Beatrice, "and show me how to put the thing
together. Which piece goes where?"
Mrs. Franklin took the skirt and Katherine went to work at the waist,
pinning and basting firmly, so that there could be no mistake in the
result. Beatrice leaned lazily against the side of the house and
watched them admiringly, praising their skill now and then in accents
suspiciously soft.
"She's been taking lessons from George," remarked Mrs. Franklin.
"That's the way he gets things done."
"Speaking of angels----" said Katherine.
Ronald crossed the parade-ground and joined the group. "What's that
thing?" he asked, contemptuously indicating the pink calico.
"It's clothes," replied Beatrice, with spirit; "don't you wish you
were going to have new ones?"
The Ensign's answering laugh had a hollow sound to it, for the shabby
clothing at Fort Dearborn was a sore spot with both officers and men,
even though new and proper raiment was said to be on the way.
"You might make me some," he suggested, "and I'll promise to
encourage you while you do it."
"No, thank you," she returned loftily; "you'd be in the way."
"I expect I'm in the way now," he observed, making himself more
comfortable against the pillar of the porch. "When needles fly,
women's tongues fly faster; when women sew, they rip their husbands to
pieces."
A faint flush came into Mrs. Franklin's face as she bent over her work.
"I'll wager, now," continued Ronald, "that when you saw me coming, you
had to change the subject. Mrs. Franklin was explaining the vagaries
of the Captain, Mrs. Howard was telling what she was obliged to put up
with, and Miss Manning was talking about me."
The implication sharpened the edge of the girl's tongue. "You ought
to be very glad you're not married," she said sweetly; "and it goes
without saying that you never will be. Nobody on earth would have you!"
"Don't quarrel, children," put in Katherine, hastily. "Here comes
Ralph."
The Lieutenant sat down opposite Ronald and wiped his forehead.
"Lord!" he exclaimed, "isn't it hot!"
"Get a little closer to Miss Manning," advised the Ensign. "She's in
an icy mood this morning."
Beatrice and Howard smiled at each other understandingly. "Be careful
what you say," warned Mrs. Franklin; "they've decided that they're
cousins."
"Yes," replied the Lieutenant, "we've got it all settled. We're
step-cousins-in-law once removed. Want to go for a ride, Ronald?
Forsyth and I are going a little way down the trail."
"Which trail?"
"Fort Wayne, of course."
"Yes, I'll go," said the Ensign, rising; "it can't be any hotter on
horseback than it is here."
When the three men rode off, Beatrice pouted. "Why didn't they ask me
to go?"
"I guess they're going swimming," returned Mrs. Franklin, "for Mr.
Forsyth had some towels."
"Here's your waist," said Katherine; "did you shrink the goods?"
"Did I what?"
"Shrink it. Wash it, you know."
"Indeed I didn't. Why should I wash it when it's new?"
"Here's your skirt," said Mrs. Franklin. "You'd better make a narrow
hem and run a tuck or two above it so you can let it down. I'm going
home now, because Wallace is all alone. Good-bye."
Beatrice went to work gingerly, and Mrs. Howard watched her for a few
moments, then took pity. "I'll help you," she said, "I have nothing
else to do."
The work progressed rapidly, and they went into the house frequently
to fit the gown. "I can wear it to-night, I believe," said the girl,
delightedly. "I didn't know sewing was so easy!"
"Don't be too hopeful--there's lots to do yet."
Noon came on apace and the heat increased. Shimmering waves hung over
the parade-ground and vibrated visibly. There was not a tree within
the enclosure of the Fort, and the flag hung limply from the staff,
stirring only when the hot wind from the south-west swept over the
sandy plains.
Doctor Norton came out, looked around the deserted Fort, and crossed
to Lieutenant Howard's.
"Where are you going?" asked Beatrice, indicating an Indian basket he
was carrying.
"I'm going to the woods--primarily, to find a cool place, and,
secondarily, to gather roots and simples. Some of my medicines have
given out and I'm going to make a new supply if I can find the proper
plants."
Katherine was sewing busily and took no part in the conversation, but
there was a scarlet signal on either cheek.
"If you get enough of anything," said Beatrice, "the poor souls under
your care can have some of it, can't they?"
"Certainly."
"What do you expect to get around here?"
"Oh, lots of things. Wild ginger, for instance--would you like some of
that?"
"Don't care for it," she answered conclusively.
"Would you like a concoction of May apples?"
"I believe I would--it sounds well."
"My dear girl," said Norton, seriously, "the root of the mandrake is
such a deadly poison that the Indians give it to their enemies."
"I must remember that," murmured the girl. "I may need it for mine."
The Doctor laughed, then turned to Mrs. Howard. "Are you well?" he
asked anxiously.
Katherine's eyes met his. "Yes," she answered, but her voice was
scarcely audible. There was an uneasy moment for both of them, then he
went away.
Beatrice took up her sewing again and saw that Katherine's hands were
trembling. "He's an abrupt person," she said; "don't you think so?"
"Yes," answered the other, in a low tone.
"He's lovable in a way, though, don't you think so? I wonder why he
has never married?"
Katherine started and her lips moved, but there was no sound. Beatrice
looked into her face for an illuminating instant--then she knew.
"Katherine!" she cried, in horror.
Mrs. Howard dropped her work and fled into the house, trying to lock
the door, but the girl was too quick for her.
"Katherine, dear!" cried Beatrice, with her arms around the trembling
woman, "don't be afraid of me! You poor child, don't you know a friend
when you see one?"
"Friend?" repeated Katherine, in a rush of unwilling tears; "I have
none!"
"Yes you have, dear; now listen to me. I'm your friend, and there's
nothing in the world that could make me anything else. Tell me, and
let me help you!"
The words brought back the memory of another day, when the winter
snows lay deep upon the ground, and a man's voice, dangerously tender,
said the same thing.
"There's nothing wrong, Bee--don't, oh, don't think that of me!"
"I couldn't, dear--no one could!"
The curtains were drawn and the house was dark and comparatively cool.
Within that soothing shadow, Katherine gathered courage to face the
girl, and, little by little, hint at the tempest raging in her soul.
It was the old, common story of a proud woman with a hungry heart,
denied love and sympathy where she had a right to expect it, and
tempted unwillingly, but tempted none the less.
"Men are beasts!" exclaimed Beatrice, angrily.
"Don't say that, Bee! Ralph has a great deal to bother him, but I
can't help wishing he were different. If he were only as he used
to be! If I knew, or even thought he loved me--if he would try to
understand me--if he wouldn't always misjudge me--but now----"
"You're brave enough to fight it out and win, Kit--I know you are!"
"I hope so; but what hurts me most is the fear that he--that he
knows--that I--that I care--and pities me!"
"Who? Ralph?"
"No--the--the----"
"I understand," said Beatrice, quickly; "you mustn't let him know.
Besides, you don't really care. Women often mistake loneliness for
something else--don't you think so?"
"Perhaps. Oh, if he would only go away, where I would never see him
again--if he only would--sometime, in the long years, things would
come right between Ralph and me!"
"You'll have to wait, Kit. Life is made up of waiting, for women,
and it's the hardest thing for us to do. Oh, I know," continued
Beatrice, with a harsh laugh; "I fought something out myself once,
but I won. It was hard, but I did it, and I'd do it again--I wouldn't
be coward enough to run away. When things hurt you, you don't have to
let anybody know. You can shut your lips tight, and if you bite your
tongue hard it keeps back the tears. I always pretend I'm a rock, with
the waves beating against me. Let it hurt inside, if it wants to--you
don't have to let anybody see!"
The girl's fine courage insensibly strengthened the woman. "I'm so
glad you know," she sighed.
"I'm glad, too. I'm going now, Kit, and I wish you'd lie down a little
while. Don't forget I'm your friend, and I'll always help you when I
can, and anyhow, I'll always try."
It was characteristic of Beatrice that she went home without any
demonstrative farewell. She had been gentle, sympathetic, and
genuinely sorry for her cousin, but there was an inner hardness
somewhere which the other felt.
Overwrought by emotion, Katherine slept for hours, and when she
awoke a cool breeze had risen from the lake and was moving her white
curtains to and fro. Dull sorrow was gnawing at her heart, but the
stab was gone.
She dressed and went out, without any particular object in view. The
loneliness of the house depressed her, and she felt that she must get
away from it; yet she did not wish to talk to any one.
As she went toward the gate the Captain's wife met her. "Where are you
going?" she asked.
"To--to the little lad," faltered Katherine.
"Oh," said the other, quickly, turning away as if she had been hurt.
For a moment the childless woman envied the other her grave.
Half a mile from the Fort, in a hollow near the river, was a little
mound, marked only by a rude slab of limestone and the willow that
grew above it. At the sight of it her eyes filled.
"Oh, Baby," she sobbed, pressing her face against the cold turf above
him, "I wish I was down there beside you, as still and as dreamless
as you! You don't know what it means--you never would have known! Oh,
I'd rather be a stone than a woman with a heart!"
"Katherine!" cried a man's voice beside her; "Katherine!" Norton's arm
lifted her from the grave and held her close. "Dear heart," he said,
"is the world unkind?"
She drew away from him, but he still held her cold hand in his. "My
heart aches for you, Katherine--can't you tell me?"
"You never lost a child," she whispered, clutching at the straw.
"That is true, but I have lost far more. I----" He stopped and bit
his lips upon the words that struggled for utterance. "Come away," he
said, gently.
He led her to the bank of the stream, where they sat down under a
tree. She leaned against it, unconscious that he still held her hand.
There was a long silence, in which she regained, in some measure, her
self-control. "I can't think what's wrong with me," she sighed. "I've
cried more in the last six months than in all my life before. I'm not
the crying kind--naturally, that is."
"Don't think about that, for nature knows a great deal more than we
do. Cry all you want to, and thank God you have no grief beyond the
reach of tears."
"Beyond--tears?"
"Yes; there is another kind, which I am glad you do not know. It cuts
and burns and stings till it is the very refinement of torture, and
there is no veil of mist to blind the eyes."
She looked at him curiously. "You----?"
"Yes," he answered, with his head bowed; "that is the kind of grief I
know the best."
"I--I'm sorry," she said, stirred to pity.
"Why should you be sorry for me?" he asked, with a rare smile. "There
are countless joys in the world, but the griefs are few and old. The
humblest of us can find new happiness, but there has been no increase
of sorrow since the world was first made. There is a fixed and
unvariable quantity of it, and we take turns bearing it--that's all.
Nothing comes to any of us that some one before us has not met like a
soldier, bravely and well."
"You are strong, but I have no strength."
"There are different kinds of strength, Katherine, and of these the
one most to be prized is what we call endurance, for lack of a better
word. One can always bear a little more, for we live only one day at a
time, and to-morrow may bring us new gifts of which we do not dream."
Lengthening shadows lay on the river and the sun hung low in the west,
but they talked on. She forgot everything but the peace of the moment,
which came to her sore heart like a benediction. Without knowing it,
she was very near to happiness then.
The Doctor's voice was soothing, as if he were talking to a child, and
she did not dream that he was fighting the exquisite danger of her
nearness with all the power at his command. At last she leaned forward
with her eyes shining, and put her hand on his. "Thank you," she said,
softly, "for helping me!"
The man's blood leaped in his veins, and he sprang to his feet. He
walked back and forth on the bank of the river for some time before he
dared trust himself to speak.
"Your happiness is very near to me," he said, trying hard to keep his
voice even, "you must always remember that. And for me, it is enough
to be near you, even if----"
She stretched out her hands and he lifted her to her feet. "I must
go," she said.
"Yes, you must go, and go alone. I will stay here until you have had
time to get back."
The deference to circumstances jarred upon her and she did not answer.
Her hat was lying by the child's grave, and as he picked it up for
her, she said: "Why, there are violets all around. I never saw those
before."
"Didn't you?" he asked diffidently; "I thought you came often."
"No," she said, in a low voice, "not very often. Who put them there?"
He lowered his eyes at her question, and then she understood. "Did you
plant flowers on my baby's grave?" she cried.
There was a tense moment before he dared to look at her. "Yes," he
answered, slowly, "because----"
They were standing face to face, with the little grave between them,
and the woman's heart quivered with a strange and terrible joy. There
was no need of words, for, all at once, she knew why, during the four
years of her marriage, he had followed her from one post to another.
She saw a new meaning in his sympathy when the little lad died and her
husband blamed her so bitterly; moreover, she knew that her battle was
with herself, not him, for the unyielding edge of Honour lay between
them, and, even if she would, he would not let her cross.
For his part he, too, was uplifted, because without words she
understood, and answered with love in her eyes. Undisguised and
unashamed, her heart leaped toward him, but he stood with his hands
clenched so tightly that the nails cut deep into the flesh.
Neither had heard nor seen, but she felt an alien presence, and
turned. Not six feet away from them stood Lieutenant Howard, with his
face ashen grey. He had an armful of flowers--purple flags and yellow
lilies from the marsh and clover from the fields.
When he knew that she saw him, he came to the grave, stooped, and put
the flowers upon it. The Doctor stepped back, but Howard took no note
of him whatever. "It is a strange place for a tryst," he said, with
forced calmness. "Katherine, will you come home?"
They went all the way to the Fort without speaking, and when they
reached their own house, he stood aside for her to enter, then
followed her in and locked the door.
Trembling with weakness, he sat down and drew her toward him.
"Katherine, have you anything to say to me?"
Strangely enough, she was not afraid, and the terrible joy was still
surging in her heart.
"Only this, Ralph--that you have wronged me and misjudged me; but
you know this--that I never told you a lie in my life. As long as I
bear your name I will bear it rightly; while I call myself your wife,
you may know that I am faithful to you and to myself. That is all I
have to say, but for your sake and my own--and for the little lad's
sake--be just a little kind to me!"
Her voice broke at the last words, but he rushed past her and went
out. From the window of her room she saw him pacing back and forth on
the plains beyond the Fort, fighting his battle with himself. She knew
she had hurt him past all healing and pitied him subconsciously; the
dominant knowledge warred with her instincts.
When he came in to supper, his face was still pale, but his voice was
even and controlled. He ate but little, and they talked commonplaces
until afterward.
"Katherine," he said, "I remove the embargo; you may have--him--or any
of your other friends at the house as often as you please. I will not
force my wife to make clandestine appointments outside!" He laughed
harshly and went out, but, though she waited for him till long past
midnight, he did not return.
For her there was no rest. Pity, shame, fear, pride, and ecstasy
struggled for mastery in her soul. The sound of moving waters
murmured through the night with insistent repetition as the waves
came to the shore. In the dark hours before dawn she saw a man,
indistinctly, walking on the prairie, with his hands clasped behind
him and his head bowed.
At first she thought it was Ralph, but, straining her eyes through the
darkness, she saw that it was the other, and her heart beat hard with
pain.
"Dear God," she murmured brokenly, "oh, give him peace, and help me to
be true!"