THE REPRIEVE
Beatrice looked around the cabin curiously, though its aspect was very
little changed from her memory of it. The rude, narrow bed at the
farther end was still covered with the blue-and-white patchwork quilt
which Mrs. Mackenzie had so strangely lost. The furniture, as before,
consisted of rough chairs and tables made from boxes and barrels by an
inexperienced hand. New shelves had been added, and these were filled
with provisions in the familiar guise of the trading station.
A bolt of calico, some warm winter clothing, and countless articles
of necessity and comfort were all neatly put away. Chandonnais had
evidently pilfered from his employer constantly and systematically.
Whatever he saw that seemed desirable for his mother's use, he
had plainly taken at the first opportunity. Even the children's
playthings had been brought there to amuse Mad Margaret.
Beatrice pulled aside a cotton curtain that had been fastened across
one corner, and was not a little surprised to find her own pink calico
gown, which she had made early in the summer. Robert was as interested
as she was, though the light was rapidly failing. He had found a
tallow dip and kept it within easy reach, though he had his doubts as
to the wisdom of a light.
With an exclamation of astonishment, he stooped and picked up a pair
of moccasins--small, dainty, and heavily beaded--the very pair he had
lost.
"See, dearest," he said, "these are the moccasins I had for your
birthday. I told you they had been stolen, don't you remember?"
The girl turned her sweet face to his. "I'm going to thank you for
them now."
"I don't deserve it, sweetheart, and I'll tell you why. I wanted to
tell you then, but, someway, I didn't have the courage. I didn't know
it was your birthday--I'd had the moccasins a long time, but I didn't
want George to get the better of me, and so I let you think I knew."
The mention of Ronald's name brought tears to her eyes. "I have a
confession to make," she said. "Come here." She put her arm around
his neck and drew his head down, then whispered to him.
"My darling!" he replied, brokenly, "did you think me beast enough to
grudge him that? I'm glad you did it and I always will be. Poor lad,
he couldn't have you, and you are mine for always."
"I know," she sighed; "but I like to think that I made him happy--that
he was happy when he died."
"He loved you, Bee--almost as much as I do."
"He couldn't," she said softly, "for nobody ever loved anybody else as
much as you love me"; and he was quite willing to have it so.
Shortly afterward he came to an active realisation of the fact that
neither of them had eaten anything since morning. He lighted the
tallow dip and searched the cabin until he found a generous supply of
the plain fare to which they were accustomed. He wanted to build a
fire and make some tea for Beatrice, but she refused, and asked for
water instead. He went down the bluff and brought her some, but it was
so warm as to be almost insipid.
After they had eaten, the inevitable reaction came to Beatrice.
The high nervous tension of the past week suddenly snapped and
left her as helpless as a child. "Oh!" she moaned, "the heat is
unbearable--why doesn't it get cool!"
She threw herself upon the narrow bed, utterly exhausted. With a
clumsy, but gentle touch, he took the pins out of her hair and
unfastened her shoes. Beatrice suddenly sat up and threw her shoes
into the farthest corner of the cabin. Then a small, soft, indistinct
bundle was pushed to the floor.
Robert laughed and brought the moccasins. "Will you let me put them
on?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer he slipped them on her
bare feet, not at all surprised to find that they fitted perfectly.
"The little feet," he said, tenderly; "the bare, soft, dimpled things!"
"The moccasins are softer," she answered, in a matter-of-fact tone,
"and I think I'm going to sleep now."
For a long time he sat beside her, holding her hand in his.
They talked of the thousand things which had suddenly become
important--their first meeting, their individual impressions of it,
and of everything that had happened since. With some trepidation he
told her that he was mainly responsible for the poem which accompanied
the Indian basket.
"It was a very bad poem," she observed.
"Yes," answered Robert, with a new note of happy laughter in his
voice; "it was an unspeakable poem."
Then he described the arrangement which he and Ronald had made "to
lessen the friction," as he said, and she smiled in the midst of her
tears. "Poor lad!" she sighed.
"Poor lad!" he repeated; and then, after a long silence, "true lover
and true friend."
The intervals between question and answer lengthened insensibly, and
at last Beatrice slept. He stole away from her on tiptoe and went out
in front of the cabin, where there was only a narrow ledge upon the
bluff. He sat down in the doorway, where he could hear the slightest
sound, and deliberately set himself to watch out the night.
He was physically exhausted, but his mind was strangely active. For
the first time he was in a position to review the events of his stay
at Fort Dearborn, from the night of his arrival, when Mad Margaret had
appeared at the trading station, to the present hour, when he sat in
her pathetic little cabin, with the girl he loved so near him that he
could hear her deep breathing as she slept.
"What has it done for me?" he thought--"what has it brought me?" The
answer was "Beatrice," which came with a passionate uplifting of
soul. With a certain boyish idea of knight-errantry, he had kept
his hands and his heart clean, and, in consequence, love brought
to him at last an exquisite fineness of joy. In that hour of close
self-communion, his deepest satisfaction was this--that in all the
years, in spite of frequent temptation, there was nothing of which he
need to be ashamed--nothing to remember with a pang of bitterness,
when Beatrice lifted her innocent eyes to his.
"Sir Galahad," some of his friends had called him, jeeringly, and,
before, it had never failed to bring the colour to his face; but now
the words rang through his consciousness like a trumpet-blast of
victory. He was spared that inner knowledge of shame and unworthiness
which lies, like bitter lees, in the wine of man's love.
"Beatrice! Beatrice!" Like another of her name she had led him through
hell, and he saw now a certain sweet slavery in prospect. Wherever his
thoughts might wander, she would always be with him, like the golden
thread which runs through a dull tapestry, in and out of the design,
sometimes hidden for an instant, but never lost.
Aunt Eleanor and Uncle John--they had been like father and mother
to him, and he loved the children as though they were his own. The
plaintive lisps of the little girl came back to his memory with
remorseful tenderness, and he smiled as he wondered, dreamily, what
Beatrice might have been at four or five. Swiftly upon the thought
came another, which set the blood to singing in his veins, and
which he put from him quickly, as one retreats before something too
beautiful and too delicate to touch.
Captain Wells and Doctor Norton--they were dead. And Ronald--a lump
came into his throat which he could not keep down, for, of all the
men in the world, the blue-eyed soldier was best fitted to be his
friend. They supplemented one another perfectly, each having what
the other lacked, and enough in common to make firm neutral ground
whereupon friendship might safely stand. Of his other friends at the
Fort he thought idly, since he had not known them so well, but he was
genuinely glad that they had survived the horrors of the day.
As night wore on, the battle assumed indistinct and indefinite
phases. Here and there some incident stood out vividly; unrelated
and detached. He had spoken truly when he told Beatrice that "a mere
handful" had been lost. What, indeed, did such things matter in the
face of history?
It was but the price of a new country, which courageous souls had
been paying for two centuries and more, and which some must continue
to pay until----
Like a lightning flash came sudden breadth of view. What if a thousand
had died instead of fifty; how could it change the meaning? Broad and
beautiful, from the Atlantic to the unknown shore unmeasured leagues
away, stretched a new country, vast beyond the dreams of empire, which
belonged to his race for the asking.
Something stirred in his pulses, uncertain but vital; so strangely
elemental that it seemed one with the reaches of water that lay just
beyond him. Here, at the head of Lake Michigan, some day there must
be--what?
There was a rustle beside him, but it was only a leaf. In the
stillness it seemed as if it must wake Beatrice. Another near it
fluttered idly, and a white birch trembled. A sudden coolness came
into the air, then out of the lake rose the blessed north-east wind,
with life and healing upon its grey wings.
He went into the cabin to put a blanket over Beatrice. Her face was
turned toward the door, that her wounded arm might be uppermost, and
something in her attitude of childish helplessness brought the mist to
his eyes. The white, soft arm, with the bandage upon it, had its own
irresistible appeal. Half fearing to wake her, he stooped to kiss it
softly, thrilled with a tenderness so great that his love was almost
pain.
He went back to the cabin door, where the wind was rioting amid the
saplings, and sat down again. Already there was a hushed murmur upon
the shore, and when the late moon rose, full and golden, from the
mysterious vault beyond the horizon, the lake was white with tossing
plumes--the manes of the plunging steeds that lead the legions of the
sea.
Far out upon the water was a path of beaten gold--that fairy path
which the little Beatrice had thought to take when she went to visit
the moon people. The memory of that night came back with rapturous
pain--when he had found the words to tell her what she was and what
she meant to him, as far as words could express the sacred emotion
that was kindled upon the altars of his inmost soul.
The moonlight shone into the cabin and full upon the girl's face. The
childish sweetness, the womanly softness of her as she lay there came
to him like the breath of a rose. A thread of light went higher and
touched the silver cross to lambent flame. Beyond it, over the cabin,
was----
He sprang to his feet and ran up the little incline to the bluff.
In spite of the thick woods he could see the ominous glare upon the
clouds in the south-west, and knew only too well what it portended.
"Cowards! Dogs!" he muttered. "They are burning the Fort!"
His hands shut and opened nervously, and the nails cut deep into the
flesh. A savage impulse to wrest every foot of soil from the Indians
shook him from head to foot. Here, at the head of Lake Michigan--then
the dream came upon him with the claim of mastery. "The baseless
fabric of this vision.... The cloud-capped towers and gorgeous
palaces...." His thought swiftly framed the words, then he laughed
shortly, and turned away.
But, all at once, he knew what he must do. He saw himself clearly in
the van of that humble army, which has no trappings of soldiery or
state, but only the weapons of peace, by which, from the beginning,
all men have ultimately conquered. The plough and the harrow, the
spade and the pruning knife, the steady toil with hand and brain--here
and now.
Step by step he saw the savages forced backward, their arrows met
with muskets and the ring of steel--back to the farthest limits of
the civilisation which at last should sweep them from the face of
the earth. It was the dominant race beating back the opposition; the
conquest of the wilderness by those fitted to rule.
Fired with purpose and ambition, he stood there until the lurid light
in the south-west began to fade. Not one life, but the many--not the
reaping, but the planting--he did not know it, but strong upon him had
come the spirit of the pioneer.
The moon rose high in the heavens and from the zenith sent stray
lines of light to touch the cross, where the figure of the Christ,
wondrously moulded, was eloquent with voiceless appeal. The stars
faded, as if blown out by the wind, and then there was a soft voice at
his side: "Have I been asleep, dear?"
"You sweet girl," he laughed, taking her into his arms; "you've slept
all night--it's nearly time for sunrise, now."
"I didn't know. You'll go to sleep now, won't you?"
"No, dearest--I'm not sleepy."
"Neither am I, so I'm going to stay with you."
In the doorway of the cabin, with their arms around each other, they
sat while the darkness waned. The wind lifted her magnificent hair in
long, slender strands, and now and then, when a heavy tress touched
his face caressingly, Beatrice laughed and pulled it away.
"Don't!" he said.
"You dear, silly boy, you don't want my hair in your face."
"Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"Because I love you, from the crown of your head to your dimpled foot,
with all the strength of my soul."
There was a long silence, then the girl sighed contentedly. "I never
thought love was anything like this, did you?"
"No, dear--I didn't know what it was."
"I didn't, either, but, of course, I wondered. From all I had heard
and read I was afraid of it, and I thought it would make me unhappy,
but it doesn't. I can't tell you how it makes me feel. It seems as if
God made us for each other in the beginning, but kept us apart, and
even after we met it wasn't much better until all at once there was a
light, and then we knew. It seems as if I never could be miserable or
out of sorts again; as if everything was right and always would be;
that whatever came to me you'd help me bear it, and always you'd be my
shield."
"Sweetheart," he answered, deeply touched, "I trust I may be. It
would be my greatest happiness to bear your pain for you."
Far in the east there was a faint colour upon the clouds. "See," she
said, "it is day." He drew her closer, and she went on,--"Think what
it means to go away forever from all this horror--to go back to the
hills!"
Robert swallowed hard, then said thickly, "Heart of Mine, I would die
to shield you, but Destiny calls us here."
With a cry the girl started to her feet. "Here!" she gasped. "Robert,
what do you mean!"
In an instant he was beside her, with her cold hand in his. "What do
you mean!" she cried.
"Listen, dear; I am asking nothing of you--it is for you to say.
To-morrow we will be taken to Detroit as British prisoners--for how
long we do not know. The Indians have burned the Fort, but some day,
when the war is over, we must come here to live, for to go back is to
acknowledge defeat."
The word stung her pride. "Defeat!" she said; "and why? Why are we
defeated if we choose to live in a safe place instead of in danger--in
peace rather than in the fear of massacre? Yesterday, did you not see?
Only by the merest chance I am not among them--and yet you ask me to
go back!"
Her voice vibrated with feeling, and her breast heaved. Even in the
dim, purple light of early morning he could see the suffering in her
face, and it struck him like a blow.
"My darling, listen--let me tell you what I mean. We will go wherever
you say. If it pleases you to live in France or England, we will go
there--it is for you to decide, not for me. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she answered dully. "Go on."
Robert's dream was dim and the fire of his ambition had dwindled, but
he went on bravely. "We are at the very edge of civilisation, dear,
and it must go on beyond us. The tide is moving westward, and we must
either go with it or against it. We must go forward or retreat, there
is no standing still. Yesterday a battle was fought, which, in its
essence, was for the possession of the frontier. We have surrendered,
but we have not given up. If we retreat, it must be fought again. From
shore to shore of this great country there must be one flag and one
law. Here, where the ashes of the Fort now lie, some day a city must
stand."
"So," said the girl, with a harsh laugh, "and you would build a city
from dreams?"
The tone hurt him to the quick. "Yes," he answered steadfastly, "I
would. Nothing in the world was ever built without a dream at the
beginning."
"Well," she said, after a silence--"what then?"
"Sweetheart," he cried, "you make it hard!"
Upon the purple light in the east came gold and crimson, touched
here and there with deep sapphire blue. Little by little a glorious
fabric was woven upon the vast looms of dawn. Beatrice saw his face,
strained and anxious, and knew in her heart that she would yield. What
Katherine had said came back to her--"When you find your mate, you
have to go--there is no other way."
"To-morrow we go," he was saying, "back to the hills, but that is not
the end--it is only the reprieve. We must come back here to fight it
out, to finish the task we have begun, to hold our place in the face
of all odds. We must stand in the front rank of civilisation, make our
footing steady and sure, carry the flag westward into the stronghold
of the wilderness--make a city, if you will, from dreams.
"Beatrice, this is the last time--I shall never ask you again. We will
do as you will--this is my only plea. I ask you now, with the horrors
of yesterday still alive in your heart, with your wound still open and
sore, to come back here with me, when the Fort is rebuilt, and fight
it out by my side.
"It must be done--by others if not by us, and if we retreat we are
shamed. God knows I love you, or I would not ask you this. God knows I
would shield you, and yet I would not have you shamed. Wherever there
is human life, there is also danger, but we must make a place where
our children and our children's children may live without fear. Heart
of Mine, so strong and brave, you are not the one to falter--my Life,
my Queen," he cried, in a voice that rang, "are you not a mate for a
man?"
Prismatic colours lay on the water and the sunrise stained her face.
Far across the pearly reaches a new day was dawning, and she looked at
him steadily, as if her eyes would search his inmost soul.
"Once more," he said huskily, "will you come and do your part? Will
you fight it out with me?"
Love and pain were in his voice--his body was tense and eager, like
one who pleads for his utmost joy. Beatrice felt his courage, his
passionate uplifting, and it stirred her pulses sharply, like a bugle
call. Caught on that wave of absolute surrender, seeking only for the
ultimate good, the girl's soul rose superbly to meet his own.
The first ray of sun leaped across the water, to touch her face with
transfiguring light, and there was a gleam from the cross above her,
where the splendour of the morning was turned back toward the altars
from whence it came. Her fear fell from her like a garment, the
horrors of the past were forgotten, and she saw herself one with him,
on whatever height he might choose to stand.
Her burnished hair was like an aureole about her, and in her eyes was
the fire of victory. Mate for a man she was in that exalted moment,
when she leaned toward him with her lips parted and her soul aflame
with high resolve. The eastern heavens illumined with a flood of white
light that seemed like a challenge.
"Once more, sweetheart--will you come?"
She smiled and her sweet lips trembled as if already she felt his
kiss, then clear and strong as the note of a silver trumpet came the
girl's triumphant answer. "Yes," she cried, "I will!"
THE END
* * * * *
By MYRTLE REED
LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN
LATER LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN
THE SPINSTER BOOK
LAVENDER AND OLD LACE
THE SHADOW OF VICTORY
PICKABACK SONGS
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
New York London
* * * * *
By Myrtle Reed
Lavender and Old Lace
12°. (By mail, $1.60) net, $1.50
Full crimson morocco, in a box " 2.00
Gray ooze leather, in a box " 2.50
Lavender Silk, in a box " 3.50
"A rare book, exquisite in spirit and conception, full of delicate
fancy, of tenderness, of delightful humor and spontaneity. The
story is too dainty, too delicate for analysis.... It is a book
to be enjoyed, and it is so suitably clad that its charm is
enhanced."--_Detroit Free Press_.
The Spinster Book
12°. Gilt top. (By mail, $1.60) net, $1.50
Full crimson morocco, in a box " 2.00
"A _gem_ in a dainty, attractive, and artistic setting.... Miss
Reed is delightfully witty, delightfully humorous, delightfully
cynical, delightfully sane, and, above all, delightfully
spontaneous. The pages sparkle with bright, clear wit; they
bubble with honest, hearty humor; they contain many stings but
no savage thrusts.... A magazine of epigrams for a rapid-firing
gun."--_Philadelphia Telegraph._
Love Letters of a Musician } Two
Later Love Letters of a Musician } vols.
12°. Gilt top each, $1.75
Full crimson morocco, in a box " 2.50
"Miss Reed's books are exquisite prose poems--words strung on
thought-threads of gold--in which a musician tells his love for
one whom he has found to be his ideal. The idea is not new, but
the opinion is ventured that nowhere has it been one-half so well
carried out. The ecstacy of hope, the apathy of despair, alternate
in these enchanting letters, without one line of cynicism to mar
the beauty of their effect."--_Rochester Herald_.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
New York London
* * * * *
GOOD FICTION
Patricia of the Hills
By CHARLES KENNETT BURROW.
12°. (By mail, $1.10.) _Net_ $1.00
"Patriotism without unreasonableness; love of the open air and the
free hills without exaggeration; romance without over-gush; humor
and melancholy side by side without morbidness; an Irish dialect
stopping short of excess; a story full of sincere feeling."--_The
Nation._
"No more charming romance of the old sod has been published in a
long time."--_N. Y. World._
"A very pretty Irish story."--_N. Y. Tribune._
Eve Triumphant
By PIERRE DE COULEVAIN. Translated by ALYS HALLARD.
12°. (By mail, $1.35.) _Net_ $1.20
"Clever, stimulating, interesting, ... a brilliant mingling of
salient truth, candid opinion, and witty comment."--_Chicago
Record._
"An audacious and satirical tale which embodies a great deal of
clever and keen observation."--_Detroit Free Press_.
"An extremely clever work of fiction."--_Louisville
Courier-Journal._
Monsieur Martin
A Romance of the Great Swedish War. By WYMOND CAREY.
12°. (By mail, $1.35.) _Net_ $1.20
"It was with genuine pleasure that we read 'M. Martin.' ... We
cordially admire it and sincerely hope that all who read this page
will also read the book."--From a Column Review in the _Syracuse
Herald_.
"Wymond Carey's name must be added to the list of authors whose
first books have given them a notable place in the world of
letters, for 'Monsieur Martin' is one of the best of recent
historical romances."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._
"Mr. Wymond Carey has given us much pleasure in reading his book,
and we are glad to praise it."--_Baltimore Sun._
New York--G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS--London
* * * * *
GOOD FICTION
Lavender and Old Lace
By MYRTLE REED, author of "Love Letters of a Musician," "The Spinster
Book," etc.
12°. (By mail, $1.65) net, $1.50
Full Crimson Morocco net, $2.00
Miss Reed has carried her lively style and charming humor from
letters and essays into the field of fiction. This is the story of
a quaint corner of New England where more than one romance lies
hidden underneath the prim garb of a little village.
The Earth and the Fullness Thereof
A Tale of Styria. By PETER ROSEGGER, author of "The Forest
Schoolmaster," "The God Seeker," etc. Authorized English Version
by FRANCES E. SKINNER.
12° $1.50
There is, throughout, that same sweet recognition of the beautiful
in life, even where human existence is the most squalid, that gave
a wonderful quality to "The Forest Schoolmaster." And there is
a true pleasure in the story's happy conclusion that is born of
no playwriter's trick, but of a sense of the eternal justice of
things.
Fame for a Woman
or, Splendid Mourning. By CRANSTOUN METCALFE. With Frontispiece by
ADOLF THIEDE.
12°. (By mail, $1.35) net, $1.20
Madame de Staël wrote: "Fame is for women only a splendid
mourning for happiness"; Mr. Metcalfe tells us how a sweet
little woman, whose world is little bigger than her husband,
loses that perspective by contact with the superficially clever
young literary set in London. She is persuaded to write, and her
writing is attended with success, such as it is,--the sort of
success which means much figuring in "literary notes," interviews
describing the privacy of one's fireside, and preeminence among
so-called Bohemians.
New York--G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS--London
* * * * *
GOOD FICTION
Morchester
A Story of American Society, Politics, and Affairs. By CHARLES
DACHET.
12°. (By mail, $1.35.) _Net_, $1.20
"Though unknown to the readers of romance, Mr. Dachet here shows
himself to be a master of the craft of romance writing. The action
of his book takes place in an eastern city which may easily be
identified with Pittsburgh, and in several of the characters
of the story, local politicians of national reputation may be
recognized.... The story on every page shows power, reserve, and
a profound knowledge of the actualities of modern life, and no
little literary handling."--_Chicago Interior._
The Romance of Leonardo da Vinci: The Forerunner
By DMITRI MEREJKOWSKI, author of "The Death of the Gods," etc.
Authorized translation from the Russian, edited by HERBERT TRENCH.
12°. (By mail, $1.65.) _Net_, $1.50
"Leonardo, who is presented as the hero of the story, is a figure
of great nobility.... A finer study of the artistic temperament at
its best could scarcely be found. And Leonardo is the centre of a
crowd of striking figures. It is impossible to speak too highly of
the dramatic power with which they are presented, both singly and
in combination.... The story as a whole is a very powerful piece
of work, standing higher above the level of contemporary fiction
than it would be easy to say."--_London Spectator._
Typhoon
By JOSEPH CONRAD, author of "Lord Jim." 16°. (By mail, $1.10.)
_Net_, $1.00
"Its scenes are painted with a vividness that leaves us
breathless.... It is an extraordinarily artistic book.... Only a
man of genius could have written 'Typhoon.'"--_N. Y. Tribune._
New York--G. P. PUTMAN'S SONS--London
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other
inconsistencies. Text that has been changed to correct an obvious
error is noted below.
Several occurrences of mismatched double quotes and missing periods
in the original were silently corrected.
A list of other books by Myrtle Reed found at the begining was moved
to the back of the book, before the other advertisements.
The transcriber made these changes to the text to correct obvious
errors:
p. 42, sil y --> silly
p. 96, murmer --> murmur
p. 200, beads of uncle --> beads off uncle
p. 252, sleeeves --> sleeves
p. 265, but I wont bathe --> but I won't bathe
p. 288, marrry --> marry