Many weeks of quiet followed the events of the last chapter. The
settlers planted their corn, harvested their wheat and labored in
the fields during the whole of one spring and summer without hearing
the dreaded war cry of the Indians. Colonel Zane, who had been a
disbursing officer in the army of Lord Dunmore, where he had
attained the rank of Colonel, visited Fort Pitt during the summer in
the hope of increasing the number of soldiers in his garrison. His
efforts proved fruitless. He returned to Fort Henry by way of the
river with several pioneers, who with their families were bound for
Fort Henry. One of these pioneers was a minister who worked in the
fields every week day and on Sundays preached the Gospel to those
who gathered in the meeting house.
Alfred Clarke had taken up his permanent abode at the fort, where he
had been installed as one of the regular garrison. His duties, as
well as those of the nine other members of the garrison, were light.
For two hours out of the twenty-four he was on guard. Thus he had
ample time to acquaint himself with the settlers and their families.
Alfred and Isaac had now become firm friends. They spent many hours
fishing in the river, and roaming the woods in the vicinity, as
Colonel Zane would not allow Isaac to stray far from the fort.
Alfred became a regular visitor at Colonel Zane's house. He saw
Betty every day, but as yet, nothing had mended the breach between
them. They were civil to each other when chance threw them together,
but Betty usually left the room on some pretext soon after he
entered. Alfred regretted his hasty exhibition of resentment and
would have been glad to establish friendly relations with her. But
she would not give him an opportunity. She avoided him on all
possible occasions. Though Alfred was fast succumbing to the charm
of Betty's beautiful face, though his desire to be near her had
grown well nigh resistless, his pride had not yet broken down. Many
of the summer evenings found him on the Colonel's doorstep, smoking
a pipe, or playing with the children. He was that rare and best
company--a good listener. Although he laughed at Colonel Zane's
stories, and never tired of hearing of Isaac's experiences among the
Indians, it is probable he would not have partaken of the Colonel's
hospitality nearly so often had it not been that he usually saw
Betty, and if he got only a glimpse of her he went away satisfied.
On Sundays he attended the services at the little church and
listened to Betty's sweet voice as she led the singing.
There were a number of girls at the fort near Betty's age. With all
of these Alfred was popular. He appeared so entirely different from
the usual young man on the frontier that he was more than welcome
everywhere. Girls in the backwoods are much the same as girls in
thickly populated and civilized districts. They liked his manly
ways; his frank and pleasant manners; and when to these virtues he
added a certain deferential regard, a courtliness to which they were
unaccustomed, they were all the better pleased. He paid the young
women little attentions, such as calling on them, taking them to
parties and out driving, but there was not one of them who could
think that she, in particular, interested him.
The girls noticed, however, that he never approached Betty after
service, or on any occasion, and while it caused some wonder and
gossip among them, for Betty enjoyed the distinction of being the
belle of the border, they were secretly pleased. Little hints and
knowing smiles, with which girls are so skillful, made known to
Betty all of this, and, although she was apparently indifferent, it
hurt her sensitive feelings. It had the effect of making her believe
she hated the cause of it more than ever.
What would have happened had things gone on in this way, I am not
prepared to say; probably had not a meddling Fate decided to take a
hand in the game, Betty would have continued to think she hated
Alfred, and I would never have had occasion to write his story; but
Fate did interfere, and, one day in the early fall, brought about an
incident which changed the whole world for the two young people.
It was the afternoon of an Indian summer day--in that most beautiful
time of all the year--and Betty, accompanied by her dog, had
wandered up the hillside into the woods. From the hilltop the broad
river could be seen winding away in the distance, and a soft,
bluish, smoky haze hung over the water. The forest seemed to be on
fire. The yellow leaves of the poplars, the brown of the white and
black oaks, the red and purple of the maples, and the green of the
pines and hemlocks flamed in a glorious blaze of color. A stillness,
which was only broken now and then by the twittering of birds
uttering the plaintive notes peculiar to them in the autumn as they
band together before their pilgrimage to the far south, pervaded the
forest.
Betty loved the woods, and she knew all the trees. She could tell
their names by the bark or the shape of the leaves. The giant black
oak, with its smooth shiny bark and sturdy limbs, the chestnut with
its rugged, seamed sides and bristling burrs, the hickory with its
lofty height and curled shelling bark, were all well known and well
loved by Betty. Many times had she wondered at the trembling,
quivering leaves of the aspen, and the foliage of the silver-leaf as
it glinted in the sun. To-day, especially, as she walked through the
woods, did their beauty appeal to her. In the little sunny patches
of clearing which were scattered here and there in the grove, great
clusters of goldenrod grew profusely. The golden heads swayed
gracefully on the long stems Betty gathered a few sprigs and added
to them a bunch of warmly tinted maple leaves.
The chestnuts burrs were opening. As Betty mounted a little rocky
eminence and reached out for a limb of a chestnut tree, she lost her
footing and fell. Her right foot had twisted under her as she went
down, and when a sharp pain shot through it she was unable to
repress a cry. She got up, tenderly placed the foot on the ground
and tried her weight on it, which caused acute pain. She unlaced and
removed her moccasin to find that her ankle had commenced to swell.
Assured that she had sprained it, and aware of the serious
consequences of an injury of that nature, she felt greatly
distressed. Another effort to place her foot on the ground and bear
her weight on it caused such severe pain that she was compelled to
give up the attempt. Sinking down by the trunk of the tree and
leaning her head against it she tried to think of a way out of her
difficulty.
The fort, which she could plainly see, seemed a long distance off,
although it was only a little way down the grassy slope. She looked
and looked, but not a person was to be seen. She called to Tige. She
remembered that he had been chasing a squirrel a short while ago,
but now there was no sign of him. He did not come at her call. How
annoying! If Tige were only there she could have sent him for help.
She shouted several times, but the distance was too great for her
voice to carry to the fort. The mocking echo of her call came back
from the bluff that rose to her left. Betty now began to be alarmed
in earnest, and the tears started to roll down her cheeks. The
throbbing pain in her ankle, the dread of having to remain out in
that lonesome forest after dark, and the fear that she might not be
found for hours, caused Betty's usually brave spirit to falter; she
was weeping unreservedly.
In reality she had been there only a few minutes--although they
seemed hours to her--when she heard the light tread of moccasined
feet on the moss behind her. Starting up with a cry of joy she
turned and looked up into the astonished face of Alfred Clarke.
Returning from a hunt back in the woods he had walked up to her
before being aware of her presence. In a single glance he saw the
wildflowers scattered beside her, the little moccasin turned inside
out, the woebegone, tearstained face, and he knew Betty had come to
grief.
Confused and vexed, Betty sank back at the foot of the tree. It is
probable she would have encountered Girty or a member of his band of
redmen, rather than have this young man find her in this
predicament. It provoked her to think that of all the people at the
fort it should be the only one she could not welcome who should find
her in such a sad plight.
"Why, Miss Zane!" he exclaimed, after a moment of hesitation. "What
in the world has happened? Have you been hurt? May I help you?"
"It is nothing," said Betty, bravely, as she gathered up her flowers
and the moccasin and rose slowly to her feet. "Thank you, but you
need not wait."
The cold words nettled Alfred and he was in the act of turning away
from her when he caught, for the fleetest part of a second, the full
gaze of her eyes. He stopped short. A closer scrutiny of her face
convinced him that she was suffering and endeavoring with all her
strength to conceal it.
"But I will wait. I think you have hurt yourself. Lean upon my arm,"
he said, quietly.
"Please let me help you," he continued, going nearer to her.
But Betty refused his assistance. She would not even allow him to
take the goldenrod from her arms. After a few hesitating steps she
paused and lifted her foot from the ground.
"Here, you must not try to walk a step farther," he said,
resolutely, noting how white she had suddenly become. "You have
sprained your ankle and are needlessly torturing yourself. Please
let me carry you?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Betty, in evident distress. "I will manage.
It is not so--very--far."
She resumed the slow and painful walking, but she had taken only a
few steps when she stopped again and this time a low moan issued
from her lips. She swayed slightly backward and if Alfred had not
dropped his rifle and caught her she would have fallen.
"Will you--please--for some one?" she whispered faintly, at the same
time pushing him away.
"How absurd!" burst out Alfred, indignantly. "Am I then, so
distasteful to you that you would rather wait here and suffer a half
hour longer while I go for assistance? It is only common courtesy on
my part. I do not want to carry you. I think you would be quite
heavy."
He said this in a hard, bitter tone, deeply hurt that she would not
accept even a little kindness from him. He looked away from her and
waited. Presently a soft, half-smothered sob came from Betty and it
expressed such utter wretchedness that his heart melted. After all
she was only a child. He turned to see the tears running down her
cheeks, and with a suppressed imprecation upon the wilfulness of
young women in general, and this one in particular, he stepped
forward and before she could offer any resistance, he had taken her
up in his arms, goldenrod and all, and had started off at a rapid
walk toward the fort.
Betty cried out in angry surprise, struggled violently for a moment,
and then, as suddenly, lay quietly in his arms. His anger changed to
self-reproach as he realized what a light burden she made. He looked
down at the dark head lying on his shoulder. Her face was hidden by
the dusky rippling hair, which tumbled over his breast, brushed
against his cheek, and blew across his lips. The touch of those
fragrant tresses was a soft caress. Almost unconsciously he pressed
her closer to his heart. And as a sweet mad longing grew upon him he
was blind to all save that he held her in his arms, that uncertainty
was gone forever, and that he loved her. With these thoughts running
riot in his brain he carried her down the hill to Colonel Zane's
house.
The negro, Sam, who came out of the kitchen, dropped the bucket he
had in his hand and ran into the house when he saw them. When Alfred
reached the gate Colonel Zane and Isaac were hurrying out to meet
him.
"For Heaven's sake! What has happened? Is she badly hurt? I have
always looked for this," said the Colonel, excitedly.
"You need not look so alarmed," answered Alfred. "She has only
sprained her ankle, and trying to walk afterward hurt her so badly
that she became faint and I had to carry her."
"Dear me, is that all?" said Mrs. Zane, who had also come out. "We
were terribly frightened. Sam came running into the house with some
kind of a wild story. Said he knew you would be the death of Betty."
"How ridiculous! Colonel Zane, that servant of yours never fails to
say something against me," said Alfred, as he carried Betty into the
house.
"He doesn't like you. But you need not mind Sam. He is getting old
and we humor him, perhaps too much. We are certainly indebted to
you," returned the Colonel.
Betty was laid on the couch and consigned to the skillful hands of
Mrs. Zane, who pronounced the injury a bad sprain.
"Well, Betty, this will keep you quiet for a few days," said she,
with a touch of humor, as she gently felt the swollen ankle.
"Alfred, you have been our good angel so often that I don't see how
we shall ever reward you," said Isaac to Alfred.
"Oh, that time will come. Don't worry about that," said Alfred,
jestingly, and then, turning to the others he continued, earnestly.
"I will apologize for the manner in which I disregarded Miss Zane's
wish not to help her. I am sure I could do no less. I believe my
rudeness has spared her considerable suffering."
"What did he mean, Betts?" asked Isaac, going back to his sister
after he had closed the door. "Didn't you want him to help you?"
Betty did not answer. She sat on the couch while Mrs. Zane held the
little bare foot and slowly poured the hot water over the swollen
and discolored ankle. Betty's lips were pale. She winced every time
Mrs. Zane touched her foot, but as yet she had not uttered even a
sigh.
"Betty, does it hurt much?" asked Isaac.
"Hurt? Do you think I am made of wood? Of course it hurts," retorted
Betty. "That water is so hot. Bessie, will not cold water do as
well?"
"I am sorry. I won't tease any more," said Isaac, taking his
sister's hand. "I'll tell you what, Betty, we owe Alfred Clarke a
great deal, you and I. I am going to tell you something so you will
know how much more you owe him. Do you remember last month when that
red heifer of yours got away. Well, Clarke chased her away and
finally caught her in the woods. He asked me to say I had caught
her. Somehow or other he seems to be afraid of you. I wish you and
he would be good friends. He is a mighty fine fellow."
In spite of the pain Betty was suffering a bright blush suffused her
face at the words of her brother, who, blind as brothers are in
regard to their own sisters, went on praising his friend.
Betty was confined to the house a week or more and during this
enforced idleness she had ample time for reflection and opportunity
to inquire into the perplexed state of her mind.
The small room, which Betty called her own, faced the river and
fort. Most of the day she lay by the window trying to read her
favorite books, but often she gazed out on the quiet scene, the
rolling river, the everchanging trees and the pastures in which the
red and white cows grazed peacefully; or she would watch with idle,
dreamy eyes the flight of the crows over the hills, and the graceful
motion of the hawk as he sailed around and around in the azure sky,
looking like a white sail far out on a summer sea.
But Betty's mind was at variance with this peaceful scene. The
consciousness of a change, which she could not readily define, in
her feelings toward Alfred Clarke, vexed and irritated her. Why did
she think of him so often? True, he had saved her brother's life.
Still she was compelled to admit to herself that this was not the
reason. Try as she would, she could not banish the thought of him.
Over and over again, a thousand times, came the recollection of that
moment when he had taken her up in his arms as though she were a
child. Some vague feeling stirred in her heart as she remembered the
strong yet gentle clasp of his arms.
Several times from her window she had seen him coming across the
square between the fort and her brother's house, and womanlike,
unseen herself, she had watched him. How erect was his carriage. How
pleasant his deep voice sounded as she heard him talking to her
brother. Day by day, as her ankle grew stronger and she knew she
could not remain much longer in her room, she dreaded more and more
the thought of meeting him. She could not understand herself; she
had strange dreams; she cried seemingly without the slightest cause
and she was restless and unhappy. Finally she grew angry and scolded
herself. She said she was silly and sentimental. This had the effect
of making her bolder, but it did not quiet her unrest. Betty did not
know that the little blind God, who steals unawares on his victim,
had marked her for his own, and that all this sweet perplexity was
the unconscious awakening of the heart.
One afternoon, near the end of Betty's siege indoors, two of her
friends, Lydia Boggs and Alice Reynolds, called to see her.
Alice had bright blue eyes, and her nut brown hair hung in
rebellious curls around her demure and pretty face. An adorable
dimple lay hidden in her rosy cheek and flashed into light with her
smiles.
"Betty, you are a lazy thing!" exclaimed Lydia. "Lying here all day
long doing nothing but gaze out of the window."
"Girls, I am glad you came over," said Betty. "I am blue. Perhaps
you will cheer me up."
"Betty needs some one of the sterner sex to cheer her," said Alice,
mischievously, her eyes twinkling. "Don't you think so, Lydia?"
"Of course," answered Lydia. "When I get blue--"
"Please spare me," interrupted Betty, holding up her hands in
protest. "I have not a single doubt that your masculine remedies are
sufficient for all your ills. Girls who have lost their interest in
the old pleasures, who spend their spare time in making linen and
quilts, and who have sunk their very personalities in a great big
tyrant of a man, are not liable to get blue. They are afraid he may
see a tear or a frown. But thank goodness, I have not yet reached
that stage."
"Oh, Betty Zane! Just you wait! Wait!" exclaimed Lydia, shaking her
finger at Betty. "Your turn is coming. When it does do not expect
any mercy from us, for you shalt never get it."
"Unfortunately, you and Alice have monopolized the attentions of the
only two eligible young men at the fort," said Betty, with a laugh.
"Nonsense there plenty of young men all eager for our favor, you
little coquette," answered Lydia. "Harry Martin, Will Metzer,
Captain Swearengen, of Short Creek, and others too numerous to
count. Look at Lew Wetzel and Billy Bennet."
"Lew cares for nothing except hunting Indians and Billy's only a
boy," said Betty.
"Well, have it your own way," said Lydia. "Only this, I know Billy
adores you, for he told me so, and a better lad never lived."
"Lyde, you forget to include one other among those prostrate before
Betty's charms," said Alice.
"Oh, yes, you mean Mr. Clarke. To be sure, I had forgotten him,"
answered Lydia. "How odd that he should be the one to find you the
day you hurt your foot. Was it an accident?"
"Of course. I slipped off the bank," said Betty.
"No, no. I don't mean that. Was his finding you an accident?"
"Do you imagine I waylaid Mr. Clarke, and then sprained my ankle on
purpose?" said Betty, who began to look dangerous.
"Certainly not that; only it seems so odd that he should be the one
to rescue all the damsels in distress. Day before yesterday he
stopped a runaway horse, and saved Nell Metzer who was in the wagon,
a severe shaking up, if not something more serious. She is
desperately in love with him. She told me Mr. Clarke--"
"I really do not care to hear about it," interrupted Betty.
"But, Betty, tell us. Wasn't it dreadful, his carrying you?" asked
Alice, with a sly glance at Betty. "You know you are so--so prudish,
one may say. Did he take you in his arms? It must have been very
embarrassing for you, considering your dislike of Mr. Clarke, and
he so much in love with--"
"You hateful girls," cried Betty, throwing a pillow at Alice, who
just managed to dodge it. "I wish you would go home."
"Never mind, Betty. We will not tease anymore," said Lydia, putting
her arm around Betty. "Come, Alice, we will tell Betty you have
named the day for your wedding. See! She is all eyes now."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The young people of the frontier settlements were usually married
before they were twenty. This was owing to the fact that there was
little distinction of rank and family pride. The object of the
pioneers in moving West was, of course, to better their condition;
but, the realization of their dependence on one another, the common
cause of their labors, and the terrible dangers to which they were
continually exposed, brought them together as one large family.
Therefore, early love affairs were encouraged--not frowned upon as
they are to-day--and they usually resulted in early marriages.
However, do not let it be imagined that the path of the youthful
swain was strewn with flowers. Courting or "sparking" his sweetheart
had a painful as well as a joyous side. Many and varied were the
tricks played on the fortunate lover by the gallants who had vied
with him for the favor of the maid. Brave, indeed, he who won her.
If he marched up to her home in the early evening he was made the
object of innumerable jests, even the young lady's family indulging
in and enjoying the banter. Later, when he come out of the door, it
was more than likely that, if it were winter, he would be met by a
volley of water soaked snowballs, or big buckets of icewater, or a
mountain of snow shoved off the roof by some trickster, who had
waited patiently for such an opportunity. On summer nights his horse
would be stolen, led far into the woods and tied, or the wheels of
his wagon would be taken off and hidden, leaving him to walk home.
Usually the successful lover, and especially if he lived at a
distance, would make his way only once a week and then late at night
to the home of his betrothed. Silently, like a thief in the dark, he
would crawl through the grass and shrubs until beneath her window.
At a low signal, prearranged between them, she would slip to the
door and let him in without disturbing the parents. Fearing to make
a light, and perhaps welcoming that excuse to enjoy the darkness
beloved by sweethearts, they would sit quietly, whispering low,
until the brightening in the east betokened the break of day, and
then he was off, happy and lighthearted, to his labors.
A wedding was looked forward to with much pleasure by old and young.
Practically, it meant the only gathering of the settlers which was
not accompanied by the work of reaping the harvest, building a
cabin, planning an expedition to relieve some distant settlement, or
a defense for themselves. For all, it meant a rollicking good time;
to the old people a feast, and the looking on at the merriment of
their children--to the young folk, a pleasing break in the monotony
of their busy lives, a day given up to fun and gossip, a day of
romance, a wedding, and best of all, a dance. Therefore Alice
Reynold's wedding proved a great event to the inhabitants of Fort
Henry.
The day dawned bright and clear. The sun, rising like a ball of red
gold, cast its yellow beams over the bare, brown hills, shining on
the cabin roofs white with frost, and making the delicate weblike
coat of ice on the river sparkle as if it had been sprinkled with
powdered diamonds. William Martin, the groom, and his attendants,
met at an appointed time to celebrate an old time-honored custom
which always took place before the party started for the house of
the bride. This performance was called "the race for the bottle."
A number of young men, selected by the groom, were asked to take
part in this race, which was to be run over as rough and dangerous a
track as could be found. The worse the road, the more ditches, bogs,
trees, stumps, brush, in fact, the more obstacles of every kind, the
better, as all these afforded opportunity for daring and expert
horsemanship. The English fox race, now famous on three continents,
while it involves risk and is sometimes dangerous, cannot, in the
sense of hazard to life and limb, be compared to this race for the
bottle.
On this day the run was not less exciting than usual. The horses
were placed as nearly abreast as possible and the starter gave an
Indian yell. Then followed the cracking of whips, the furious
pounding of heavy hoofs, the commands of the contestants, and the
yells of the onlookers. Away they went at a mad pace down the road.
The course extended a mile straight away down the creek bottom. The
first hundred yards the horses were bunched. At the ditch beyond the
creek bridge a beautiful, clean limbed animal darted from among the
furiously galloping horses and sailed over the deep furrow like a
bird. All recognized the rider as Alfred Clarke on his black
thoroughbred. Close behind was George Martin mounted on a large roan
of powerful frame and long stride. Through the willows they dashed,
over logs and brush heaps, up the little ridges of rising ground,
and down the shallow gullies, unheeding the stinging branches and
the splashing water. Half the distance covered and Alfred turned, to
find the roan close behind. On a level road he would have laughed at
the attempt of that horse to keep up with his racer, but he was
beginning to fear that the strong limbed stallion deserved his
reputation. Directly before them rose a pile of logs and matted
brush, placed there by the daredevil settlers who had mapped out the
route. It was too high for any horse to be put at. With pale cheek
and clinched teeth Alfred touched the spurs to Roger and then threw
himself forward. The gallant beast responded nobly. Up, up, up he
rose, clearing all but the topmost branches. Alfred turned again and
saw the giant roan make the leap without touching a twig. The next
instant Roger went splash into a swamp. He sank to his knees in the
soft black soil. He could move but one foot at a time, and Alfred
saw at a glance he had won the race. The great weight of the roan
handicapped him here. When Alfred reached the other side of the bog,
where the bottle was swinging from a branch of a tree, his rival's
horse was floundering hopelessly in the middle of the treacherous
mire. The remaining three horsemen, who had come up by this time,
seeing that it would be useless to attempt further efforts, had
drawn up on the bank. With friendly shouts to Clarke, they
acknowledged themselves beaten. There were no judges required for
this race, because the man who reached the bottle first won it.
The five men returned to the starting point, where the victor was
greeted by loud whoops. The groom got the first drink from the
bottle, then came the attendants, and others in order, after which
the bottle was put away to be kept as a memento of the occasion.
The party now repaired to the village and marched to the home of the
bride. The hour for the observance of the marriage rites was just
before the midday meal. When the groom reached the bride's home he
found her in readiness. Sweet and pretty Alice looked in her gray
linsey gown, perfectly plain and simple though it was, without an
ornament or a ribbon. Proud indeed looked her lover as he took her
hand and led her up to the waiting minister. When the whisperings
had ceased the minister asked who gave this woman to be married.
Alice's father answered.
"Will you take this woman to be your wedded wife, to love, cherish
and protect her all the days of her life?" asked the minister.
"I will," answered a deep bass voice.
"Will you take this man to be your wedded husband, to love, honor
and obey him all the days of your life?"
"I will," said Alice, in a low tone.
"I pronounce you man and wife. Those whom God has joined together
let no man put asunder."
There was a brief prayer and the ceremony ended. Then followed the
congratulations of relatives and friends. The felicitations were apt
to be trying to the nerves of even the best tempered groom. The hand
shakes, the heavy slaps on the back, and the pommeling he received
at the hands of his intimate friends were as nothing compared to the
anguish of mind he endured while they were kissing his wife. The
young bucks would not have considered it a real wedding had they
been prevented from kissing the bride, and for that matter, every
girl within reach. So fast as the burly young settlers could push
themselves through the densely packed rooms they kissed the bride,
and then the first girl they came to.
Betty and Lydia had been Alice's maids of honor. This being Betty's
first experience at a frontier wedding, it developed that she was
much in need of Lydia's advice, which she had previously disdained.
She had rested secure in her dignity. Poor Betty! The first man to
kiss Alice was George Martin, a big, strong fellow, who gathered his
brother's bride into his arms and gave her a bearish hug and a
resounding kiss. Releasing her he turned toward Lydia and Betty.
Lydia eluded him, but one of his great hands clasped around Betty's
wrist. She tried to look haughty, but with everyone laughing, and
the young man's face expressive of honest fun and happiness she
found it impossible. She stood still and only turned her face a
little to one side while George kissed her. The young men now made a
rush for her. With blushing cheeks Betty, unable to stand her ground
any longer, ran to her brother, the Colonel. He pushed her away with
a laugh. She turned to Major McColloch, who held out his arms to
her. With an exclamation she wrenched herself free from a young man,
who had caught her hand, and flew to the Major. But alas for Betty!
The Major was not proof against the temptation and he kissed her
himself.
"Traitor!" cried Betty, breaking away from him.
Poor Betty was in despair. She had just made up her mind to submit
when she caught sight of Wetzel's familiar figure. She ran to him
and the hunter put one of his long arms around her.
"I reckon I kin take care of you, Betty," he said, a smile playing
over his usually stern face. "See here, you young bucks. Betty don't
want to be kissed, and if you keep on pesterin' her I'll have to
scalp a few of you."
The merriment grew as the day progressed. During the wedding feast
great hilarity prevailed. It culminated in the dance which followed
the dinner. The long room of the block-house had been decorated with
evergreens, autumn leaves and goldenrod, which were scattered
profusely about, hiding the blackened walls and bare rafters.
Numerous blazing pine knots, fastened on sticks which were stuck
into the walls, lighted up a scene, which for color and animation
could not have been surpassed.
Colonel Zane's old slave, Sam, who furnished the music, sat on a
raised platform at the upper end of the hall, and the way he sawed
away on his fiddle, accompanying the movements of his arm with a
swaying of his body and a stamping of his heavy foot, showed he had
a hearty appreciation of his own value.
Prominent among the men and women standing and sitting near the
platform could be distinguished the tall forms of Jonathan Zane,
Major McColloch and Wetzel, all, as usual, dressed in their hunting
costumes and carrying long rifles. The other men had made more or
less effort to improve their appearance. Bright homespun shirts and
scarfs had replaced the everyday buckskin garments. Major McColloch
was talking to Colonel Zane. The genial faces of both reflected the
pleasure they felt in the enjoyment of the younger people. Jonathan
Zane stood near the door. Moody and silent he watched the dance.
Wetzel leaned against the wall. The black barrel of his rifle lay in
the hollow of his arm. The hunter was gravely contemplating the
members of the bridal party who were dancing in front of him. When
the dance ended Lydia and Betty stopped before Wetzel and Betty
said: "Lew, aren't you going to ask us to dance?"
The hunter looked down into the happy, gleaming faces, and smiling
in his half sad way, answered: "Every man to his gifts."
"But you can dance. I want you to put aside your gun long enough to
dance with me. If I waited for you to ask me, I fear I should have
to wait a long time. Come, Lew, here I am asking you, and I know the
other men are dying to dance with me," said Betty, coaxingly, in a
roguish voice.
Wetzel never refused a request of Betty's, and so, laying aside his
weapons, he danced with her, to the wonder and admiration of all.
Colonel Zane clapped his hands, and everyone stared in amazement at
the unprecedented sight Wetzel danced not ungracefully. He was
wonderfully light on his feet. His striking figure, the long black
hair, and the fancifully embroidered costume he wore contrasted
strangely with Betty's slender, graceful form and pretty gray dress.
"Well, well, Lewis, I would not have believed anything but the
evidence of my own eyes," said Colonel Zane, with a laugh, as Betty
and Wetzel approached him.
"If all the men could dance as well as Lew, the girls would be
thankful, I can assure you," said Betty.
"Betty, I declare you grow prettier every day," said old John
Bennet, who was standing with the Colonel and the Major. "If I were
only a young man once more I should try my chances with you, and I
wouldn't give up very easily."
"I do not know, Uncle John, but I am inclined to think that if you
were a young man and should come a-wooing you would not get a rebuff
from me," answered Betty, smiling on the old man, of whom she was
very fond.
"Miss Zane, will you dance with me?"
The voice sounded close by Betty's side. She recognized it, and an
unaccountable sensation of shyness suddenly came over her. She had
firmly made up her mind, should Mr. Clarke ask her to dance, that
she would tell him she was tired, or engaged for that
number--anything so that she could avoid dancing with him. But, now
that the moment had come she either forgot her resolution or lacked
the courage to keep it, for as the music commenced, she turned and
without saying a word or looking at him, she placed her hand on his
arm. He whirled her away. She gave a start of surprise and delight
at the familiar step and then gave herself up to the charm of the
dance. Supported by his strong arm she floated around the room in a
sort of dream. Dancing as they did was new to the young people at
the Fort--it was a style then in vogue in the east--and everyone
looked on with great interest and curiosity. But all too soon the
dance ended and before Betty had recovered her composure she found
that her partner had led her to a secluded seat in the lower end of
the hall. The bench was partly obscured from the dancers by masses
of autumn leaves. "That was a very pleasant dance," said Alfred.
"Miss Boggs told me you danced the round dance."
"I was much surprised and pleased," said Betty, who had indeed
enjoyed it.
"It has been a delightful day," went on Alfred, seeing that Betty
was still confused. "I almost killed myself in that race for the
bottle this morning. I never saw such logs and brush heaps and
ditches in my life. I am sure that if the fever of recklessness
which seemed in the air had not suddenly seized me I would never
have put my horse at such leaps."
"I heard my brother say your horse was one of the best he had ever
seen, and that you rode superbly," murmured Betty.
"Well, to be honest, I would not care to take that ride again. It
certainly was not fair to the horse."
"How do you like the fort by this time?"
"Miss Zane, I am learning to love this free, wild life. I really
think I was made for the frontier. The odd customs and manners which
seemed strange at first have become very acceptable to me now. I
find everyone so honest and simple and brave. Here one must work to
live, which is right. Do you know, I never worked in my life until I
came to Fort Henry. My life was all uselessness, idleness."
"I can hardly believe that," answered Betty. "You have learned to
dance and ride and--"
"What?" asked Alfred, as Betty hesitated.
"Never mind. It was an accomplishment with which the girls credited
you," said Betty, with a little laugh.
"I suppose I did not deserve it. I heard I had a singular aptitude
for discovering young ladies in distress."
"Have you become well acquainted with the boys?" asked Betty,
hastening to change the subject.
"Oh, yes, particularly with your Indianized brother, Isaac. He is
the finest fellow, as well as the most interesting, I ever knew. I
like Colonel Zane immensely too. The dark, quiet fellow, Jack, or
John, they call him, is not like your other brothers. The hunter,
Wetzel, inspires me with awe. Everyone has been most kind to me and
I have almost forgotten that I was a wanderer."
"I am glad to hear that," said Betty.
"Miss Zane," continued Alfred, "doubtless you have heard that I came
West because I was compelled to leave my home. Please do not believe
everything you hear of me. Some day I may tell you my story if you
care to hear it. Suffice it to say now that I left my home of my own
free will and I could go back to-morrow."
"I did not mean to imply--" began Betty, coloring.
"Of course not. But tell me about yourself. Is it not rather dull
and lonesome here for you?"
"It was last winter. But I have been contented and happy this
summer. Of course, it is not Philadelphia life, and I miss the
excitement and gayety of my uncle's house. I knew my place was with
my brothers. My aunt pleaded with me to live with her and not go to
the wilderness. I had everything I wanted there--luxury, society,
parties, balls, dances, friends--all that the heart of a girl could
desire, but I preferred to come to this little frontier settlement.
Strange choice for a girl, was it not?"
"Unusual, yes," answered Alfred, gravely. "And I cannot but wonder
what motives actuated our coming to Fort Henry. I came to seek my
fortune. You came to bring sunshine into the home of your brother,
and left your fortune behind you. Well, your motive has the element
of nobility. Mine has nothing but that of recklessness. I would like
to read the future."
"I do not think it is right to have such a wish. With the veil
rolled away could you work as hard, accomplish as much? I do not
want to know the future. Perhaps some of it will be unhappy. I have
made my choice and will cheerfully abide by it. I rather envy your
being a man. You have the world to conquer. A woman--what can she
do? She can knead the dough, ply the distaff, and sit by the lattice
and watch and wait."
"Let us postpone such melancholy thoughts until some future day. I
have not as yet said anything that I intended. I wish to tell you
how sorry I am that I acted in such a rude way the night your
brother came home. I do not know what made me do so, but I know I
have regretted it ever since. Will you forgive me and may we not be
friends?"
"I--I do not know," said Betty, surprised and vaguely troubled by
the earnest light in his eyes.
"But why? Surely you will make some little allowance for a naturally
quick temper, and you know you did not--that you were--"
"Yes, I remember I was hasty and unkind. But I made amends, or at
least, I tried to do so."
"Try to overlook my stupidity. I will not give up until you forgive
me. Consider how much you can avoid by being generous."
"Very well, then, I will forgive you," said Betty, who had arrived
at the conclusion that this young man was one of determination.
"Thank you. I promise you shall never regret it. And the sprained
ankle? It must be well, as I noticed you danced beautifully."
"I am compelled to believe what the girls say--that you are inclined
to the language of compliment. My ankle is nearly well, thank you.
It hurts a little now and then."
"Speaking of your accident reminds me of the day it happened," said
Alfred, watching her closely. He desired to tease her a little, but
he was not sure of his ground. "I had been all day in the woods with
nothing but my thoughts--mostly unhappy ones--for company. When I
met you I pretended to be surprised. As a matter of fact I was not,
for I had followed your dog. He took a liking to me and I was
extremely pleased, I assure you. Well, I saw your face a moment
before you knew I was as near you. When you heard my footsteps you
turned with a relieved and joyous cry. When you saw whom it was your
glad expression changed, and if I had been a hostile Wyandot you
could not have looked more unfriendly. Such a woeful, tear-stained
face I never saw."
"Mr. Clarke, please do not speak any more of that," said Betty with
dignity. "I desire that you forget it."
"I will forget all except that it was I who had the happiness of
finding you and of helping you. I cannot forget that. I am sure we
should never have been friends but for that accident."
"There is Isaac. He is looking for me," answered Betty, rising.
"Wait a moment longer--please. He will find you," said Alfred,
detaining her. "Since you have been so kind I have grown bolder. May
I come over to see you to-morrow?"
He looked straight down into the dark eyes which wavered and fell
before he had completed his question.
"There is Isaac. He cannot see me here. I must go."
"But not before telling me. What is the good of your forgiving me if
I may not see you. Please say yes."
"You may come," answered Betty, half amused and half provoked at his
persistence. "I should think you would know that such permission
invariably goes with a young woman's forgiveness."
"Hello, here you are. What a time I have had in finding you," said
Isaac, coming up with flushed face and eyes bright with excitement.
"Alfred, what do you mean by hiding the belle of the dance away like
this? I want to dance with you, Betts. I am having a fine time. I
have not danced anything but Indian dances for ages. Sorry to take
her away, Alfred. I can see she doesn't want to go. Ha! Ha!" and
with a mischievous look at both of them he led Betty away.
Alfred kept his seat awhile lost in thought. Suddenly he remembered
that it would look strange if he did not make himself agreeable, so
he got up and found a partner. He danced with Alice, Lydia, and the
other young ladies. After an hour he slipped away to his room. He
wished to be alone. He wanted to think; to decide whether it would
be best for him to stay at the fort, or ride away in the darkness
and never return. With the friendly touch of Betty's hand the
madness with which he had been battling for weeks rushed over him
stronger than ever. The thrill of that soft little palm remained
with him, and he pressed the hand it had touched to his lips.
For a long hour he sat by his window. He could dimly see the broad
winding river, with its curtain of pale gray mist, and beyond, the
dark outline of the forest. A cool breeze from the water fanned his
heated brow, and the quiet and solitude soothed him.