Winter dragged by uneventfully for Betty. Unlike the other pioneer
girls, who were kept busy all the time with their mending, and
linsey weaving, and household duties, Betty had nothing to divert
her but her embroidery and her reading. These she found very
tiresome. Her maid was devoted to her and never left a thing undone.
Annie was old Sam's daughter, and she had waited on Betty since she
had been a baby. The cleaning or mending or darning--anything in the
shape of work that would have helped pass away the monotonous hours
for Betty, was always done before she could lift her hand.
During the day she passed hours in her little room, and most of them
were dreamed away by her window. Lydia and Alice came over sometimes
and whiled away the tedious moments with their bright chatter and
merry laughter, their castle-building, and their romancing on heroes
and love and marriage as girls always will until the end of time.
They had not forgotten Mr. Clarke, but as Betty had rebuked them
with a dignity which forbade any further teasing on that score, they
had transferred their fun-making to the use of Mr. Miller's name.
Fearing her brothers' wrath Betty had not told them of the scene
with Miller at the dance. She had learned enough of rough border
justice to dread the consequence of such a disclosure. She permitted
Miller to come to the house, although she never saw him alone.
Miller had accepted this favor gratefully. He said that on the night
of the dance he had been a little the worse for Dan Watkins' strong
liquor, and that, together with his bitter disappointment, made him
act in the mad way which had so grievously offended her. He exerted
himself to win her forgiveness. Betty was always tender-hearted, and
though she did not trust him, she said they might still be friends,
but that that depended on his respect for her forbearance. Miller
had promised he would never refer to the old subject and he had kept
his word.
Indeed Betty welcomed any diversion for the long winter evenings.
Occasionally some of the young people visited her, and they sang and
danced, roasted apples, popped chestnuts, and played games. Often
Wetzel and Major McColloch came in after supper. Betty would come
down and sing for them, and afterward would coax Indian lore and
woodcraft from Wetzel, or she would play checkers with the Major. If
she succeeded in winning from him, which in truth was not often, she
teased him unmercifully. When Col. Zane and the Major had settled
down to their series of games, from which nothing short of Indians
could have diverted them, Betty sat by Wetzel. The silent man of the
woods, an appellation the hunter had earned by his reticence, talked
for Betty as he would for no one else.
One night while Col. Zane, his wife and Betty were entertaining
Capt. Boggs and Major McColloch and several of Betty's girls
friends, after the usual music and singing, storytelling became the
order of the evening. Little Noah told of the time he had climbed
the apple-tree in the yard after a raccoon and got severely bitten.
"One day," said Noah, "I heard Tige barking out in the orchard and I
ran out there and saw a funny little fur ball up in the tree with a
black tail and white rings around it. It looked like a pretty cat
with a sharp nose. Every time Tige barked the little animal showed
his teeth and swelled up his back. I wanted him for a pet. I got Sam
to give me a sack and I climbed the tree and the nearer I got to him
the farther he backed down the limb. I followed him and put out the
sack to put it over his head and he bit me. I fell from the limb,
but he fell too and Tige killed him and Sam stuffed him for me."
"Noah, you are quite a valiant hunter," said Betty. "Now, Jonathan,
remember that you promised to tell me of your meeting with Daniel
Boone."
"It was over on the Muskingong near the mouth of the Sandusky. I was
hunting in the open woods along the bank when I saw an Indian. He
saw me at the same time and we both treed. There we stood a long
time each afraid to change position. Finally I began to act tired
and resorted to an old ruse. I put my coon-skin cap on my ramrod and
cautiously poked it from behind the tree, expecting every second to
hear the whistle of the redskin's bullet. Instead I heard a jolly
voice yell: 'Hey, young feller, you'll have to try something
better'n that.' I looked and saw a white man standing out in the
open and shaking all over with laughter. I went up to him and found
him to be a big strong fellow with an honest, merry face. He said:
'I'm Boone.' I was considerably taken aback, especially when I saw
he knew I was a white man all the time. We camped and hunted along
the river a week and at the Falls of the Muskingong he struck out
for his Kentucky home."
"Here is Wetzel," said Col. Zane, who had risen and gone to the
door. "Now, Betty, try and get Lew to tell us something."
"Come, Lewis, here is a seat by me," said Betty. "We have been
pleasantly passing the time. We have had bear stories, snake
stories, ghost stories--all kinds of tales. Will you tell us one?"
"Lewis, did you ever have a chance to kill a hostile Indian and not
take it?" asked Col. Zane.
"Never but once," answered Lewis.
"Tell us about it. I imagine it will be interesting."
"Well, I ain't good at tellin' things," began Lewis. "I reckon I've
seen some strange sights. I kin tell you about the only redskin I
ever let off. Three years ago I was takin' a fall hunt over on the
Big Sandy, and I run into a party of Shawnees. I plugged a chief and
started to run. There was some good runners and I couldn't shake 'em
in the open country. Comin' to the Ohio I jumped in and swum across,
keepin' my rifle and powder dry by holdin' 'em up. I hid in some
bulrushes and waited. Pretty soon along comes three Injuns, and when
they saw where I had taken to the water they stopped and held a
short pow-wow. Then they all took to the water. This was what I was
waitin' for. When they got nearly acrosst I shot the first redskin,
and loadin' quick got a bullet into the others. The last Injun did
not sink. I watched him go floatin' down stream expectin' every
minute to see him go under as he was hurt so bad he could hardly
keep his head above water. He floated down a long ways and the
current carried him to a pile of driftwood which had lodged against
a little island. I saw the Injun crawl up on the drift. I went down
stream and by keepin' the island between me and him I got out to
where he was. I pulled my tomahawk and went around the head of the
island and found the redskin leanin' against a big log. He was a
young brave and a fine lookin strong feller. He was tryin' to stop
the blood from my bullet-hole in his side. When he saw me he tried
to get up, but he was too weak. He smiled, pointed to the wound and
said: 'Deathwind not heap times bad shot.' Then he bowed his head
and waited for the tomahawk. Well, I picked him up and carried him
ashore and made a shack by a spring. I staid there with him. When he
got well enough to stand a few days' travel I got him across the
river and givin' him a hunk of deer meat I told him to go, and if I
ever saw him again I'd make a better shot.
"A year afterwards I trailed two Shawnees into Wingenund's camp and
got surrounded and captured. The Delaware chief is my great enemy.
They beat me, shot salt into my legs, made me run the gauntlet, tied
me on the back of a wild mustang. Then they got ready to burn me at
the stake. That night they painted my face black and held the usual
death dances. Some of the braves got drunk and worked themselves
into a frenzy. I allowed I'd never see daylight. I seen that one of
the braves left to guard me was the young feller I had wounded the
year before. He never took no notice of me. In the gray of the early
mornin' when all were asleep and the other watch dozin' I felt cold
steel between my wrists and my buckskin thongs dropped off. Then my
feet were cut loose. I looked round and in the dim light I seen my
young brave. He handed me my own rifle, knife and tomahawk, put his
finger on his lips and with a bright smile, as if to say he was
square with me, he pointed to the east. I was out of sight in a
minute."
"How noble of him!" exclaimed Betty, her eyes all aglow. "He paid
his debt to you, perhaps at the price of his life."
"I have never known an Indian to forget a promise, or a kind action,
or an injury," observed Col. Zane.
"Are the Indians half as bad as they are called?" asked Betty. "I
have heard as many stories of their nobility as of their cruelty."
"The Indians consider that they have been robbed and driven from
their homes. What we think hideously inhuman is war to them,"
answered Col. Zane.
"When I came here from Fort Pitt I expected to see and fight Indians
every day," said Capt. Boggs. "I have been here at Wheeling for
nearly two years and have never seen a hostile Indian. There have
been some Indians in the vicinity during that time but not one has
shown himself to me. I'm not up to Indian tricks, I know, but I
think the last siege must have been enough for them. I don't believe
we shall have any more trouble from them."
"Captain," called out Col. Zane, banging his hand on the table.
"I'll bet you my best horse to a keg of gunpowder that you see
enough Indians before you are a year older to make you wish you had
never seen or heard of the western border."
"And I'll go you the same bet," said Major McColloch.
"You see, Captain, you must understand a little of the nature of the
Indian," continued Col. Zane. "We have had proof that the Delawares
and the Shawnees have been preparing for an expedition for months.
We shall have another siege some day and to my thinking it will be a
longer and harder one than the last. What say you, Wetzel?"
"I ain't sayin' much, but I don't calkilate on goin' on any long
hunts this summer," answered the hunter.
"And do you think Tarhe, Wingenund, Pipe, Cornplanter, and all those
chiefs will unite their forces and attack us?" asked Betty of
Wetzel.
"Cornplanter won't. He has been paid for most of his land and he
ain't so bitter. Tarhe is not likely to bother us. But Pipe and
Wingenund and Red Fox--they all want blood."
"Have you seen these chiefs?" said Betty.
"Yes, I know 'em all and they all know me," answered the hunter.
"I've watched over many a trail waitin' for one of 'em. If I can
ever get a shot at any of 'em I'll give up Injuns and go farmin'.
Good night, Betty."
"What a strange man is Wetzel," mused Betty, after the visitors had
gone. "Do you know, Eb, he is not at all like any one else. I have
seen the girls shudder at the mention of his name and I have heard
them say they could not look in his eyes. He does not affect me that
way. It is not often I can get him to talk, but sometimes he tells
me beautiful thing about the woods; how he lives in the wilderness,
his home under the great trees; how every leaf on the trees and
every blade of grass has its joy for him as well as its knowledge;
how he curls up in his little bark shack and is lulled to sleep by
the sighing of the wind through the pine tops. He told me he has
often watched the stars for hours at a time. I know there is a
waterfall back in the Black Forest somewhere that Lewis goes to,
simply to sit and watch the water tumble over the precipice."
"Wetzel is a wonderful character, even to those who know him only as
an Indian slayer and a man who wants no other occupation. Some day
he will go off on one of these long jaunts and will never return.
That is certain. The day is fast approaching when a man like Wetzel
will be of no use in life. Now, he is a necessity. Like Tige he can
smell Indians. Betty, I believe Lewis tells you so much and is so
kind and gentle toward you because he cares for you."
"Of course Lew likes me. I know he does and I want him to," said
Betty. "But he does not care as you seem to think. Grandmother
Watkins said the same. I am sure both of you are wrong."
"Did Dan's mother tell you that? Well, she's pretty shrewd. It's
quite likely, Betty, quite likely. It seems to me you are not so
quick witted as you used to be."
"Why so?" asked Betty, quickly.
"Well, you used to be different somehow," said her brother, as he
patted her hand.
"Do you mean I am more thoughtful?"
"Yes, and sometimes you seem sad."
"I have tried to be brave and--and happy," said Betty, her voice
trembling slightly.
"Yes, yes, I know you have, Betty. You have done wonderfully well
here in this dead place. But tell me, don't be angry, don't you
think too much of some one?"
"You have no right to ask me that," said Betty, flushing and turning
away toward the stairway.
"Well, well, child, don't mind me. I did not mean anything. There,
good night, Betty."
Long after she had gone up-stairs Col. Zane sat by his fireside.
From time to time he sighed. He thought of the old Virginia home and
of the smile of his mother. It seemed only a few short years since
he had promised her that he would take care of the baby sister. How
had he kept that promise made when Betty was a little thing bouncing
on his knee? It seemed only yesterday. How swift the flight of time!
Already Betty was a woman; her sweet, gay girlhood had passed;
already a shadow had fallen on her face, the shadow of a secret
sorrow.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
March with its blustering winds had departed, and now April's
showers and sunshine were gladdening the hearts of the settlers.
Patches of green freshened the slopes of the hills; the lilac bushes
showed tiny leaves, and the maple-buds were bursting. Yesterday a
blue-bird--surest harbinger of spring--had alighted on the
fence-post and had sung his plaintive song. A few more days and the
blossoms were out mingling their pink and white with the green; the
red-bud, the hawthorne, and the dog-wood were in bloom, checkering
the hillsides.
"Bessie, spring is here," said Col. Zane, as he stood in the
doorway. "The air is fresh, the sun shines warm, the birds are
singing; it makes me feel good."
"Yes, it is pleasant to have spring with us again," answered his
wife. "I think, though, that in winter I am happier. In summer I am
always worried. I am afraid for the children to be out of my sight,
and when you are away on a hunt I am distraught until you are home
safe."
"Well, if the redskins let us alone this summer it will be something
new," he said, laughing. "By the way, Bess, some new people came to
the fort last night. They rafted down from the Monongahela
settlements. Some of the women suffered considerably. I intend to
offer them the cabin on the hill until they can cut the timber and
run up a house. Sam said the cabin roof leaked and the chimney
smoked, but with a little work I think they can be made more
comfortable there than at the block-house."
"It is the only vacant cabin in the settlement. I can accommodate
the women folks here."
"Well, we'll see about it. I don't want you and Betty
inconvenienced. I'll send Sam up to the cabin and have him fix
things up a bit and make it more habitable."
The door opened, admitting Col. Zane's elder boy. The lad's face was
dirty, his nose was all bloody, and a big bruise showed over his
right eye.
"For the land's sake!" exclaimed his mother. "Look at the boy. Noah,
come here. What have you been doing?"
Noah crept close to his mother and grasping her apron with both
hands hid his face. Mrs. Zane turned the boy around and wiped his
discolored features with a wet towel. She gave him a little shake
and said: "Noah, have you been fighting again?"
"Let him go and I'll tell you about it," said the Colonel, and when
the youngster had disappeared he continued: "Right after breakfast
Noah went with me down to the mill. I noticed several children
playing in front of Reihart's blacksmith shop. I went in, leaving
Noah outside. I got a plow-share which I had left with Reihart to be
repaired. He came to the door with me and all at once he said: 'look
at the kids.' I looked and saw Noah walk up to a boy and say
something to him. The lad was a stranger, and I have no doubt
belongs to these new people I told you about. He was bigger than
Noah. At first the older boy appeared very friendly and evidently
wanted to join the others in their game. I guess Noah did not
approve of this, for after he had looked the stranger over he hauled
away and punched the lad soundly. To make it short the strange boy
gave Noah the worst beating he ever got in his life. I told Noah to
come straight to you and confess."
"Well, did you ever!" ejaculated Mrs. Zane. "Noah is a bad boy. And
you stood and watched him fight. You are laughing about it now.
Ebenezer Zane, I would not put it beneath you to set Noah to
fighting. I know you used to make the little niggers fight. Anyway,
it serves Noah right and I hope it will be a lesson to him."
"I'll make you a bet, Bessie," said the Colonel, with another laugh.
"I'll bet you that unless we lock him up, Noah will fight that boy
every day or every time he meets him."
"I won't bet," said Mrs. Zane, with a smile of resignation.
"Where's Betts? I haven't seen her this morning. I am going over to
Short Creek to-morrow or next day, and think I'll take her with me.
You know I am to get a commission to lay out several settlements
along the river, and I want to get some work finished at Short Creek
this spring. Mrs. Raymer'll be delighted to have Betty. Shall I take
her?"
"By all means. A visit there will brighten her up and do her good."
"Well, what on earth have you been doing?" cried the Colonel. His
remark had been called forth by a charming vision that had entered
by the open door. Betty--for it was she--wore a little red cap set
jauntily on her black hair. Her linsey dress was crumpled and
covered with hayseed.
"I've been in the hay-mow," said Betty, waving a small basket. "For
a week that old black hen has circumvented me, but at last I have
conquered. I found the nest in the farthest corner under the hay."
"How did you get up in the loft?" inquired Mrs. Zane.
"Bessie, I climbed up the ladder of course. I acknowledge being
unusually light-hearted and happy this morning, but I have not as
yet grown wings. Sam said I could not climb up that straight ladder,
but I found it easy enough."
"You should not climb up into the loft," said Mrs. Zane, in a severe
tone. "Only last fall Hugh Bennet's little boy slid off the hay down
into one of the stalls and the horse kicked him nearly to death."
"Oh, fiddlesticks, Bessie, I am not a baby," said Betty, with
vehemence. "There is not a horse in the barn but would stand on his
hind legs before he would step on me, let alone kick me."
"I don't know, Betty, but I think that black horse Mr. Clarke left
here would kick any one," remarked the Colonel.
"Oh, no, he would not hurt me."
"Betty, we have had pleasant weather for about three days," said the
Colonel, gravely. "In that time you have let out that crazy bear of
yours to turn everything topsy-turvy. Only yesterday I got my hands
in the paint you have put on your canoe. If you had asked my advice
I would have told you that painting your canoe should not have been
done for a month yet. Silas told me you fell down the creek hill;
Sam said you tried to drive his team over the bluff, and so on. We
are happy to see you get back your old time spirits, but could you
not be a little more careful? Your versatility is bewildering. We do
not know what to look for next. I fully expect to see you brought to
the house some day maimed for life, or all that beautiful black hair
gone to decorate some Huron's lodge."
"I tell you I am perfectly delighted that the weather is again so I
can go out. I am tired to death of staying indoors. This morning I
could have cried for very joy. Bessie will soon be lecturing me
about Madcap. I must not ride farther than the fort. Well, I don't
care. I intend to ride all over."
"Betty, I do not wish you to think I am lecturing you," said the
Colonel's wife. "But you are as wild as a March hare and some one
must tell you things. Now listen. My brother, the Major, told me
that Simon Girty, the renegade, had been heard to say that he had
seen Eb Zane's little sister and that if he ever got his hands on
her he would make a squaw of her. I am not teasing you. I am telling
you the truth. Girty saw you when you were at Fort Pitt two years
ago. Now what would you do if he caught you on one of your lonely
rides and carried you off to his wigwam? He has done things like
that before. James Girty carried off one of the Johnson girls. Her
brothers tried to rescue her and lost their lives. It is a common
trick of the Indians."
"What would I do if Mr. Simon Girty tried to make a squaw of me?"
exclaimed Betty, her eyes flashing fire. "Why, I'd kill him!"
"I believe it, Betts, on my word I do," spoke up the Colonel. "But
let us hope you may never see Girty. All I ask is that you be
careful. I am going over to Short Creek to-morrow. Will you go with
me? I know Mrs. Raymer will be pleased to see you."
"Oh, Eb, that will be delightful!"
"Very well, get ready and we shall start early in the morning."
Two weeks later Betty returned from Short Creek and seemed to have
profited much by her short visit. Col. Zane remarked with
satisfaction to his wife that Betty had regained all her former
cheerfulness.
The morning after Betty's return was a perfect spring morning--the
first in that month of May-days. The sun shone bright and warm; the
mayflowers blossomed; the trailing arbutus scented the air;
everywhere the grass and the leaves looked fresh and green; swallows
flitted in and out of the barn door; the blue-birds twittered; a
meadow-lark caroled forth his pure melody, and the busy hum of bees
came from the fragrant apple-blossoms.
"Mis' Betty, Madcap 'pears powerfo' skittenish," said old Sam, when
he had led the pony to where Betty stood on the hitching block.
"Whoa, dar, you rascal."
Betty laughed as she leaped lightly into the saddle, and soon she
was flying over the old familiar road, down across the creek bridge,
past the old grist-mill, around the fort and then out on the river
bluff. The Indian pony was fiery and mettlesome. He pranced and
side-stepped, galloped and trotted by turns. He seemed as glad to
get out again into the warm sunshine as was Betty herself. He tore
down the road a mile at his best speed. Coming back Betty pulled him
into a walk. Presently her musings were interrupted by a sharp
switch in the face from a twig of a tree. She stopped the pony and
broke off the offending branch. As she looked around the
recollection of what had happened to her in that very spot flashed
into her mind. It was here that she had been stopped by the man who
had passed almost as swiftly out of her life as he had crossed her
path that memorable afternoon. She fell to musing on the old
perplexing question. After all could there not have been some
mistake? Perhaps she might have misjudged him? And then the old
spirit, which resented her thinking of him in that softened mood,
rose and fought the old battle over again. But as often happened the
mood conquered, and Betty permitted herself to sink for the moment
into the sad thoughts which returned like a mournful strain of music
once sung by beloved voices, now forever silent.
She could not resist the desire to ride down to the old sycamore.
The pony turned into the bridle-path that led down the bluff and the
sure-footed beast picked his way carefully over the roots and
stones. Betty's heart beat quicker when she saw the noble tree under
whose spreading branches she had spent the happiest day of her life.
The old monarch of the forest was not one whit changed by the wild
winds of winter. The dew sparkled on the nearly full grown leaves;
the little sycamore balls were already as large as marbles.
Betty drew rein at the top of the bank and looked absently at the
tree and into the foam covered pool beneath. At that moment her eyes
saw nothing physical. They held the faraway light of the dreamer,
the look that sees so much of the past and nothing of the present.
Presently her reflections were broken by the actions of the pony.
Madcap had thrown up her head, laid back her ears and commenced to
paw the ground with her forefeet. Betty looked round to see the
cause of Madcap's excitement. What was that! She saw a tall figure
clad in brown leaning against the stone. She saw a long fishing-rod.
What was there so familiar in the poise of that figure? Madcap
dislodged a stone from the path and it went rattling down the rock,
slope and fell with a splash into the water. The man heard it,
turned and faced the hillside. Betty recognized Alfred Clarke. For a
moment she believed she must be dreaming. She had had many dreams of
the old sycamore. She looked again. Yes, it was he. Pale, worn, and
older he undoubtedly looked, but the features were surely those of
Alfred Clarke. Her heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stop
beating while a very agony of joy surged over her and made her
faint. So he still lived. That was her first thought, glad and
joyous, and then memory returning, her face went white as with
clenched teeth she wheeled Madcap and struck her with the switch.
Once on the level bluff she urged her toward the house at a furious
pace.
Col. Zane had just stepped out of the barn door and his face took on
an expression of amazement when he saw the pony come tearing up the
road, Betty's hair flying in the wind and with a face as white as if
she were pursued by a thousand yelling Indians.
"Say, Betts, what the deuce is wrong?" cried the Colonel, when Betty
reached the fence.
"Why did you not tell me that man was here again?" she demanded in
intense excitement.
"That man! What man?" asked Col. Zane, considerably taken back by
this angry apparition.
"Mr. Clarke, of course. Just as if you did not know. I suppose you
thought it a fine opportunity for one of your jokes."
"Oh, Clarke. Well, the fact is I just found it out myself. Haven't I
been away as well as you? I certainly cannot imagine how any man
could create such evident excitement in your mind. Poor Clarke, what
has he done now?"
"You might have told me. Somebody could have told me and saved me
from making a fool of myself," retorted Betty, who was plainly on
the verge of tears. "I rode down to the old sycamore tree and he saw
me in, of all the places in the world, the one place where I would
not want him to see me."
"Huh!" said the Colonel, who often gave vent to the Indian
exclamation. "Is that all? I thought something had happened."
"All! Is it not enough? I would rather have died. He is a man and he
will think I followed him down there, that I was thinking
of--that--Oh!" cried Betty, passionately, and then she strode into
the house, slammed the door, and left the Colonel, lost in wonder.
"Humph! These women beat me. I can't make them out, and the older I
grow the worse I get," he said, as he led the pony into the stable.
Betty ran up-stairs to her room, her head in a whirl stronger than
the surprise of Alfred's unexpected appearance in Fort Henry and
stronger than the mortification in having been discovered going to a
spot she should have been too proud to remember was the bitter sweet
consciousness that his mere presence had thrilled her through and
through. It hurt her and made her hate herself in that moment. She
hid her face in shame at the thought that she could not help being
glad to see the man who had only trifled with her, the man who had
considered the acquaintance of so little consequence that he had
never taken the trouble to write her a line or send her a message.
She wrung her trembling hands. She endeavored to still that
throbbing heart and to conquer that sweet vague feeling which had
crept over her and made her weak. The tears began to come and with a
sob she threw herself on the bed and buried her head in the pillow.
An hour after, when Betty had quieted herself and had seated herself
by the window a light knock sounded on the door and Col. Zane
entered. He hesitated and came in rather timidly, for Betty was not
to be taken liberties with, and seeing her by the window he crossed
the room and sat down by her side.
Betty did not remember her father or her mother. Long ago when she
was a child she had gone to her brother, laid her head on his
shoulder and told him all her troubles. The desire grew strong
within her now. There was comfort in the strong clasp of his hand.
She was not proof against it, and her dark head fell on his
shoulder.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Alfred Clarke had indeed made his reappearance in Fort Henry. The
preceding October when he left the settlement to go on the
expedition up the Monongahela River his intention had been to return
to the fort as soon as he had finished his work, but what he did do
was only another illustration of that fatality which affects
everything. Man hopefully makes his plans and an inexorable destiny
works out what it has in store for him.
The men of the expedition returned to Fort Henry in due time, but
Alfred had been unable to accompany them. He had sustained a painful
injury and had been compelled to go to Fort Pitt for medical
assistance. While there he had received word that his mother was
lying very ill at his old home in Southern Virginia and if he wished
to see her alive he must not delay in reaching her bedside. He left
Fort Pitt at once and went to his home, where he remained until his
mother's death. She had been the only tie that bound him to the old
home, and now that she was gone he determined to leave the scene of
his boyhood forever.
Alfred was the rightful heir to all of the property, but an unjust
and selfish stepfather stood between him and any contentment he
might have found there. He decided he would be a soldier of fortune.
He loved the daring life of a ranger, and preferred to take his
chances with the hardy settlers on the border rather than live the
idle life of a gentleman farmer. He declared his intention to his
step-father, who ill-concealed his satisfaction at the turn affairs
had taken. Then Alfred packed his belongings, secured his mother's
jewels, and with one sad, backward glance rode away from the stately
old mansion.
It was Sunday morning and Clarke had been two days in Fort Henry.
From his little room in the block-house he surveyed the
well-remembered scene. The rolling hills, the broad river, the green
forests seemed like old friends.
"Here I am again," he mused. "What a fool a man can be. I have left
a fine old plantation, slaves, horses, a country noted for its
pretty women--for what? Here there can be nothing for me but
Indians, hard work, privation, and trouble. Yet I could not get here
quickly enough. Pshaw! What use to speak of the possibilities of a
new country. I cannot deceive myself. It is she. I would walk a
thousand miles and starve myself for months just for one glimpse of
her sweet face. Knowing this what care I for all the rest. How
strange she should ride down to the old sycamore tree yesterday the
moment I was there and thinking of her. Evidently she had just
returned from her visit. I wonder if she ever cared. I wonder if she
ever thinks of me. Shall I accept that incident as a happy augury?
Well, I am here to find out and find out I will. Aha! there goes the
church bell."
Laughing a little at his eagerness he brushed his coat, put on his
cap and went down stairs. The settlers with their families were
going into the meeting house. As Alfred started up the steps he met
Lydia Boggs.
"Why, Mr. Clarke, I heard you had returned," she said, smiling
pleasantly and extending her hand. "Welcome to the fort. I am very
glad to see you."
While they were chatting her father and Col. Zane came up and both
greeted the young man warmly.
"Well, well, back on the frontier," said the Colonel, in his hearty
way. "Glad to see you at the fort again. I tell you, Clarke, I have
taken a fancy to that black horse you left me last fall. I did not
know what to think when Jonathan brought back my horse. To tell you
the truth I always looked for you to come back. What have you been
doing all winter?"
"I have been at home. My mother was ill all winter and she died in
April."
"My lad, that's bad news. I am sorry," said Col. Zane putting his
hand kindly on the young man's shoulder. "I was wondering what gave
you that older and graver look. It's hard, lad, but it's the way of
life."
"I have come back to get my old place with you, Col. Zane, if you
will give it to me."
"I will, and can promise you more in the future. I am going to open
a road through to Maysville, Kentucky, and start several new
settlements along the river. I will need young men, and am more than
glad you have returned."
"Thank you, Col. Zane. That is more than I could have hoped for."
Alfred caught sight of a trim figure in a gray linsey gown coming
down the road. There were several young people approaching, but he
saw only Betty. By some evil chance Betty walked with Ralfe Miller,
and for some mysterious reason, which women always keep to
themselves, she smiled and looked up into his face at a time of all
times she should not have done so. Alfred's heart turned to lead.
When the young people reached the steps the eyes of the rivals met
for one brief second, but that was long enough for them to
understand each other. They did not speak. Lydia hesitated and
looked toward Betty.
"Betty, here is--" began Col. Zane, but Betty passed them with
flaming cheeks and with not so much as a glance at Alfred. It was an
awkward moment for him.
"Let us go in," he said composedly, and they filed into the church.
As long as he lived Alfred Clarke never forgot that hour. His pride
kept him chained in his seat. Outwardly he maintained his composure,
but inwardly his brain seemed throbbing, whirling, bursting. What an
idiot he had been! He understood now why his letter had never been
answered. Betty loved Miller, a man who hated him, a man who would
leave no stone unturned to destroy even a little liking which she
might have felt for him. Once again Miller had crossed his path and
worsted him. With a sudden sickening sense of despair he realized
that all his fond hopes had been but dreams, a fool's dreams. The
dream of that moment when he would give her his mother's jewels, the
dream of that charming face uplifted to his, the dream of the little
cottage to which he would hurry after his day's work and find her
waiting at the gate,--these dreams must be dispelled forever. He
could barely wait until the end of the service. He wanted to be
alone; to fight it out with himself; to crush out of his heart that
fair image. At length the hour ended and he got out before the
congregation and hurried to his room.
Betty had company all that afternoon and it was late in the day when
Col. Zane ascended the stairs and entered her room to find her
alone.
"Betty, I wish to know why you ignored Mr. Clarke this morning?"
said Col. Zane, looking down on his sister. There was a gleam in his
eye and an expression about his mouth seldom seen in the Colonel's
features.
"I do not know that it concerns any one but myself," answered Betty
quickly, as her head went higher and her eyes flashed with a gleam
not unlike that in her brother's.
"I beg your pardon. I do not agree with you," replied Col. Zane. "It
does concern others. You cannot do things like that in this little
place where every one knows all about you and expect it to pass
unnoticed. Martin's wife saw you cut Clarke and you know what a
gossip she is. Already every one is talking about you and Clarke."
"To that I am indifferent."
"But I care. I won't have people talking about you," replied the
Colonel, who began to lose patience. Usually he had the best temper
imaginable. "Last fall you allowed Clarke to pay you a good deal of
attention and apparently you were on good terms when he went away.
Now that he has returned you won't even speak to him. You let this
fellow Miller run after you. In my estimation Miller is not to be
compared to Clarke, and judging from the warm greetings I saw Clarke
receive this morning, there are a number of folk who agree with me.
Not that I am praising Clarke. I simply say this because to Bessie,
to Jack, to everyone, your act is incomprehensible. People are
calling you a flirt and saying that they would prefer some country
manners."
"I have not allowed Mr. Miller to run after me, as you are pleased
to term it," retorted Betty with indignation. "I do not like him. I
never see him any more unless you or Bessie or some one else is
present. You know that. I cannot prevent him from walking to church
with me."
"No, I suppose not, but are you entirely innocent of those sweet
glances which you gave him this morning?"
"I did not," cried Betty with an angry blush. "I won't be called a
flirt by you or by anyone else. The moment I am civil to some man
all these old maids and old women say I am flirting. It is
outrageous."
"Now, Betty, don't get excited. We are getting from the question.
Why are you not civil to Clarke?" asked Col. Zane. She did not
answer and after a moment he continued. "If there is anything about
Clarke that I do not know and that I should know I want you to tell
me. Personally I like the fellow. I am not saying that to make you
think you ought to like him because I do. You might not care for him
at all, but that would be no good reason for your actions. Betty, in
these frontier settlements a man is soon known for his real worth.
Every one at the Fort liked Clarke. The youngsters adored him.
Jessie liked him very much. You know he and Isaac became good
friends. I think he acted like a man to-day. I saw the look Miller
gave him. I don't like this fellow Miller, anyway. Now, I am taking
the trouble to tell you my side of the argument. It is not a
question of your liking Clarke--that is none of my affair. It is
simply that either he is not the man we all think him or you are
acting in a way unbecoming a Zane. I do not purpose to have this
state of affairs continue. Now, enough of this beating about the
bush."
Betty had seen the Colonel angry more than once, but never with her.
It was quite certain she had angered him and she forgot her own
resentment. Her heart had warmed with her brother's praise of
Clarke. Then as she remembered the past she felt a scorn for her
weakness and such a revulsion of feeling that she cried out
passionately:
"He is a trifler. He never cared for me. He insulted me."
Col. Zane reached for his hat, got up without saying another word
and went down stairs.
Betty had not intended to say quite what she had and instantly
regretted her hasty words. She called to the Colonel, but he did not
answer her, nor return.
"Betty, what in the world could you have said to my husband?" said
Mrs. Zane as she entered the room. She was breathless from running
up the stairs and her comely face wore a look of concern. "He was as
white as that sheet and he stalked off toward the Fort without a
word to me."
"I simply told him Mr. Clarke had insulted me," answered Betty
calmly.
"Great Heavens! Betty, what have you done?" exclaimed Mrs. Zane.
"You don't know Eb when he is angry. He is a big fool over you,
anyway. He is liable to kill Clarke."
Betty's blood was up now and she said that would not be a matter of
much importance.
"When did he insult you?" asked the elder woman, yielding to her
natural curiosity.
"It was last October."
"Pooh! It took you a long time to tell it. I don't believe it
amounted to much. Mr. Clarke did not appear to be the sort of a man
to insult anyone. All the girls were crazy about him last year. If
he was not all right they would not have been."
"I do not care if they were. The girls can have him and welcome. I
don't want him. I never did. I am tired of hearing everyone eulogize
him. I hate him. Do you hear? I hate him! And I wish you would go
away and leave me alone."
"Well, Betty, all I will say is that you are a remarkable young
woman," answered Mrs. Zane, who saw plainly that Betty's violent
outburst was a prelude to a storm of weeping. "I don't believe a
word you have said. I don't believe you hate him. There!"
Col. Zane walked straight to the Fort, entered the block-house and
knocked on the door of Clarke's room. A voice bade him come in. He
shoved open the door and went into the room. Clarke had evidently
just returned from a tramp in the hills, for his garments were
covered with burrs and his boots were dusty. He looked tired, but
his face was calm.
"Why, Col. Zane! Have a seat. What can I do for you?"
"I have come to ask you to explain a remark of my sister's."
"Very well, I am at your service," answered Alfred slowly lighting
his pipe, after which he looked straight into Col. Zane's face.
"My sister informs me that you insulted her last fall before you
left the Fort. I am sure you are neither a liar nor a coward, and I
expect you to answer as a man."
"Col. Zane, I am not a liar, and I hope I am not a coward," said
Alfred coolly. He took a long pull on his pipe and blew a puff of
white smoke toward the ceiling.
"I believe you, but I must have an explanation. There is something
wrong somewhere. I saw Betty pass you without speaking this morning.
I did not like it and I took her to task about it. She then said you
had insulted her. Betty is prone to exaggerate, especially when
angry, but she never told me a lie in her life. Ever since you
pulled Isaac out of the river I have taken an interest in you.
That's why I'd like to avoid any trouble. But this thing has gone
far enough. Now be sensible, swallow your pride and let me hear your
side of the story."
Alfred had turned pale at his visitor's first words. There was no
mistaking Col. Zane's manner. Alfred well knew that the Colonel, if
he found Betty had really been insulted, would call him out and kill
him. Col. Zane spoke quietly, ever kindly, but there was an
undercurrent of intense feeling in his voice, a certain deadly
intent which boded ill to anyone who might cross him at that moment.
Alfred's first impulse was a reckless desire to tell Col. Zane he
had nothing to explain and that he stood ready to give any
satisfaction in his power. But he wisely thought better of this. It
struck him that this would not be fair, for no matter what the girl
had done the Colonel had always been his friend. So Alfred pulled
himself together and resolved to make a clean breast of the whole
affair.
"Col. Zane, I do not feel that I owe your sister anything, and what
I am going to tell you is simply because you have always been my
friend, and I do not want you to have any wrong ideas about me. I'll
tell you the truth and you can be the judge as to whether or not I
insulted your sister. I fell in love with her, almost at first
sight. The night after the Indians recaptured your brother, Betty
and I stood out in the moonlight and she looked so bewitching and I
felt so sorry for her and so carried away by my love for her that I
yielded to a momentary impulse and kissed her. I simply could not
help it. There is no excuse for me. She struck me across the face
and ran into the house. I had intended that night to tell her of my
love and place my fate in her hands, but, of course, the unfortunate
occurrence made that impossible. As I was to leave at dawn next day,
I remained up all night, thinking what I ought to do. Finally I
decided to write. I wrote her a letter, telling her all and begging
her to become my wife. I gave the letter to your slave, Sam, and
told him it was a matter of life and death, and not to lose the
letter nor fail to give it to Betty. I have had no answer to that
letter. Today she coldly ignored me. That is my story, Col. Zane."
"Well, I don't believe she got the letter," said Col. Zane. "She has
not acted like a young lady who has had the privilege of saying
'yes' or 'no' to you. And Sam never had any use for you. He disliked
you from the first, and never failed to say something against you."
"I'll kill that d--n nigger if he did not deliver that letter," said
Clarke, jumping up in his excitement. "I never thought of that. Good
Heaven! What could she have thought of me? She would think I had
gone away without a word. If she knew I really loved her she could
not think so terribly of me."
"There is more to be explained, but I am satisfied with your side of
it," said Col. Zane. "Now I'll go to Sam and see what has become of
that letter. I am glad I am justified in thinking of you as I have.
I imagine this thing has hurt you and I don't wonder at it. Maybe we
can untangle the problem yet. My advice would be--but never mind
that now. Anyway, I'm your friend in this matter. I'll let you know
the result of my talk with Sam."
"I thought that young fellow was a gentleman," mused Col. Zane as he
crossed the green square and started up the hill toward the cabins.
He found the old negro seated on his doorstep.
"Sam, what did you do with a letter Mr. Clarke gave you last October
and instructed you to deliver to Betty?"
"I dun recollec' no lettah, sah," replied Sam.
"Now, Sam, don't lie about it. Clarke has just told me that he gave
you the letter. What did you do with it?"
"Masse Zane, I ain dun seen no lettah," answered the old darkey,
taking a dingy pipe from his mouth and rolling his eyes at his
master.
"If you lie again I will punish you," said Col. Zane sternly. "You
are getting old, Sam, and I would not like to whip you, but I will
if you do not find that letter."
Sam grumbled, and shuffled inside the cabin. Col. Zane heard him
rummaging around. Presently he came back to the door and handed a
very badly soiled paper to the Colonel.
"What possessed you to do this, Sam? You have always been honest.
Your act has caused great misunderstanding and it might have led to
worse."
"He's one of dem no good Southern white trash; he's good fer
nuttin'," said Sam. "I saw yo' sistah, Mis' Betty, wit him, and I
seen she was gittin' fond of him, and I says I ain't gwinter have
Mis' Betty runnin' off wif him. And I'se never gibbin de lettah to
her."
That was all the explanation Sam would vouchsafe, and Col. Zane,
knowing it would be useless to say more to the well-meaning but
ignorant and superstitious old negro, turned and wended his way back
to the house. He looked at the paper and saw that it was addressed
to Elizabeth Zane, and that the ink was faded until the letters were
scarcely visible.
"What have you there?" asked his wife, who had watched him go up the
hill to the negro's cabin. She breathed a sigh of relief when she
saw that her husband's face had recovered its usual placid
expression.
"It is a little letter for that young fire-brand up stairs, and, I
believe it will clear up the mystery. Clarke gave it to Sam last
fall and Sam never gave it to Betty."
"I hope with all my heart it may settle Betty. She worries me to
death with her love affairs."
Col. Zane went up stairs and found the young lady exactly as he had
left her. She gave an impatient toss of her head as he entered.
"Well, Madam, I have here something that may excite even your
interest." he said cheerily.
"What?" asked Betty with a start. She flushed crimson when she saw
the letter and at first refused to take it from her brother. She was
at a loss to understand his cheerful demeanor. He had been anything
but pleasant a few moments since.
"Here, take it. It is a letter from Mr. Clarke which you should have
received last fall. That last morning he gave this letter to Sam to
deliver to you, and the crazy old nigger kept it. However, it is too
late to talk of that, only it does seem a great pity. I feel sorry
for both of you. Clarke never will forgive you, even if you want him
to, which I am sure you do not. I don't know exactly what is in this
letter, but I know it will make you ashamed to think you did not
trust him."
With this parting reproof the Colonel walked out, leaving Betty
completely bewildered. The words "too late," "never forgive," and "a
great pity" rang through her head. What did he mean? She tore the
letter open with trembling hands and holding it up to the now
fast-waning light, she read
"Dear Betty:
"If you had waited only a moment longer I know you would not have
been so angry with me. The words I wanted so much to say choked me
and I could not speak them. I love you. I have loved you from the
very first moment, that blessed moment when I looked up over your
pony's head to see the sweetest face the sun ever shone on. I'll be
the happiest man on earth if you will say you care a little for me
and promise to be my wife.
"It was wrong to kiss you and I beg your forgiveness. Could you but
see your face as I saw it last night in the moonlight, I would not
need to plead: you would know that the impulse which swayed me was
irresistible. In that kiss I gave you my hope, my love, my life, my
all. Let it plead for me.
"I expect to return from Ft. Pitt in about six or eight weeks, but I
cannot wait until then for your answer.
"With hope I sign myself,
"Yours until death,
"Alfred."
Betty read the letter through. The page blurred before her eyes; a
sensation of oppression and giddiness made her reach out helplessly
with both hands. Then she slipped forward and fell on the floor. For
the first time in all her young life Betty had fainted. Col. Zane
found her lying pale and quiet under the window.