"Because Paul Forrest isn't that kind of man; you know it. You know he
is as true, as steadfast as these hills."
"True to her," Stratton persisted softly, "true to her, yes."
"No--to me."
Then suddenly on the silence there rang an ominous sound. Colonel
wheeled and looked, head up, sensitive ears playing, towards the
Nisqually trail; he wheeled again and she allowed him to set the pace in
the direction of the school.
Plainly there were many hoof-beats and they struck into the branch
leaving the river trail. Stratton spoke to the indifferent pack-horse,
touched him smartly on the flank and sent him careering after the black.
Then he urged the thoroughbred quickly along the trunk to the break that
was like a door. There was barely room to press through, and the
chestnut's head rose among the alder branches that roofed the stump.
But a word, a firm touch on the forelegs, and the trained animal dropped
to his knees. Another word and he rolled to his side with his head
flattened to receive his master's weight. It was the method used in
breaking a cavalry mount for field drill; and Sir Donald remained
motionless, while Bates and his deputies thundered by with Thornton, in
hot pursuit of the black and the laden pack-horse.
Stratton rested lightly, easing his weight by bracing one knee on the
earth. A bough rustled outside of the trunk; a twig snapped faintly,
and he was conscious that a pair of ferret eyes peered cautiously,
briefly, around through the aperture. But he made no sign until the
posse had passed; then he threw out his arm, feeling, and drew Lem,
struggling, towards him. "You spy," he whispered, and the anger flashed
in his eyes; "you spy. Tell what you know and I will skin you--by
inches--alive."
Then he tossed the shaking boy aside, in a heap, and in another instant
had his horse up and out of his hiding-place, and mounting, galloped
lightly back in the direction of Nisqually crossing and the Pass.
*CHAPTER XXV*
*THE ROCKSLIDE*
Stratton made a steep rise and stopped, breathing the chestnut on a
level shoulder of the Pass. Behind him a clump of mountain hemlock and
some scrub pines marked the tree line, and, looking ahead, he saw,
rounding a bald and higher spur, a rider with two pack-horses. For a
brief interval these figures moved, well-defined, gathering nearness in
the slanting rays of the low sun, then a black buttress closed, shutting
them out like a mighty door. The man was Smith. He had not waited at
Nisqually ford and he rode Thornton's sorrel.
Stratton whistled, a soft, peremptory note, and the thoroughbred sprang,
moving swiftly down a short incline, and up towards the buttress. The
passage grew difficult. The trail, which took the edge of a precipitous
slope, was obstructed by fallen rock. Presently these loose
accumulations increased to a slide. Sir Donald dropped to a walk,
picking his way lightly. Finally, under the cliff, he halted, balanced
nicely on a huge rocking slab, and inspected with suspicion the pitfalls
before him. His master waited, motionless; the bridle hung loosely, but
in a firm, alert hand. "It's all right, old fellow," he said, "It's all
right, but take your own time."
The chestnut shook his mane in remonstrance and put one forefoot out
cautiously, trying for hold. Then he withdrew, backing carefully,
swiftly, off the slab, and with hoofs set, head high, whole body
quivering, waited. The next instant the solid earth shook, and like a
sprung mine, clang, clash, roar, a terrific cannonading filled the
gorge.
Stratton understood. Smith had seen him at the lower curve, and, bent
on deferring a meeting until the return of the sorrel was impossible,
had pressed hurriedly on. The autumn frosts, thawing by day, continually
split and loosened rock on the face of the cliff, and this incautious
passing of the horses, a false step, a stumble, had been the slight jar
necessary to start a fresh avalanche.
The final echo died far off; the profound silence which had followed him
all day settled again like an intangible presence over the gorge. It
was a stillness to challenge the very breathing of a man, if he lived,
and Stratton waited, listening, for any slight disturbance beyond the
buttress. None reached him. But the sorrel was fleet. She would have
sprung like the wind at the first crack of the catastrophe; and if there
had been space to pass the pack-animals, it was possible she had carried
Smith out of the track of the slide.
But clearly this portion of the trail was now impassable. He backed Sir
Donald slowly away from the bastion, and when he was able to turn him,
rode down to a point where a rivulet, cascading from a hidden snow field
high up, formed a gully in the slope. He took this rocky stairway,
dismounting where he must, swinging into the saddle again, making
detours through crumbling earth, on over slippery stone, doubling back,
pressing up once more, and so gained the summit of the cliff. He left
his horse and crept to the eastern edge and looked down on the slide. It
was terrible. For half a mile, obliterating the trail to the next
curve, stretched ruin. Midway a crag, like a broken mainmast,
dismantled, toppled out of the wreckage, and at the same time a warning
and a menace, held the Pass. It was also a monument. There was no
longer room for doubt; somewhere down there in the bottom of the gorge,
under tons of rock, the unfortunate sorrel was buried with Smith.
Aside from the light provision Stratton carried in his saddle-bag, and
his blanket rolled at the crupper, the camp outfit and the remainder of
the opium had gone down with the pack-horses. But he could not return
to the Nisqually. Even if Bates had given up the pursuit, the roused
settlement, by this time holding him responsible for Thornton's horse,
would keep a tireless watch for him. He must go on.
He drew back from the precipice and stood erect. The buttress was only
the advanced paw of the monster height that loomed above him. He looked
up, measuring its sharp pitches, trying to shape a course around the
slide. The sun dipped behind a spur, and the wind, pulling up the
defile, sharpened. Then suddenly the great peaks that encircled him
seemed to draw closer. They gathered personality; they became a
tribunal, austere, uncompromising, sitting in supreme judgment; ready to
follow quick sentence with swifter execution. Each mighty, hoary head
turned to him, waiting, watchful, and a voice, intangible yet dominant
like the silence, said, "Next."
"No," he answered aloud, and set his lips, "No, not yet. There is a way
through, or else I can make one."
But close on this challenge there rang a rifle-shot. He swung around
and dropped to his knee. Looking over the opposite edge of the
buttress, he saw three horsemen at the curve which he had lately passed.
Bates he knew instantly, from the powerful, white-faced bay he rode; and
the big fellow, holding the rifle in readiness, while he checked in the
long-limbed, nervous brown mount, was of course Thornton; the third was
probably a deputy, and presently, while they waited reconnoitering the
cliff, Myers joined them, urging Ginger. Then they all came slowly
forward, and disappeared under the rim of the bastion.
Instantly Stratton was up. He threw himself into the saddle and put Sir
Donald to the slope. The men would stop at the slide; they would turn
back and doubtless pick up his trail at the rivulet. They would follow
to the surface of the cliff and from there he would be an easy target
along the bald face of the mountain. He pushed on tirelessly, winding,
doubling, looking back often, listening, but keeping a course, always,
for a small spur capped by two tilting tables of granite. He made the
last steep stretch on foot, and Sir Donald, protesting, yet invariably
obedient, pricking this ear, the other, to his master's brief, low
command, followed to the level. The slabs, in falling from a higher
ridge, had pitched shedwise against a wall, and Stratton crowded the
chestnut into the hiding-place they roofed. Again, as in the hollow
cedar trunk, there was not standing room for the horse; but a soft,
peremptory word, a light blow on the forelegs, and he dropped to his
knees, to his side, and became motionless. From his position, while he
held down Sir Donald's head, Stratton looked out through the crack where
the tables joined. It gave him a view of the buttress and a breadth of
the trail approaching the lower curve.
Presently he saw Bates ride back to this bend with his deputy, and,
after a brief halt, again to reconnoiter the top of the bastion, they
rounded the curve and were gone. A moment later Thornton appeared on the
top of the buttress, followed closely by Myers. They had left their
horses, but the young rancher still carried his rifle, and when they had
inspected the slide from the cliff, they took up the trail of the
chestnut. But the light was failing, and the tracks were often lost on
rocky stretches. They were forced to turn back repeatedly for the clue.
Finally, not far from the granite tables, they stopped. "I 'low you
might's well give it up, Mill," said Myers. "Ther sorrel was stumbling
consider'ble on that ther last grade; she was losin' her nigh shoe. An'
this here horse is pickin' up his feet like he was ready ter walk on
air. It's ther chestnut, sure; he's er mighty good stepper in er mean
place."
"An' it's Stratton I'm lookin' fur," answered Thornton grimly. "I don't
keer what anybody says, he's responsible fur my horse. It was his
business ter watch Smith; an' ef my little filly was cut down in that
ther slide, Stratton's got to reckon 'ith me. He was here, standin' on
that ther rock, when we kem 'round that curve; I saw him, an' so'd you,
plain's day. He must hev gone up 'round ther slide, I dunno how, but he
must hev, while we was foolin' erlong fur his blamed trail."
"Ther's somethin' mighty curious 'bout that ther chestnut," said Eben,
dropping his voice and casting an apprehensive glance along the
impossible way; "don't act like er nat'ral born horse. I dunno's I'd
like ter ketch up 'ith him after night. You know that ther deputy
'lowed he got over ther woods, from ther schoolhouse trail, 'ithout
leavin' er sign; an' Lem's ready ter swear, up and down, he see 'em,
horse an' man, fade out o' sight close by that ther cedar snag. Mebbe
it ain't so, but where in tarnation did he go? An' that boy kem home
skeered out'n a hull year's growth."
"I dunno's I've figgered out these here inviserble folks correct,
myself," said Thornton with deep irony, "but, fur a spirit horse, ther
chestnut is able to take his fodder mighty reg'lar."
Eben stroked his beard and laughed softly. "Oh, I 'low he kin stand it
ter hev his wings clipped, when he strikes ther bunch grass country.
An' ef Bates catches ther Northern Pacific fur Portland, say to-morrow
night, like he counted on, he'll hev time ter make ther upper Columbia
an' lay fur his man, all right."
"I count on takin' him this side ther Pass, myself," answered Mill.
"Bates 'lowed ther Government 'ud set up a mighty good reward; mebbe
five hundred. An' ef that smart little filly o' mine went down in ther
slide, I 'low an extry pack-horse went with her. Stratton can't go far
'ithout his outfit; he's got to sneak back sometime fur rations."
Eben already had started back down the gully, and Thornton followed. In
a little while Stratton saw the two men riding towards the curve below.
When they rounded it, he brought the chestnut from his hiding-place and
in the deepening twilight resumed the perilous detour around the slide.
The lack of "rations" need not trouble him. He knew the art of woodcraft
too well; he could snare a bird, take a beaver like an Indian, and the
Palouse wilderness before him was an open book. But had he not his
rifle, with ammunition in the saddle-bags; besides his full
cartridge-belt and good pistols? There was no further use of taking
that overland train, and, once through the Cascades, he would shape his
course northward for the Fraser. Bates--he laughed aloud--Bates might
lie in wait until he rusted, there on the upper Columbia.
*CHAPTER XXVI*
*THE JUDGE*
Already Nature stretched busy hands out of the shadows of the great
park, and with manifold browns and greens softened the newness and
crudeness of the little homestead enshrined at its heart. The clearing
teemed with fresh life. The charred rails of the meadow fence were
overgrown with tangles of wild blackberry and raspberry, with which the
stiff foliage of the Washington holly disputed room. Ferns, springing
from the ashes of the fire, reached a height of eight and ten feet and
opened umbrella fronds. At the cottage sweetbrier and wild honeysuckle
interlaced with the tendrils of a Virginia creeper and climbed to the
eaves; maidenhair unfolded pale canopies over the shallow boxes on the
edge of the balcony, where were planted sweet peas, and a syringa,
supported by a pillar, offered its branches to trellis the insistent
hopvine, which dropped from the gable a misty curtain of green.
Backward, towards the small stable, and the huge hayrick thatched with
lichened bark, a wild cherry held its own among thrifty young orchard
trees, and vigorous shoots of alder and maple pushed up hedge-wise along
the corral. Everywhere Nature had been encouraged to retouch, and
eradicate and bring to a finish the general plan.
Still, had you approached the clearing that September
afternoon,--however wayworn, however surprised, charmed,--you must have
allowed your glance to rest longest on the bit of life in the landscape.
The teacher had laid aside her pruning shears, and taking a rake from
the wall, proceeded to draw weeds and clippings into a neat hummock.
Her simple gown of brown barred gingham, catching a breath of wind,
stirred gauzily. Upon her head the broad sun-hat with muslin bow and
strings became a picture hat, quaint, pleasing. Still, had you once
known her, you must have noticed that her figure had lost a little of
its roundness; the skin its old transparency and velvet smoothness;
shadows lurked under her brave eyes, and, sometimes, her sweet and
mirth-provoking mouth stiffened into a patient self-suppression.
She stopped at length to rest, leaning on the gate, and looked up the
trail, which began a level stretch through pale alders, dipped to a
hollow and rose over a knob where, set like a flaring torch, a first
changing maple illumined the way, and was lost to reappear briefly on
higher ground. It was there on the hillside she presently discovered
Mose. He came with his swift swinging stride his gun on his shoulder, a
brace of birds in his hand, and was hidden directly in foliage. She
waited, and when he came over the lower knoll, under the flaming maple,
she drew the wooden pin and threw the gate open. "Grouse, Mose?" she
asked with evident interest. "What beauties."
"But, ya-as, Mees," he answered, and smiled broadly, "I ees keel dem by
Myers' plas. You know where de creek ees come roun' dat ole fir log;
well, it ees dare I shoot dem. Dis one she ees come tek drink; she doan
be so hard shot, for sure. But dis one, saprie, he ees fool me gre't;
running an' flying, w-r-r-r, w-r-r-r, an' hiding heemself unner dat beeg
cedar stump."
His enthusiasm was reflected in her face; her eyes caught from his a
sudden fire. "Oh," she said with a soft intake of breath, "I know just
how it happened. And he was out again in a flash, almost at your feet;
you hadn't room to aim, but you waited and held yourself in, till he
rose; then you took him, nice and clean, in the wing."
"Monjee, Mees," he said, and laughed aloud, "but you ees on'stan' lak
you ees dare." He shifted the birds to the gun hand, and closing the
gate, set the pin. "But it ees good t'ing I ees fin' dose grouse,
nawitka; for I ees see mo'sieur, de Judge, down to Myers' plas. He mus'
be long here 'bout dinner tam, for sure."
"So soon?" she answered in surprise. "I thought from his last letter
that he would be delayed longer at the mills. But it is fortunate that
we have the grouse," and the corners of her mouth lifted and dimpled;
"we'll show him the right way to serve a bird."
"Nawitka, Mees." Mose was feeling in the depths of his blouse. "But
Eben Myers, he ees go pas' de Station today, an' he ees tell me to bring
you dis mail." He paused to scrutinize the address and weigh the letter
speculatively in his palm. "Saprie, it ees good t'ing Mose Laramie
doan' have to write so mooch spelling, an' mebbe read it all. Monjee,
he doan' be able, den, to shoot some birds, an' fish by de Nisqually.
Den, Mees, it ees pos'ble you ees be, sometams, hongry."
She laughed, shaking her head. "But you are learning, Mose. The
trouble was in having three languages forced on you at the start. They
were bound to tangle, and I guess the English was caught in the first
knot at the bottom of the snarl. But it's all right; we only need a
little more patience and time."
She walked on with the boy towards the cottage, opening the letter as
she went, but when she glanced down the page the humor faded from her
face. She reached the branch path to the river, and turned that way.
The letter was from her sister; the first she had received since
Louise's rupture with Philip. She dwelt on the Judge's return and the
closing of the mills. He had told her that Forrest had saved the
property; that he had met emergency after emergency with a
level-headedness not one young man in five hundred could have shown.
Why, there were times when he had done the work of three responsible
men, and most creditably. But at last, when she had finished the
Judge's eulogy, to which was added one gently eloquent of her own, she
took up briefly the matter of the separation.
Alice turned back and slowly re-read this portion.
"... I am leaving my husband. I can never explain it to you--please let
the question rest--but Uncle Si will tell you I am right. It was
necessary to tell him the truth and he admits my only course is a
separation. There can never be any sort of a compromise, as long as I
live, and I hope I shall never be obliged to see Philip Kingsley again.
"I am starting home to Olympia with Uncle Si today, but if you know of
anyone in the settlement who can take me in, with little Si, I would
rather go out there and stay, until I can shape my plans. Possibly,
when you give up the school, I may be able to fill your place as well as
any. Uncle Silas, however, is urging me to go, at least for a time, to
Washington. I own it will be hard to have you both so far away, and I
am tempted by the security of a strange city, with the whole continent
between me and--what is past."
"Oh, Louise, my poor, sweet Louise, I'd love to see Phil Kingsley taught
his lesson, but I know you, dear." Alice walked on the remaining
distance to the falls. "You shall come and stay with me, as long as you
want to, but you're going to forgive him, yes, you are, the first time
he asks it."
Still, Louise had explained to the Judge; why should she find it more
difficult to tell her? And just what was this reason, anyway? Then
suddenly, in one great shock, the wedge which Stratton had tried to fix,
drove home. She stood, white, tense, on the trembling ledge, and stared
with unseeing eyes into the upper cataract. Its thunder and passion
were lost in the greater forces that engulfed her. All that Stratton
had said in their last interview, his whole monstrous story, rejected
hitherto, surged back, statement on statement, and compelled her belief.
She saw now what that friendly intimacy of nearly two years, in that
isolated place, must have meant to both Louise and Forrest. How she had
created for him his only social and home life; how, day after day,
countless times each day, she must have felt his quiet sympathy,
helpfulness, in sharp contrast to the neglect and irresponsibility of
Philip. And they had played, sung, innumerable evenings together; no
man on earth could so appreciate her beautiful voice, her personal
sweetness; and she had always loved his violin. How could she--how
could any woman--have remained indifferent? And he--how could he help
forgetting there were other women in the world? All men, good, strong
men, had their fancies when they were boys in school; it was afterwards
that they found the right, the one woman.
For a long time the thought of Forrest had seemed to bring him near.
She felt his presence; it was as though he stood there, behind her on
the ledge, watching her with clear, reproachful, almost frowning gaze.
The color surged and went in her face; her shoulders shook, and the
letter, which she had crushed in her hand, dropped from her relaxed
hold. The torrent swirled it away. "I don't blame you," she said, and
to her halting phrases the cataract stormed accompaniment, "Oh, I don't
blame you. I know how you have fought it--stamped it down. But you
can't kill it--it springs and springs again; it can't die. I know--I
know. I've been through it--all."
At last she walked back through the meadow. The sun was dropping behind
the purpling hills; birds piped night calls in the thicket; one of the
Jerseys was lowing at the bars.
"Patience, Blossom, patience," she said, "Now, then, slowly, slowly."
She laid her hand lightly on the tawny neck, and the cow picked her way
over the lowered rails and turned towards the corral.
It was there, milking Blossom, that the Judge discovered her, when he
came from the stable where Mose had helped him put up his horse. He did
not speak directly, but stopped, leaning a little on the fence, his arms
resting on the top bar, and watched her. There was in his eyes the look
of a man who has found at last what he has long desired.
She did not yet know that he was there. Her shoulder was turned to him
and she was looking up absently to a high spur of the slope. "My dear,"
he said, "My dear--it is a long time since I climbed a fence, but no
doubt I could do it unless there is a gate."
She started and gave him a quick, backward glance, while her hand sent a
swifter stream into the pail. Then she sprang up from her stool and
hurried smiling to the rails.
But, presently, when she had shown him the little wicket, screened by
two infant alders, the Judge found himself squeezing through, to wait
for the almost filled pail. "It isn't nearly as difficult as it looks,"
she said, and her eyes challenged him over her shoulder.
"No, thank you," he answered laughing, "I like, better, just looking
on."
But he lifted the brimming pail and carried it, not without difficulty,
to the house. He set it down in the living-room and stepped back into
the cool doorway, where he stood, fanning himself slowly, with his hat,
and surveying the interior with growing approval.
Mose was already seated in the chimney corner, turning the roasting
grouse on their spit. At the same time he tended a savory haunch of
venison, while the old madame divided her attention between a boiling
pot on the crane, and a tin reflector set in front of the fire.
"You see it's all very primitive," said Alice.
The Judge's eyes rested on the spit with manifest satisfaction. "It is
the only right way to cook a bird," he answered.
"Nawitka," said Mose gravely. "But de mowitch, too, dis tam de year,
ees gre't."
"And this was the finest stag brought in this season," said the teacher.
"Mose trailed him to Nisqually ford. Those are the antlers." And if
she, herself, had been the hunter, she could not have shown greater
pride in the trophy over the doorway. "And this is the pelt of the
cinnamon bear I wrote you about. The one Mose tracked with her two
cubs. She was very savage and it was his last cartridge. Isn't the fur
splendid?"
"Bien," said the pleased and embarrassed boy, "dat ees nothing. Dat ees
one ver' fine gun de Mees ees give to me. It ees mooch too fine for no
'count half-breed lak me. Laramie, my fader, ees say so."
The Judge went up the little stairway built across the living-room, to
the low gabled chamber under the eaves; and when he came down,
presently, brushed and freshened, he found Alice laying the cloth in the
balcony. She had changed the brown cotton frock for one of soft pink,
and where the surplice crossed below the full throat, she had fastened a
bunch of sweet peas. Others were tucked in her belt, and she gathered
more from the long box on the edge of the veranda, and with a handful of
mignonette, arranged them in a crystal bowl for the center of the board.
The light paled in the west; the high spur darkened; a few thin clouds
parted over a far crest, and showed a young, ring-defined moon. A gust
of wind fluttered the cloth and roughened her hair. The Judge lighted
the lamp on the wall, and set the pink shade as she would have it, so
that a soft glamour fell on the modest array of glass and china. He
filled the water pitcher and placed the rustic chairs; and finally they
were seated and he found himself carving the savory grouse.
"What an Arcadia you have made of it," he said at last. "But it is
simply sorcery; nothing else. Any other woman must have failed; or,
succeeding, would have made a wreck of herself and spoiled her life.
Even a man could only have accomplished it through hardship and long
toil. But you--you have a charmed life. You have looked--you have cast
your spell--and presto it was done."
"It took more than that," she answered and shook her head gravely; "you
should know it."
"Yes, yes," he said quickly, "you are right. And I do know it."
"It was work, the hardest kind. Mose can prove it. He helped Mill
Thornton clear the building site; he helped the settlers the day they
came to slash and, again, to burn the brush piles. He cut logs for the
cabin, shakes for the stable, rails for fencing. He opened the new
trail."
"And wasn't that sorcery? To make a steady laborer of Mose? To coerce
all of these young ranchers into service?" The Judge laughed softly,
deeply.
"You know it was the pioneer spirit," she answered. "Nothing else
influenced Mill Thornton to drive oxen for his neighbor, grubbing out
stumps, when his own clearing was hardly under way, and Samantha wavered
in the balance. Nothing else led Mr. Myers to lend his cattle for the
work, in plowing time. And this same spirit, that calls the whole
district out in a body to fight a forest fire, or hunt a trespasser,
brought these men together to give their best effort to my
house-raising. It meant a step further for the settlement, and each man
takes a personal pride and interest in the new homestead he helped to
make. Can't you understand that? And, dear Uncle Silas, can't you see
what it means to me?"--Her voice was low and vibrant; her eyes gathered
a soft brightness.--"I worked for it--endured--it's mine. Every foot of
this ground is dear to me; every log in these walls. You mustn't expect
me to love any other home--as well."
"I understand," said the Judge slowly, "I think that I understand.
But--Forrest will be here in a few days; he intends to take up a
systematic search for that lost prospect. And his heart is still set on
this section. What will you do?"
"Meet my promise," she said, "of course. What else can I do? I will
commute it, if you advise that, or relinquish, or sell him my right.
I'm ready any time. But,--" she rose from her chair and looked off to
the meadow, "I must go down and bring Colonel in. Wait here, won't
you?--and have your cigar."
"I would rather walk with you," and he rose and went with her down the
steps. "I noticed that meadow from the spur up the trail; it is a fine
field."
"And you noticed my hayrick," she said quickly. "That was the best yield
of timothy, to the acre, in the settlement this year. Jake Myers came
from the prairie with his father's team to help me with the harvesting.
I undertook to drive in a load,"--she paused, and he felt rather than
saw, in the uncertain light, that her face rippled a smile,--"and Mr.
Stratton rode down the trail just in time to see me spilled, hay and
all, into the field. He was over the fence, in an instant, to rescue me
from the bottom of the heap. And he stayed to help me reload, though he
must have found it hard learning to use a pitchfork that warm
afternoon."
The Judge laughed. He knew how she had looked at that moment, standing
all flushed, irresistible, with a sweet quiver of her mobile lips, and
the unconscious appeal growing in her eyes. And clearly Stratton had
made the most of his opportunities, as any man must; as he had feared.
"So, even Stratton came under the spell," he said; "you made him spoil
those immaculate hands. And there was that other time, in the dry season
when this meadow slashing accidentally burned. You did not tell me
fully, but I understood he arrived, then, at the right moment, and
helped to prevent a bad blaze.'
"It was a bad blaze; it looked for awhile as if the whole fence, the
buildings, the timber would go. And he found me fallen, my dress afire,
and he risked himself to save me. He stayed hours, afterwards,
bandaging my burns, bathing my face, doing all he could, when he,
himself, must have been suffering agony. Dear Uncle Silas," her voice
broke, "I believed in him; he disappointed me, but I'm not ungrateful; I
shall never forget."
"I understand," the Judge answered slowly, "I think that I understand.
And I appreciate, I am more than grateful, for what he did, but I did
not know he was hurt. How was it?"
"I had fallen close to the burning slash pile, and, when he bent to move
me, a blazing sapling sprang out and struck the back of his head. I
didn't realize it at the time, and he always avoided speaking of it if
he could, but it seemed to have left some permanent hurt that affected
his eyes; any over exertion or exposure to strong light brought on
paroxysms of pain, and once, when he had been taken by an attack on the
trail, he was forced to stop here. It was then he told me and that he
meant to go to New York and consult an oculist. He was only waiting for
his schooner to come back from the North with her cargo of furs. You
know she was wrecked--a total loss; and the trip East, the services of a
specialist, demanded a great deal of ready money.
Sometimes--sometimes--I believe that tempted him to--do what he did. It
makes me feel responsible."
"I understand," said the Judge; "it is natural you should feel so, in a
measure. But, my dear, he is not what you think; he lived a dual life."
"Oh," she said, "of course you think so; every one must. He persisted,
always, in showing his worst side. But I knew him very well. He told me
things about his early life; he was handicapped from the start, but he
was a man of fine and deep feeling--at heart. In spite of everything I
shall always believe that."
"Perhaps, I do not dispute you." And he added after a moment, "Stratton
himself wrote me something about that fire; I doubted you knew it, but
he asked me to release you."
She stopped, surprised, and tried to read more than he said in his face.
"To release me?"
"Yes. I refused. I answered that the request should come from you.
Sometimes, off there in Washington, I have expected it, Alice. You
seemed so happy here; so--almost--eager to put off our marriage. And
Stratton has a handsome face; personal charm; he was right here on the
ground. My dear, tell me this; if that schooner had returned, if he had
not been tempted, would you have wished my answer to him any different?"
She turned her face away, looking up to the black shadows of the park.
"Dear Uncle Silas," she said, and steadied her voice between the words,
"if you--don't want me--I shall never marry."
"Want you?" The wind, drawing from the river, brought a closer booming
of the falls. It toned with his pleading undernote like a great minor
chord. "Want you? I want you so much that I am not willing to share
even your gratitude with any other man. I want you--your best--your
love--nothing less will do."
They had stopped near a clump of alders, where, in making the clearing,
she had preserved an old cedar stump with chairlike arms, overrun now
with vines. A little farther on Colonel waited at the meadow bars. She
walked a few steps and halted in uncertainty. The Judge moved enough to
rest his arms on the flat surface of the trunk, and stood leaning a
little, watching her. The noise of the cataract filled the interlude.
A branch rustled and a shower of dead leaves fell, slanting from the
alders to his feet. Then she turned and came back.
"Dear Uncle Silas," she began, and meeting his look, repeated, her voice
shaking, "Dear Uncle Silas, I've got to tell you. It's--Paul. It
always was--Paul--before I knew it--when I was a small girl and he
carried my books to school. But he--he--" Her breast heaved; she
turned her face away once more, to the gloom of the park. "You
know--what happened. Louise told you--the truth! It changes things,
and, if you still want me, I'll try my best to--get over it, and make
you the best wife--that I can."
Colonel moved restlessly and she walked the remaining steps to the bars.
The Judge followed and dropped the rails and she led the horse through.
Then, "It is all right, little girl," he said, slowly; "it is all right;
as it should be. But, whatever you heard through Louise, you have made
a mistake. My dear--my dear, you should have written me all about it at
the start. It could hardly have made me happier, in the end, to know I
had spoiled two young lives, that were meant for each other."
*CHAPTER XXVII*
*LEM CREATES FICTION*
Lem's treble piped above the low of the cows and the answering bawl of
the calves outside the corral. He was seated on the top rail of the
fence with a short piece of maple in his hand, out of which he was
trying to shape a flute.
"--An' I hev be'n frequently so-o-old, an' I hev
be'n frequently sold;
I've tunneled, hydraulicked, and cradled--an'--